I’m just glad I was finally able to watch Makoto Shinkai’s Kimi no Na wa (2016) for the first time after so long. As someone who loves anime and manga, I’ve only seen a handful of Japanese animated films – the bulk of them being the ones by Studio Ghibli. This was my first Shinkai film, and I’m happy to say that I found it very enjoyable. The art and animation were phenomenal, the voice acting was superb, and I loved the chemistry between the film’s two protagonists. It goes without saying that this might be one of the better films I’ve seen this year and I’m really glad I finally got to see it after all of my friends have been hyping it up for so long. Personally, I believe the film’s strongest suit was its use of destiny, and this can be seen most clearly through the recurring images of string, threads, and the diverging meteors representing the separation of Mitsuha and Taki’s bond.

An important aspect of the film was “Musubi” and musubi manifests as the red string of fate that ties Mitsuha and Taki together. This string is musubi, and musubi connects people. Musubi is also the flow of time, and this could possibly be about how Mitsuha and Taki are permanently bound together by this red thread, meaning that no matter where they go or how long it has been, they will always find themselves drawn to one another; this is because they are destined to be with each other. Perhaps this is why the body swapping began – for Mitsuha and Taki to be together, she must survive the meteor strike that devastated Itomori, and in order for her to survive, Taki must find a way to restore the link between himself and Mitsuha and warn her. Before, it was Mitsuha traveling forward into the future and living Taki’s life, and although Taki essentially did the same thing but in reverse, this time his actions could have a serious effect on the timeline.

Taki manages to restore the bond by drinking the kuchikamizake she left behind at the shrine, causing him to reawaken as Mitsuha on the day of the meteor strike. He warns her friends and the rest of the town before running off to meet with Mitsuha who is now inhabiting Taki’s present-day body. Although the two separate once more, Mitsuha is able to convince her father to gather everyone and get to safety, ultimately leading to the survival of Itomori’s residents. Mitsuha and Taki forget each other’s names and move on with their lives, but the red string of fate has not yet broken. Five years later, they reunite and ask for each other’s names – no matter how many times it takes, destiny will bring the two of them back together.

The film’s emphasis on destiny is what made the film so interesting. Originally, Mitsuha was meant to be dead. That was supposed to be her destiny. However, on the day before the meteor strike, she traveled to Tokyo with the intent to meet up with Taki without realizing that the Taki she knew lived three years in the future. By giving him her red ribbon, she essentially forged an inseverable tie with Taki and changed her own destiny. This is rather peculiar as Mitsuha unwittingly gave herself and the rest of the Itomori residents a shot at surviving what was meant to be their deaths in the first timeline by creating her own bond with Taki – a bond so strong that it transcended space, time, and even death.

Still, this raises another question. How and why exactly did the body swapping begin in the first place? It is established in the film that the women in the Miyamizu family – Mitsuha’s family – experience body swapping at some point in their lives, but because of the Great Fire of Mayuguro, all the documents that could have explained it have been destroyed. Mitsuha’s grandmother experienced it, but only sees them as dreams. This suggests that unlike Mitsuha and Taki, the two were not bound by the red string of fate; perhaps this is why their link was weak enough to get severed completely. It can be interpreted that the body swapping from past to present was a supernatural, precognitive series of happenings that helped predict when the meteor would strike so that all of Itomori could be saved. Seeing as the Miyamizu line was meant to end with Mitsuha and Yotsuha, it would make sense for the body swapping to happen right before their deaths so that they could at least find a way to survive before the meteor strike actually happened. Despite this, nothing is explicitly stated and this is all just speculation.

The ending of the film caught me off-guard. I half-expected the film to end with the two crossing each other on the bridge without acknowledging each other’s existence. I was ready to shout at the screen. Truth be told, I actually prefer that we don’t get to see what happens to Taki and Mitsuha after they ask for each other’s names. It’s perfect. It’s established that the two are destined to become lovers when they meet again, but the tension came from wondering how long it would take for the two to be reunited. Since the film ended with both of them in the same area, talking to one another, one can deduce that they’ve already sealed the deal – they’ve secured their happy ending. Why? Because the red string of fate has them tied together. They’re star-crossed lovers, after all, and it’s high time they were able to finally meet – or rather re-meet – one another. It was also great how the film was able to touch on Tessie and Sayaka’s future as a married couple, as well as Okudera’s and Tsukasa’s. All in all, the film ended on a much higher note than initially expected, and that makes it a total win for me. Kimi no Na wa was a film that tugged at the heartstrings like no other, and even though I didn’t cry, I was heavily invested into each and every one of the characters.

Orson Welle’s F for Fake (1975) was a little different compared to the rest of the films we’ve seen thus far. For starters, it was a rather unconventional documentary about art and authenticity though there was a keen focus on Elmyr de Hory, an infamous art forger who hid away in Ibiza. Despite this, there were other forgers present throughout the film, including Orson Welles himself. In terms of filmmaking, the way the documentary was structured allowed Welles to keep the audience’s attention without ever breaking it. Even though there are several things going on at the same time – Elmyr’s story, Irving’s story, Welles’ dialogue, the final plot with Oja – the way everything is paced and ordered flows so naturally that the audience can’t help but pay attention to whatever’s going on in the screen. This is probably what makes the final twenty or so minutes of the film so effective. I was so captivated by the story that I failed to realize that I’d already forgotten Welles’ words at the beginning of the documentary:

“During the next hour, everything you’ll hear from us is really true and based on solid facts.”

Orson Welles

Welles himself has to remind the audience that their “hour” already expired, and that everything that came after the hour was just made up nonsense. This was particularly interesting as I totally didn’t see it coming, even if I should have. The entire documentary was about deception and trickery – Welles stated it several times over the course of the film, yet he was still able to catch me off-guard. I’d like to think I wasn’t the only one who didn’t expect that but if I am, then I guess that’s on me.  

The documentary primarily focused on three different forgers: Elmyr de Hory, Clifford Irving, and Orson Welles – the director of this very same documentary. However, the film didn’t just focus on their backgrounds and accomplishments; it also focused on their philosophies and beliefs, and this becomes evident when we learn a lot about the sort of life de Hory lived and how he came to be the man he is now. We learn that de Hory was a deceptive, yet charismatic man who speaks little of his genuine past and instead tells tall tales such as how he came from a wealthy background when in truth, he was from the lower middle class. It made sense, given de Hory’s status as a wanted criminal. If he told everyone the truth, and nothing but the truth, then there’s no doubt that he would be discovered and arrested. I found de Hory to be a rather interesting person as he raised many valid points – points that made both Welles and the audience question the importance of authenticity in art. It was established that de Hory was a brilliant artist who could accurately capture the mindset of the painters whose work he forged, even calling them out for hesitating and stating that he could do better. He was arrogant, but he had the skills to back up his arrogance.

As for Irving’s deceptions, he wrote a bogus biography about the elusive and reclusive millionaire Howard Hughes. He did this by writing up a fake diary that was supposedly written by Hughes, and he used it as one of his primary sources of information for the biography. There’s an irony to it, for Irving himself wrote a book about Elmyr titled Fake in which he criticized the art forger despite being something a forger himself. Later in the documentary, Welles talked about his background as well, revealing how he used to lie his way into getting jobs and how one of his biggest successes as a media giant was through his fake radio broadcast The War of the Worlds (1938).

But what was the point of it all? Surely there was far more to this documentary than a mere coverage of Elmyr de Hory’s, Clifford Irving’s, and Orson Welle’s innumerable deceptions over the courses of their lives. I’d like to believe there was a message. What I got from the documentary was how the name of an author shouldn’t matter; instead, one must celebrate the art itself regardless of authenticity. A fake can be just as good, if not better, than the original piece. Picasso himself stated that art was a lie – a lie “that makes us realize the truth”. What this could possibly mean is that the art itself represents the lie; it is the thing that we see at the surface, but it is not the full picture – the full story that the artist wants to tell. In other words the art is simply the medium, but where does this leave the meaning? This is where the truth comes in. It can be interpreted that the truth Picasso speaks of is the point that the artist intended to make with their piece. In the case of F for Fake, one can guess that the entire point of the documentary was to show that there’s a lot more to art than the artist – that sometimes authenticity isn’t all that matters.

Lost Highway (1997) was my first David Lynch movie and I was beyond excited to to be able to finally see one. I’d heard so much about him but I never got around to watching any of his films. The next of his films on my list would definitely be Eraserhead (1977) followed by Mulholland Drive (2001), but of course, I digress. This entry is supposed to be about Lost Highway, after all, and I certainly did enjoy the film even if I didn’t fully understand it. In fact, I’m confident enough to say that it went way over my head, but at least it was an enjoyable two hours. Perhaps if I were to watch it again, it would all make sense. If I do find the time to go through it a second time then it’s very likely I’ll write a follow-up. As for now, this is all I’ve pieced together.

There was that one standout line of Fred’s, where he mentions that he prefers to remember things his own way rather than how they happened. It was a rather well-placed line that gets you thinking about how it’ll tie in to the rest of the film, and truth be told, it didn’t really click with me until after I’d heard another group do their discussion on the film – specifically with how it can be interpreted that Fred really did murder his wife Renee, and that the rest of the film was simply how he tried to justify it in his own mind. It makes sense if you really think about it. It’s established very early on that Fred and Renee are rather distant to one another, and it becomes even clearer when she chose to stay at home rather than watch him perform at the club – his career and his interests no longer appeal to her, and during Andy’s party she seemed to spend more time with him as opposed to her husband. Later, he gets arrested out of nowhere by the two police officers signed to monitor his house and they seemed very confident that Fred was the one who did it.

Similarly, much evidence seems to point to how Renee and Alice are indeed the same person, and the events that transpire throughout the film involving Pete are all fantasies or projections in Fred’s mind. It can be interpreted that Rene/Alice was having an affair with Dick Laurent, and that prompted Fred to kill him as well. Since it is also within the realm of possibility that Fred was projecting as Pete, it’s likely he was the one who killed Andy as well however he simply chose not to believe it. Not that I’ve committed murder or anything, but I would imagine most murderers would try their best to justify their actions by reshaping and rebuilding events in whatever way they see fit. Perhaps this is what Fred did. Perhaps this is how he justified his decision to murder three people. I’d once read that it would be a mistake to try and rationalize a David Lynch film, so maybe I might be grasping at non-existent straws. Another important clue could be the fact that towards the end, Pete spots a picture that has both Renee and Alice within the frame, however this picture transforms later and it’s revealed that Alice was never there – only Renee.

Now this leaves the Mystery Man. Just who is he, and what is he meant to represent in the film? He only appears a handful of times throughout the film, and when he does, it’s only in places where either Fred or Pete can see him. With that said, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say that the Mystery Man might be a figment of their imagination – and that’s if Fred and Pete are two different people. It’s entirely possible that Pete doesn’t really exist, for he and Fred are one and the same. Perhaps the Mystery Man represents something within Fred – something that he doesn’t fully understand, or something he doesn’t want other people to realize him. What if the Mystery Man represented Fred’s darker, more twisted side that he tries to suppress but it ultimately gets the best of him, leading to the murders of Renee, Laurent, and Andy. This enigmatic figure might not even exist, and instead might serve as a way for Fred to try and justify the murders. This ties in to that one peculiar line of Fred’s, where he chooses to remember things how he remembered them as opposed to how they actually happened. It’s quite scary if one thinks about it – a person deluding himself and others into thinking that he’s nothing but an innocent husband who unwittingly found himself tangled with the likes of mystery men, passionate affairs, and inexplicable transformations. In truth, he killed three people and that’s just about it. No mystery men, no affairs; just cold-blooded murder.

Let me start by saying that I’m a sucker for all things horror, and this includes Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead’s The Endless (2017). Regrettably, I wasn’t able to watch the preceding film, Resolution (2012), but even still I was able to understand and appreciate this one for what it was. What makes this film differ from the rest of the horror films, however, is the fact that it can be categorized as cosmic horror, and this means that it focuses less on scary monsters, blood-crazed killers, and demonic supernatural entities and instead revolves around the mystery and fear of the unknown. This is established right off the get-go when the film’s opening sequence featured a quote which read:

“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”

H.P. Lovecraft

The Endless features a threat unlike any other in the form of an unnamed entity beyond human comprehension whose presence can be felt all over Camp Arcadia, and it communicates with the people who enter its domain by dropping photographs in front of them. It is never established how these photos are made – or why – but this is, without a doubt, intentional as it only builds up the unfathomable mystery of the entity. What makes this threat so dangerous is the fact that it seems to have imprisoned the people of Camp Arcadia, forcing them into time loops where they essentially become immortal; they can no longer age, and they can no longer leave the camp as once their timer resets, they end up back where they began. There was even one character who was a drug addict experiencing severe withdrawal and because of the time loop, he is forced to undergo the symptoms of withdrawal for all eternity. Another character could only last about five seconds before he’d die a gruesome death, and then he’d reset only to die seconds later; this loop continues forever, meaning he has likely died thousands – if not millions – of times already.

Again, unlike the other horror films, the entity is not something that can be beaten or destroyed. Instead, the protagonists opted to escape it and live their own lives free from the camp while the rest of the people who weren’t so lucky were forced to remain and live their lives on a loop. In a sense, the film and the entity could serve as a cautionary fable, ending with a moral. In this case, the film might be trying to tell people to make their own choices and do what they want to do lest they become slaves to something far bigger than them. At the beginning, the film’s protagonists – younger brother Aaron and older brother Justin – were at odds with one another because Justin made all the decisions and gave Aaron little-to-no say in matters concerning both of their lives. Eventually, they return to the camp and Aaron discovers that Justin was lying to him this entire time, even if it was to protect him. Eventually, the two are able to escape the camp because Justin finally decides to trust Aaron and let him make decisions for the both of them as well. Both Justin and the entity are similar in the sense that they are controlling, and equally responsible for the dull, drab and repetitive lives that the people they control live.

What I appreciated was how the directors chose not to reveal the entity’s appearance until the very end, and even then, we didn’t get to see all of it. It manifested in the form of a nigh-indescribable whirling mass of shards and shadows. Perhaps this was deliberate. Perhaps the human eye simply cannot comprehend the true form of such a monster, for even the people of the camp described it as being made of “impossible colors”. The film also used its relatively low budget to its advantage by having the unexplainable happen; the sheer mystery of the camp and the being that haunts it leads to some rather peculiar events such as the tug of war, the photographs materializing out of thin air, or the unseen creature in the lake. In terms of filmmaking, all of these can be accomplished within a relatively small budget as very little special effects are involved. Instead of relying on horrifying visuals, The Endless focuses more on what it doesn’t show the audience. It would be far more unnerving if a photograph fell from the sky, landing in front of our protagonists than if the entity were to just waltz up and hand it to them personally. Similarly what made the scene at the lake so intense was the fact that we were forced into Aaron’s perspective as opposed to Justin’s, meaning we didn’t get to see what he saw. Even then, Justin wasn’t able to see whatever grabbed him, but we do know for sure now that there is something strange happening in the camp.

Truth be told, I wasn’t particularly satisfied with the film’s ending. Most cosmic or Lovecraftian horror stories often revolve around the concept of monsters and powers beyond our comprehension, and more often than not, they cannot and should not be subdued as they represent something inevitable – like a force of nature. It’s difficult to explain how an all-powerful creature that’s been manipulating time and space all throughout the camp failed to reach a car that’s yet to reach top speed in time, but perhaps that might be more of me expecting too much. Perhaps the entity wasn’t as in-control as we were initially led to believe. Still, it was a happy ending. I would be lying if I said I didn’t at least breathe a sigh of relief for the brothers after their escape was a success, but I do feel bad for those who were left behind. It’s a bittersweet ending, but a hopeful one as well.

I didn’t expect to enjoy Boots Riley’s Sorry to Bother You (2018) as much as I did, and it was definitely one of the more modern films we watched in class. Now this film in particular was rather socially charged in the sense that it tackled prevalent societal issues such as racism and capitalism. Our protagonist, Cash, gets a job as a telemarketer at RegalView, and he only begins to excel once he starts using his “white voice” and this tells us right off the get-go that there is a preference to white telemarketers over black telemarketers. I rolled my eyes at first; how couldn’t I? The message seemed incredibly obvious. Of course, I was proven wrong as the film progressed. There was a lot more to Sorry to Bother You than meets the eye, and this is what made it one of the more intelligent, more socially relevant, and all-around more enjoyable films that we’ve seen up to now. After mastering his white voice, Cash eventually gets the attention of his supervisors, and although Cash and his friends supposedly hate them and try to organize a strike against them, they’re eventually able to win Cash over by offering him a promotion, much to the dismay of his old friends.

Torn between his friends and rising through the ranks as a “power caller”, Cash is forced to make a decision that will drastically affect his interpersonal relationships. Eventually he decides to accept the promotion, and his friends are clearly upset by his decision as he was supposed to go on strike with them. Cash’s choice to take the promotion meant that his friends were now fighting a cause that went against him, as he was now above them in the workplace hierarchy and that meant he was a part of the problem. The sheer difference in their salary despite doing similar jobs was enough for Cash to disassociate himself from his old friends entirely, and although his job allowed him to provide for his family members and his girlfriend, it was clear that it was also beginning to change him in a negative way. This was an excellent commentary on how capitalism dehumanizes employees and forces them to work under long hours for little pay with almost no way to rise through the ranks, as if they were forced to remain in their low-leveled positions and continue slaving away. This is exemplified in the company mantra, “stick to the script”, which gives employees little to no room for individuality, self-expression, or flexibility and are instead forced to follow a predetermined set of things to say. It makes each interaction with potential customers far more artificial while simultaneously taking away the humanity and free will that employees deserve to have.

The film’s aspect of dehumanization goes up several notches as soon as Cash becomes a power caller and grabs the attention of Steve Lift, RegalView’s CEO. At this point, Cash has almost become a completely different person, and he tries to win the affection of people who don’t even like him for who he is by rapping to the best of his ability – he deliberately plays into the black stereotype to fit in, pandering to their interests at his own expense. This plays in to how many people, employees included, must bend over backwards to be within the good graces of people that don’t like them in order to make ends meet, all while sucking up to their superiors in hopes of getting a promotion. In Cash’s case, it worked.

Even though he had to humiliate and disgrace himself, he was eventually asked to meet with Lift in private to talk about a new job offer with a payoff of one million US dollars. All it would require of him, as Cash would soon learn, was his humanity. It was revealed that Lift intended to bolster the workforce by transforming them into “equisapiens”, half-man half-horse hybrids who work harder, stronger, and faster than a normal person, all while being more subservient and easier to control. Lift wanted Cash to be the leader of these equisapiens to keep them under control. One could argue that Riley chose to use horses as a sort of reference to George Orwell’s book Animal Farm in the sense that one of the horses, Boxer, was worked to the bone and was ultimately discarded and turned into glue despite his years of hard work. Similarly, it could simply be a play on the term “workhorse”, adopting a more literal meaning of the word. Either way, horses are known for being laborious animals who work tirelessly to carry people, plow fields, and drag caravans without question. Equisapiens are meant to embody this, only this time they’ll be given more “human” tasks to replace the general workforce. The entire fiasco with the horse people might serve as a means of criticizing capitalist systems and how they utterly dehumanize people and instead see them as resources; as manpower.

Ultimately, the film ends with Cash transforming into an equisapien despite rejecting Lift’s offer and he decides to lead a revolution with all the other equisapiens by his side. Lift’s fate is ambiguous, but one can interpret that Cash and the other workers get their revenge. This provides a rather hopeful message, as even after the capitalist machine has taken everything from you, you can still fight back and prove your worth – your humanity. Cash might have lost his job, his money, and even his human appearance, but he clung to his dignity and pride as a human being and as a result, he was able to reconcile with his friends and lead a mob of equisapiens to overthrow RegalView.

Even if I didn’t know what was happening half the time, I still consider Alex Cox’s Repo Man (1984) to be a rather enjoyable movie primarily because of the outlandish dialogue and zany characters. It was definitely an experience, I can tell you that much. What impressed me the most about the film was how it used its low budget to its advantage, and this was done in a multitude of ways. For starters, the UFO the characters kept referencing throughout the film was revealed to be the Chevy Malibu all along, and they gave the vehicle its iconic green color by coating the entire thing in paint. It turns out no special effects were used on the car in its initial appearance, and the faint glow it gave off was the result of the reflective paint they used. This gave it a sort of otherworldly feel, highlighting just how out of place this strange green vehicle was in comparison to the rest of what we’ve seen throughout the film. It was only appropriate that the seemingly insane mechanic Miller was able to operate it without any difficulty, and with that said, is it’s also possible that Miller might’ve been the only sane person in the film all along. Given how wacky the world is in-universe, it would only be fitting that someone equally as strange would understand how it works.

Repo Man was also able to accomplish something that many films aren’t able to do. They were able to make something as mundane as people in cars conversing with one another while simultaneously driving around the city compelling. Ultimately, what makes these scenes work are the fact that the characters talk and engage in such strange manners that they make the most ordinary of tasks entertaining to watch. However, at the same time, the film also possesses scenes and sequences that are anything but mundane; scenes involving extraterrestrial automobiles, people getting disintegrated by said extraterrestrial automobiles, and punks running around committing minor and major crimes before getting killed in a convenience store by their former best friend. The sheer absurdity of these scenes tell the audience that this film is unlike any other, and its style and flair have become iconic to the point that Repo Man has become a beloved cult classic. This was only reinforced by the film’s snappy dialogue and willingness to go against the grain in terms of cinema standards through its liberal use of curse words and its less-than agreeable punk protagonist.

There aren’t any genuinely good or kindhearted characters in the story either, and that’s partially what made the film work so well; this isn’t a story about heroes, but rather a story about scumbags screwing other scumbags over until the car they coveted suddenly turned green. The film opens with a peculiar sequence involving a police officer getting vaporized by the trunk of a Chevy Malibu – the UFO – before shifting to our protagonist Otto, who gets fired from his job at the supermarket. Later, he unwittingly helps Bud repossess a car and is promptly invited to join the repo men, where he learns the ropes from more senior members and eventually he becomes proficient at stealing cars. Eventually, Otto and the rest of the repo men get tangled with other organizations who all pursue a specific Chevy Malibu, and this car is eventually revealed to be a UFO. All-in-all, there are no redemption stories and there are no deep, heartfelt moments between the characters; it’s just straight up action-comedy from start to finish, and the characters aren’t necessarily complex either. It’s a fun ride. Out of the ordinary, but don’t expect anything too deep.

Todd Haynes’ Velvet Goldmine (1998) got me into David Bowie’s music and for that, I’ll always be grateful. As soon as I got home, I downloaded some of his greatest hits and now I’ve got Ashes to Ashes, Ziggy Stardust, and Space Oddity on loop. Now don’t get me wrong – Velvet Goldmine’s soundtrack was nothing short of stellar as well, but what captivated me the most about this film wasn’t the music, nor was it the setting. What I loved about Velvet Goldmine was the characters, and that’s why I wanted to write about them for the presentation and the video essay. Velvet Goldmine’s characters aren’t necessarily deep or complex, but they are based on real life musicians and their mannerisms and quirks all make them very unique and diverse. Ewan McGregor’s performance as the bold and brash punk rock star Curt Wild stole the show in every scene he was present, with my personal favorite being the one where he first performs on stage. Right off the get-go, we see exactly what sort of person Wild was based on the music he played, the stories people spread about him, as well as his decision to unzip his pants and hop about to taunt the booing crowd.

There’s also the enigmatic Jack Fairy. Although we never get to hear him perform, it’s evident that he played a huge role in the glam rock scene at the time. In a sense, he can be described as one of the founding fathers of glam rock in-universe, and he is respected and revered by several characters throughout the film – Brian Slade included. When Fairy first appeared on-screen, I thought he was the coolest person ever, wearing his highly distinguishable black attire while simultaneously receiving admiration and attention from random onlookers as he walked. That’s another thing worth mentioning: the character design. The outfits that every musician wore on this film were phenomenal, and they fitted each character perfectly. No two designs were similar, nor were they shared between characters; each costume highlighted how everyone had their own distinct and irreplicable style. Even if I wasn’t around to experience it personally, I’d like to believe the film succeeded in capturing the overall feel and aesthetic of the 1970s glam rock movement.

Truth be told, however, Velvet Goldmine has little to offer in the way of story, structure, and dialogue; its strong suit truly lies in its costumes, music, and setting. The film follows a structure reminiscent of Citizen Kane in the sense that it revolves around a journalist investigating the story of a particularly enigmatic figure. In order to learn more about said figure, the journalist much interview their friends and associates to paint a picture of their lives and discover the truth. In Velvet Goldmine’s case, journalist Arthur Stuart investigates the mysterious disappearance of Brian Slade, one of the most famous – and infamous – glam rock stars of the 1970s, after his failed publicity stunt where he faked his own death. Throughout the film, we would jump from the past to the present, with Stuart interviewing Slade’s associates before revealing life from Slade’s point of view as soon as Stuart reached that part of the story. Every now and then, we’re also given glimpses into Stuart’s past and how he was once an avid and active fan of all things glam rock, and it was revealed that he was also present at the concert on the day Slade faked his death, telling the audience that the investigation was a little more personal and significant to Stuart than we initially suspected.

It was through Stuart that we learn of Slade’s ultimate fate. He’d effectively killed the Slade persona after suffering a huge backlash from his failed publicity stunt and went into hiding. He didn’t hide forever, because eventually he re-emerged as Tommy Stone and became famous once more. Slade’s yearning for fame and fortune likely came from his innate desire to become special – something that was evident when he first encountered Curt Wild. When the crowd reacted to Wild’s outlandish antics, Slade mentioned that he wished that it had been him; that he wished he’d thought of it first. This tells us that Slade aspired to be the center of the attention, whether it was positive or negative. However, Slade received too much negative attention from his fans after he faked his own death and this led to his eventual fall from grace. His desire to become the center of attention had become too great, and eventually it came to the point where he was willing to compromise himself as well as his ties with other people to become just that. The fame Slade accumulated during his years as a glam rock star eventually got to his head, leading to a series of questionable choices born of desperation. Ultimately, it ends with Slade killing his former self in order to become Tommy Stone – a far more mainstream musical figure. By becoming a slave to the public’s wishes, he’d effectively sold out. Slade is clearly not the man he used to be, and it’s no wonder that neither he nor his former associates want anything to do with each other anymore.  

Truth be told, this isn’t my sort of film. I can appreciate the thought and effort put into it, however, but that doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t truly enjoy it as much as I did the others. Gus Van Sant’s My Own Private Idaho (1991) shines with its peculiar dialogue and stylistic editing. There’s no film quite like it, and I doubt there will be any time soon. The film’s creative use of narcolepsy allows us to dive into the tragedy of Mike’s character while simultaneously avoiding the plot. From what we’re able to see, Mike phases in and out of reality, randomly entering a catatonic state at highly inopportune times. This element allows the audience to realize that Mike’s life might not even be in his own hands, and this is further enforced by the fact that he works as a street hustler. Fortunately, Mike’s best friend Scott looks out for him by making sure nothing bad happens while he’s unconscious. Without Scott, Mike would truly be defenseless, and this vulnerability becomes painstakingly clear at the ending where he first gets robbed, and then he gets kidnapped. It is ambiguous whether or not he makes it out, for the film ends after he’s already been abducted; it is unclear if the people who picked him up were friends or strangers. What’s interesting about Mike’s story is that even though he desperately searched for love, whether it’s with his mother who left him, or with Scott who merely didn’t feel the same way, he didn’t stop looking even when it clearly wasn’t there. It’s a tragedy, really. He’d been protected his entire life, and as soon as his best friend left him after having found a love of his own, he was kidnapped and his ultimate fate was left ambiguous.

As for Scott, his story and his dynamic with Mike was rather interesting. Although it is clear that Mike is in love with Scott, it is equally clear that Scott does not feel the same way. Despite being a street hustler who has sex with men for money, Scott isn’t actually a homosexual. He mentions that he does it as a way to get back at his father, sullying himself as a prostitute while simultaneously damaging his father’s reputation as the mayor. Despite not loving Mike back, Scott remains a true friend up until the very end, where he chooses to say goodbye to Mike and the rest of the hustlers in order to stay with his girlfriend and adopt the upper class life he desperately tried to get away from all his life. He had no reason to detest aristocracy now that his father was dead, and the fact that he had a girlfriend now meant that he could spend more time with her instead of Mike and the hustlers. When the two returned to the US together, they left Mike behind. It’s never outright stated how or why Scott suddenly turned from Mike’s best friend to someone who wanted nothing to do with him, but it happened in a very quick time. This remains one of my biggest gripes with the film – this characterization is not clearly explained.

My Own Private Idaho also featured some very peculiar dialogue reminiscent of Shakespeare’s verbose writing. The character of Bob Pigeon, portrayed by William Richert, spoke in a way unlike the rest of the characters, and this was likely because he was a sort of elder or patriarchal figure among the hustlers – because of his age and status, he was the one that people respected and listened to. One standout scene involving Pigeon was the part where he attempts to explain how he and his group were robbed to Mike and Scott, completely oblivious that Mike and Scott were the ones who held them up in the first place. He embellishes the story and claims that there were several men, and that they put up a good fight against them. In truth, there were only two, and Pigeon and his men surrendered very quickly. The Shakespearean dialogue contrasted greatly with the setting of lowlife hovels and slummy hideaways. Grand and flowery prose ill-suits street hustlers and ruffians, but perhaps the sheer difference and incompatibility between the two brought out the best of both. It was unexpected, certainly, but highly memorable.

Despite this, there was one scene in particular that stood out to me, and this was my favorite scene for a multitude of reasons. This was the scene where the film abruptly shifts to the stories of different hustlers who all spoke quite realistically, much like how a person would if they were being interviewed. Personally, this was a standout scene for me primarily because of how jarring the shift in dialogue and tone was – it becomes evident that the lives street hustlers live are dangerous and degrading, and they’re forced to engage in dehumanizing sexual acts with strangers in order to make ends meet. Sometimes they’re threatened with their lives, and other times they’re betrayed by their friends who are equally as desperate to make money. The saddest part was the fact that they’d become accustomed to it, talking about such traumatic and horrifying experiences so casually – as if it was just another day for them. The sheer realism of the scene and the way they talked was quite haunting as it brought their terrible living and working conditions to light in a tasteful manner.

Kim Kyung-Mook’s Futureless Things (2014) was a rather peculiar movie that seemed to teeter on being a comedy, a drama, and a thriller. It’s unclear if director Kim Kyung-Mook had no idea what to do with the film, or if he knew exactly what he was doing and reveled in the sheer chaos of what he’d created. What we do know, however, is that the film possessed a rather colorful cast of characters who each had their own respective subplots, and each of these subplots revealed much about their lives as well as the convenience store they all worked at. Some of these subplots were lighthearted and humorous. For instance, there was one about an employee who was asked to watch over a box that was handed to her by a mysterious, albeit strange woman. Thinking back on it now, the scene where the two first meet is highly reminiscent of one particular part in David Lynch’s Lost Highway (1997) where Fred speaks to the mysterious pale man for the first time. Futureless Things possibly wanted to reference that scene to highlight how otherworldly this woman was, but it wouldn’t be wise to rule out the possibility that the scene was simply played for humor.

Despite this, there were other subplots that weren’t quite as jovial and upbeat. There was one character in particular – the boss, Jeon Doo-hwan – who was revealed to have been in dire need of money, prompting him to engage in shadier deals in a desperate bid to make ends meet. If memory serves, one of these deals included insider trading, but I’m not entirely certain. Regardless, it was clear that Doo-hwan was engaged in something risky – possibly even illegal. There were also numerous mentions of him underpaying of all his employees just so he could afford to supply his family – especially his mother – and even then it was difficult as he had to send the money to the main branch. Eventually, the convenience store gets robbed and Doo-hwan commits suicide. Doo-hwan’s desperation arguably served as a sort of commentary on how convenience store branches dehumanize and underpay their employees, forcing them to work in appalling conditions while giving them little to no means of earning more or rising up the ranks. Perhaps this sort of thing happens a lot in Korea: good men who work hard for their families getting the short end of the stick – usually at the hands of their employers and the companies they work for.

All in all, it makes perfect sense why the film is called what it is. It can be interpreted that “Futureless Things” refers to the convenience store employees because they don’t aspire for greater things, and when they do, they are promptly shot down because of their work as convenience store employees. There was one employee in particular who was an aspiring actor, however his job at the store caused him to miss his audition. There was another employee who was fired for talking back to rude customers and was ultimately left jobless, though she seems rather optimistic about her future as she can now look for a newer, better job. What’s made clear is that each of these employees worked hard at the convenience store but were brought down by it as well; betrayed by it, almost. Perhaps the film might be telling the audience a message, one that screams “this is the reality that convenience store employees face every day! They’re treated like expendable objects and they’re forced to slave away on the daily to make ends meet!” The film’s choice to disguise itself as a comedy might have benefited the overall message, as the impact becomes far stronger if it comes out of left field.

This is a movie that truly frightens me. Drugs have always been a bit of a sensitive matter for me, and seeing this film a second time certainly didn’t do me any favors. Don’t get me wrong, it’s quality stuff and it handles its sensitive subject matter with tastefully and with extreme consideration. It’s just that I’m a little uncomfortable with seeing drugs and needles, moreso people overdosing. I’ll get over it eventually. That aside, there’s no doubting it’s excellence. Danny Boyle’s Trainspotting (1996) is as good as they come, and it’s definitely one of the best films when it comes to portraying the harrowing realities of heroin use, addiction, and withdrawal. From the opening monologue alone, “Choose life”, one could tell that this film was going to be one hell of a ride from start to finish – that it would have you on the edge of your seat throughout its entire hour-and-a-half run – and of course, it delivered.

Despite – or rather because of its raw grit, Trainspotting possesses an undeniable charm. The movie is, simply put, incredibly Scottish, and that’s due to the fact that the film is actually an adaptation of a book of the same name by Irvine Welsh, a Scottish author who often writes about the struggles of drug addiction, mental illness, and criminal activity in Edinburgh. The language used by the main cast is colorful, to say the least, and that sort of brashness is what gives Trainspotting so much character. It’s refreshing to hear words like “cunt” or “fuck” used so liberally and naturally, and one mustn’t forget that this film came out in 1996. According to a credible source, who most certainly isn’t my mum, most films back in the day were too afraid of censorship to include profanity, sex, drugs and the works into their films so naturally, the directors that were bold enough to do so almost always went the extra mile to include as much of it as possible. Such directors include Quentin Tarantino with Pulp Fiction (1994) or Guy Ritchie with Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998). Of course, Trainspotting is a perfect example of this as well.

The certainly doesn’t hold back when it comes to tackling such highly controversial topics. Renton flat-out has sex with the underage Diane in one scene and the director has no qualms with showing it happen, and in another, the process of cooking and injecting heroin is shown in all its glory – complete with a close up of a man’s arm as he shot up and the consequent overdose that followed. The scene where Renton overdoses is one of the biggest highlights of the film for me primarily because it makes way for his attempt to wean off the drug and the withdrawal symptoms he suffered as a result. The overdose starts with a shot inside the syringe. The entirety of the heroin is being injected, and we see it get pressed and drained through the middle. However, it becomes clear that something is amiss once we see bits of dirt and gunk – things that don’t belong – from the syringe getting pumped in as well, flowing with the heroin out of the needle and into Renton’s body.

After Renton takes his shot, he sinks into the carpet and the camera shifts to his point of view. It becomes clear that Renton is hallucinating as we start to see things from his perspective – how we see the ground up above, as if we were lowered into his very grave. It’s apparent that he didn’t actually sink into the ground, but he was hallucinating. We see only what he sees. The left and right sides of the camera are blocked off by the elevated ground. It was almost as if the width of the camera lens had narrowed. This could suggest that taking heroin numbs and weakens the senses, preventing people from seeing the whole picture much like tunnel vision. It also suggests that the substance distances a person from reality, hence Renton’s hallucination which caused him to sink further into the ground, placing literal distance between himself and the outside world.

Once Renton was dropped off at the hospital, he was injected with some sort of medicine that causes him to snap back to reality. After he finished recovering, he was brought home where he starts to suffer from withdrawal symptoms and this causes him to hallucinate even more. Although I’m not the right person to ask whether or not this depiction of withdrawal is realistic, I would like to say that this scene allows the audience to experience the thoughts racing through his mind such as his fears and his regrets as he goes through what the film refers to as “Junkie Limbo”. This scene was also masterfully done, though I may be biased as I’m a sucker for quick and chaotic sequences that rely on showing rather than telling. We learn a lot about Renton and his mental state without him even having to speak. This becomes evident when we see him imagining all his friends appearing in his room, and each one of them would repeat a line of dialogue they’d said earlier in the film.

Ultimately, Trainspotting was an unforgettable film that not only succeeded in capturing the essence of Scottish junkie life, but also dared to go against the grain by tackling darker subject matters such as drug addiction and withdrawal, statutory rape, and betrayal. Renton was a rather complex and morally ambiguous protagonist that committed innumerable acts of good and bad alike, though it only makes sense given that his addiction to heroin made him do several questionable things just so he could get his fix.