29th 03 - 2011 | 5 comments »

Paprika (2006)

Director: Satoshi Kon

By Roderick Heath

Satoshi Kon’s death last year aged just 46 was a serious blow to anime fans and for cinema in general. Kon worked his way up through the animator ranks beginning in the early 1980s, and debuted as a director with 1997’s highly regarded Perfect Blue. For his second film, Kon wanted to adapt Yasutaka Tsutsui’s 1993 novel Paprika, but that project was put on hold when the production company folded. Kon made three more films in the interim before he finally brought Tsutsui’s novel to the screen. Like Perfect Blue, it was considerably altered from the source material, becoming in almost all respects Kon’s brainchild. That word seems particularly apt here, for Paprika is about the transformative capacities and boundless expanse of the mind’s imaginative abilities.

Paprika, the titular heroine, is the literal brainchild and ultra-cute avatar of brilliant psychotherapist Atsuko Chiba (voiced by Megumi Hayashibara in the Japanese version and Cindy Robinson in the English-language edition). Atusko works for the Foundation for Psychiatric Research that has begun moving beyond traditional therapy methods, thanks to new technology that can help the shrinks infiltrate the dream states of clients, including a new remote unit called the DC-Mini invented by the brilliant, corpulent, geeky, distracted techno wiz Kohsaku Tokita (Tôru Furuya/ Yuri Lowenthal).

At the film’s outset, Kon plunges deep into the head of police detective Toshimi Kogawa, or Konakawa in the English version (Akio Ohtsuka/Paul St. Peter), via a recurring dream in which he’s tracking down a criminal. His dream commences in a circus where he’s caged by a magician and passes through several different genres of fantasy, including a Tarzan film, a suspense thriller in which he’s being garrotted, and what he says is the scene of a true crime he’s working on. There, a man falls dead to the floor of a hotel hallway whilst the perp is disappearing into a fire escape, and when Togawa attempts to chase him down, the dream dissolves and sends him plummeting toward wakefulness. Togawa’s getting neurotic, and Chiba, in her Paprika guise, has begun treating him with the still-experimental DC-Mini.

When Chiba arrives at the institute the next morning, however, Tokita, whom she finds humiliatingly jammed in the elevator, admits an even more humiliating fact to her: his DC-Mini prototypes have all disappeared, apparently stolen by his assistant and fellow nerdy genius Himuro (Daisuke Sakaguchi/Brian Beacock). The singular brilliance of the DC-Mini is its capacity not only to allow mind-to-mind communication, but also to project remotely into other minds and allow people attuned to it to step into and out of the dreamscapes at will. Because Tokita had not put security settings on the device, there are no limits on what the thief can do with the gadget. Immediately, the thief makes some of his intentions known to Chiba and her fellows, as her immediate superior Dr. Torataro Shima (Katsunosuke Hori/David Lodge) starts talking gibberish and hurls himself out of a window. Seriously injured and in a coma, Shima dreams of being the grand marshal of a great, insane parade that includes horn-blowing frogs, singing dolls, walking soft drink machines, and a thousand other equally ludicrous figures. Shima recovers, but the race to find the villain who begins subsuming increasing numbers of people into the same seemingly wondrous, but deadly dream chosen from the mind of one of the Foundation’s psychotic patients becomes urgent.

One of the most outstanding qualities of Paprika is that it has a more complex plot than most mainstream thrillers, and whilst it frequently operates on the level of dream logic, it’s always tightly coherent. Yet, it manages to remember that, at heart, it’s a fantasy adventure though tracts of the subconscious and the unconscious built around that desire to maintain lucid control over the dream-state’s possibilities. Chiba, in the familiar guise of a professional woman with her sharp suits and tight hair, is uptight, sober, critical, and rigid, but she lets slip her alter ego Paprika when delving into the dreams. Paprika is a bob-haired redhead with the antic disposition of a playfully creative teenager, a warrior princess perfectly adapted for the surreal world. Chiba has mastered the capacity to move in and out of the dream-state and control herself within it. At one point, sent off to do battle, Chiba runs along a corridor, transforming into Paprika a la Superman in a phone box. Pursuing the villains through layered dreamscapes, she changes forms according to childhood fancies, turning into the hero of the cult Japanese TV show Monkey when she needs to fly, or Tinkerbell, or the Sphinx from Gustave Moreau’s painting.

Chiba/Paprika needs all her wits to survive. At one point, she seems to follow an Ichimatsu doll into a deserted fairground, and while trying to jump a fence, is snatched back by her colleague Dr. Morio Osanai (Kôichi Yamadera/Doug Erholtz), because she was actually about to leap off a balcony. Later, when she finds the real-life equivalent of the park, she’s nearly flattened by Himuro falling from the top of a Ferris wheel: far from being the mastermind, he’s just another patsy.

Simultaneous to the main plot, Chiba attempts to continue treating Detective Togawa through his work computer, with Togawa passing into the dreamscape and imagining himself in an upscale, but empty bar with two dapper waiters; Paprika shows up to guide him in an investigation of the meaning of his dream. They prove to be based in Togawa’s own suppressed interest in movies, with the recurring dream commencing in a street showing movies that include the ones through which his dream then proceeds—The Greatest Show on Earth, Roman Holiday, Tarzan. Here, of course, Paprika the film openly acknowledges the accord between its version of dreaming and cinema itself as a primal space where identities are swapped and fantasies actualised. Togawa, initially neurotic and denying any interest in movies, proves, in fact, to be a colossal film buff who once tried and failed to make a suspenseful short film with an interesting gimmick: all the way through the film the characters, a cop and criminal, were chasing each other. At one point, Togawa realises the man falling dead is himself, and he starts to realise the dream is a metaphor for his own regret over abandoning his cinematic aspirations. His dream also becomes another battleground in the attempt to corner the DC-Mini thief, as Togawa is the detective the Foundation members turn to for help in tracking down the villain. He immediately recognises Chiba as Paprika’s real-life equivalent. When the two plot strands intersect in Togawa’s dreamscape, Togawa manages to gun down the bad guy, save Paprika, and gain a heroic The End all to the applause of the audience within his dream. It’s not really The End, but it does get them all out of the closed loop in which the true villains have tried to trap them.

Those villains are Dr. Seijiro Inui (Toru Emori/Michael Forest), the wheelchair-bound director of the Foundation, who believes that the dream-invading techniques are an abomination he’s using to teach a painful lesson to their proponents, and Osanai. But it’s clear that both men’s intentions have become blurred with a hunger for power for its own sake, as Inui becomes a colossus unlimited by his physical disability. Osanai, terminally jealous and desirous of Chiba, has become Inui’s lover in order to share in using the DC-Mini and possess Paprika. Kon respects the protean, often highly sexualised, if not specifically sexual, nature of dreaming, and the film is richly, playfully, and sometimes acutely aware of the eroticism that pulses through the material whilst going nowhere near the seamier precincts of animation. Some of this is on the level of a naughty pun, like Paprika giving Shima a different kind of blow job: she sinks inside of him and then inflates him like a giant balloon, which then bursts, waking him up. Elsewhere it’s more evocative and pointed. Particularly, beautifully kinky and nasty is the scene in which Osanai, having captured Paprika, has transformed her into a huge butterfly he has pinned to a table, and, with relish, plunges his hand into her groin and slides his splayed fingers up under her skin, peeling the Paprika shell off Chiba, discovered inside.

Inui attempts to assert control over Osanai, growing off him and out of him, but the two men remain fused in one, self-wrestling body, a grotesque vision of their mutual homoeroticism, narcissism, and crippled aspects turned monstrous. Their fight gives Togawa time to snatch away Chiba, and, when Togawa shoots Osanai, who has taken the place of the fleeing villain in the film, they have a vision of him in the waking world as dying from the wound, and in Inui’s house, where his body was, he’s sucked into a void that begins opening, consuming reality and dreamscapes alike.

It’s embarrassing to think about the level on which most Western animation is still pitched, whatever the fine qualities of such contemporary models as Pixar are, for it’s still basically kid’s stuff. Perhaps that’s one reason why the equally inventive, but still firmly youth-oriented films of Hayao Miyazaki have found more favour with Western critics than that of any other anime director. Paprika mashes together traditional juvenilia with far more adult imagery and concepts; in fact, it’s very much about the state of flux between youth and experience and the psychological continuity, or lack thereof, that afflicts so many. The tropes of childhood and early obsession afflict most of the characters, including Chiba herself, Tokichi, and Togawa. Paprika’s singular brilliance is in using such tropes to fuel her capacity to navigate dreamscapes. The film named after her is equally the work of a director with a vision in perfect control of, and comfort within, his medium. The material could have played out in many different ways, from the riotously grotesque to something as numbingly literal-minded as Inception (2010), a film that drained the dream-infiltrating idea of all colour, wit, and sexuality. But Kon, who held particular esteem for George Roy Hill’s time-hopping Slaughterhouse-Five (1972) and the works of Terry Gilliam (the influence of the latter is especially noticeable), and his animators kept a tight grip on this film, which swings from anarchy to crisp realism. As borderline psychotic as the imagery and as loopy as the story become in places, the film is never less than a carefully constructed, highly witty, and fluent piece of work.

Terrific little dashes of imagination and humour dot the landscape. A row of schoolgirls subsumed into the mass dream strut about with cell phones for heads, and a mob of perverts, similarly transformed, eagerly dash to look/photograph up their skirts. Togawa, when explaining a point of obscure cinema language to Paprika, suddenly appears dressed up in Akira Kurosawa’s signature peaked hat and sunglasses. Streams of weirdly poetic gibberish pour from the mouths of the victims plunged into the mass dream. There are morals to the story, of course, not least of which being that external appearances are rarely entirely true. As well as trying to save the day, Chiba finds herself as a point on an amusingly elusive romantic triangle between the cast-iron cop and the fat sweaty nerd, and all three characters are refreshingly complex creations. Togawa’s tough-guy job and his artistic impulses prove finally to have been deeply entwined, for he decided to live out the role of his movie’s hero in real life and thus joined the police force; his recurring dream is more about the way he lost contact with his forgotten collaborator on the film, who died young after getting attention. Chiba and Tokita’s love-hate relationship shows the psychotherapist in love with the genius in him but repelled by his weight and displacing that anxiety into tirades against his boyish obsessiveness.

Paprika herself embodies Chiba’s frustrated youth and playful instincts, which enables, rather than contradicts, her great professional ability. Paprika can be read as a film that is also about the creative impulse, with Chiba/Paprika evolving constantly in her sense of herself as a nexus of influences she takes in and then gives out. Similarly, Togawa comprehends his life as one of real dedication sprung from fictional creation. Tokita’s attempt to redeem himself by entering Himuro’s dream to draw out the villains gets him swept up pretty quickly, but later, Tokita, in his dreamscape reconfigured into one of his own collectible robots, destroys the gigantic Ichibana doll that is Inui’s favourite avatar. By the film’s madcap final 20 minutes, all of Tokyo has become engaged with the mass dream to the point where nobody’s sure what’s real and what isn’t; to Togawa and Shima’s bewilderment, Chiba and Paprika argue with each other over what course of action to take. Finally Paprika, yin to Inui’s yang, reconstructs herself into a colossus like him, growing both in size and through physical ages with the battle cry, “There’s always an opposite. Light and darkness, life and death, man and woman. And to spice it all up, you add Paprika!” She literally consumes Inui in defeating him. It’s both a send-up of, and a tribute to, the traditional monster-bashing finales of so much anime and keigu eiga movies. Finally, although he doesn’t get the girl, Togawa goes out and buys himself something just as vital to a well-balanced life: a movie ticket.

Weird, beautiful, sexy, funny, Paprika is a master class in film and story, and a great testament to its sadly departed creator. Also worth kudos is the terrific musical score by Susumu Hirasawa, particularly Paprika’s infectious theme.

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1st 08 - 2010 | 34 comments »

Inception (2010)/American Psycho (2000)

Director: Christopher Nolan/Mary Harron

By Marilyn Ferdinand

The big movie of the 2010 summer season, by amount of attention paid, seems to be Inception. This latest outing by the man who set the cinematic world on fire with his mind-bending mystery Memento (2000) and left fanboys panting with devotion in 2008 with The Dark Knight, his version of the Batman myth, has critics and the general public admiring it as the blockbuster with a brain. Isn’t it nice, they say, to actually walk out of an action film with something to think about?

I must say that I’m a bit dumbfounded by this reaction. “What could they be thinking about?” I ask myself. It’s possible, I suppose, that some of the archetypal images Nolan used in the film, for example, the malevolent anima represented by main protagonist Cobb’s “wife” Mal (French for “bad”) or the fortress that represents the Self of Cobb’s supposed target Robert Fischer, could have reacted with unconscious material in the male audience’s mind. As a woman, I wouldn’t react to an anima image, so I readily admit to a built-in block toward a kind of thinking this film could generate.

And is it inherently more intriguing to think that you can, as Roger Ebert put it, think your way into a dream than, say, being plugged into the hive mind of the Borg in Star-Trek or fight the soma-like virtual reality created by the machines in The Matrix? Say, aren’t those Matrix agents kind of just like the “projections” that attack Cobb and his team in Inception? Well, that’s another argument for another day.

Personally, I don’t think people are using their post-movie think time to consider the possibilities of the unconscious, the richness of dream material in understanding ourselves and our world, or any other larger implications that could arise from such a film. Sadly, Nolan has contented himself to enter the realm of the psyche as though it were merely a soundstage to film yet another loud, crashing movie. So I think the only thing Inception accomplishes in the way of thought is encouraging audiences to figure out what really happened. Did Cobb and his team succeed in their mission to plant an idea in Fischer’s psyche, or did the entire movie happen in Cobb’s head? Most people concede that Nolan’s dreamscape doesn’t resemble real dreaming, and assumptions the film makes, for instance, that lucid dreaming actually exists, are open to debate. (Jungian psychologist Marie-Louise von Franz contends that dreamers believe they are consciously controlling something the psyche was doing on its own anyway.) Nonetheless, a movie can make its own rules as long as they don’t have too many internal inconsistencies and don’t stretch the suspension of disbelief too far. That the ambiguous ending of Inception is neither disturbing to consider nor particularly memorable speaks to just how modest the film’s ambitions are—and how overblown its reception has been.

A film that debuted the same year as Memento and that was as mysterious and involved in the inner workings of the mind as that movie was American Psycho. Based on the 1991 notoriously violent book of the same name by flavor du jour writer of the East Coast literati, Bret Easton Ellis, the film was a disappointment at the box office—perhaps backlash to the perceived misogyny of the book—and faded from view. Yet, the genuinely disturbing implications of that blackly comic film have a heft and longevity that the humorlessly drab imaginings of the mind of Nolan will never approach.

The confusion American Psycho plants is much more subtle and, therefore, more powerful. Patrick Bateman, a narcissistic 27-year-old graduate of Harvard and its business school, works on Wall Street, dates graduates from the Seven Sisters colleges who couldn’t figure their way out of a paper bag, and competes with his peers over everything from the look of their business cards to the size and location of their apartments. Driven crazy by the supposed perfection of the business card of colleague Paul Allen, Bateman gets him drunk, takes him home with him, puts on a CD of Huey Lewis and the News, and hacks him to pieces with an axe. When several of his colleagues catch him stuffing the body, now encased in a two-suiter, into his car, one of them asks Bateman where he got the luggage. “Jean-Paul Gauthier,” says Bateman, relieved that they hadn’t questioned him about what was inside it.

Indeed, what’s inside doesn’t count for anything to the characters in this movie, forming the flipside to the philosophy of Inception that ideas can only take hold if the person believes they have come from within. However, American Psycho takes its cynicism about the manipulation of identity seriously, whereas Inception, whether or not you believe Cobb’s mission was real, suggests that brainwashing in service of a noble cause—in this case, breaking up a monopoly that could concentrate control of virtually all the natural resources of the world in a single man’s hands—is the right thing to do. Much of the thrilling suspense Inception offers comes from our fear that our heroes will be “killed” in the dream and stuck like Sleeping Beauty in something called limbo forever.

In American Psycho, barely perceptible differences in various black-type, whitish-paper business cards form a literal case of life and death. The derisive laughter of a woman at Bateman’s impassioned treatise on the depth of Whitney Houston’s music dooms her as well. Bateman represents a type for whom marketing has become gospel to such an extent that he convinces himself of the profundity of the superficial. He complains, for example, that a hooker he has picked up for an evening threesome is not drinking his very fine chardonnay without even realizing that labeling a wine by the grape used to make it is a generics marketing strategy of recent vintage that disassociates the product from the producer.

In both Inception and American Psycho, the central character starts to lose control of himself. Cobb can’t keep thoughts of Mal out of the engineered dreams of his team, leaving them vulnerable to attacks by the imaginary people Fischer deploys like white corpuscles to rid his mind of their foreign presence; Bateman can’t control his irritation with people and finds himself in the throes of an uncontrollable bloodlust that will see him shoot, chainsaw, eat, blow up, and dismember, by his own count, 20 or more people. Yet, it is the original murder of Allen that has him the most worried about getting away with his crimes, as a police detective has been snooping into that one. We can see a rough correspondence between Bateman’s guilt over Allen and Cobb’s guilt over causing the death of his wife.

Yet, Mary Harron implicates the audience in Bateman’s nightmare by allowing us many moments of black humor to distance us from his sickening deeds. Bateman’s dissertation-like dissection of the lyrics of a lot of catchy, meaningless tunes (“Take the lyrics to ‘Land of Confusion.’ In this song, Phil Collins addresses the problems of abusive political authority.”) while giving orders to two prostitutes is one of several comic vignettes bordering on genius, recreating the bread and circuses of the 1980s that distracted citizens (“don’t worry, be happy”) and allowed radical conservatives to begin their assault on America’s political, financial, and social landscape. She reinforces the madness of that assault and the delusions that clouded our judgment by presenting a final nighttime action sequence, complete with exploding cars and shattering plate-glass windows, and then making us wonder if Bateman hasn’t been imagining everything we’ve just seen. His nearly incomprehensible conversation with a man he made a rambling confession to over the phone may be entirely in his head, or his very identity and life as Bateman may be fictitious.

The final lines of the film coming to us from the go-go 80s are portentous of where we are today: “My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone, in fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape, but even after admitting this, there is no catharsis. My punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself, no new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing.” Thanks to the deft handling of this despicable story by Mary Harron, the confession is hardly meaningless. Bateman’s desperate grasping at externals has driven him to a psychotic break, one, she seems to suggest, we may all be headed toward if we don’t find ourselves in time.

Inception’s final moments are simply a plot twist that may involve a person to whom we have never been properly introduced who has, perhaps, solved a personal problem we can’t trust is even real. And/or he perhaps really has saved the world from a dangerous corporate monopoly through some kind of scifi magic no one can take seriously. This is not progress of thought or introspection. As we shoot impotently into the giant maw of international corporate rule, it looks like the Batemans have won.

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