Brothers in a Loop

The Endless (2012) is right smack in the middle of two things: one thing that I love a lot, which is science fiction, and another that I despise a lot, which is horror. Science fiction is exploratory and imaginative, as it always intrigues me on the capacity of today’s empirical information in keeping up with human’s remarkable breadth of irrational creative power. On the other hand, horror is also exploratory and imaginative; however, for me, it amplifies fears — from the little and most common ones to the deepest and darkest ones. For instance, as someone who has built her life on and around faith in God, the sinister deity in The Endless unsettled and irked me. It really left a bad taste in my mouth. Cosmic horror is a genre that is new to me and it certainly terrifies me because of the possibility that an omnipotent force can be truly malevolent instead of benevolent.

Time loops were particularly important devices in the film, as these exhibited the science fiction quality (although after Avengers Endgame, is this even still fiction?) in its manipulation of time and the horror quality in the entity that does this manipulation. The time loops in the film reminded me of the novel Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, wherein the characters live and relive a single day: the third of September in the year 1940. Similar to The Endless, this novel uses polaroids to visualize the era and to communicate.

Throughout the film, production design was key in telling the narrative as each time loop was accurately portrayed according to the time within which the people in the loops were trapped. For instance, Chris and Mike have a modern cabin, a film projector, a computer, and so on; thus the malevolent entity communicates with them through CDs. On the other hand, Camp Arcadia seemed to be from an older time, based on the setup of the camp, the activities of the campers, and so on; with them, the malevolent entity communicates through VHS tapes or polaroids. Lastly, the poor man trapped in the shortest loop only had a tent and a phonograph, while Shitty Carl had guns and traps; although these are implicative of what era they were originally trapped in, the film did not reveal how the entity communicated with them.

The washed-out color palette of the entire film made me think that it was made a long time ago; however, this aided in framing the timelessness of the film and the malevolent entity. In addition, most of the characters, especially those in Camp Arcadia, had plain and ordinary styles, so much so that I mistook them for not changing clothes. This costume design technique was innovative for me, as it amplified the feeling that they were stuck in a rut.

Finally, I applaud directors Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead for coming up with this gem and for starring in it so spectacularly. They depicted the dynamics of a real-life brother to brother relationship, despite the weirdness going around the movie. Character development was also plain to see for both of them: innocent younger brother Aaron flirted with a girl and even smoked a little, while controlling older brother Justin apologized to his brother and figuratively and literally gave the wheel to Aaron.

One final thing that bothered me was the final conversation of the brothers, which was not sufficiently tackled in class. As they sped away from the destruction of the camp brought about by the entity, Justin told Aaron to refill the gas tank. In response, Aaron said that the car’s gas tank gauge had always read empty. On screen, I saw that the flock of birds shifted direction — as they did when the brothers first arrived in the area. My first reaction to this was, “Oh no, they are in a time loop!” And until today, my views are still somewhere there: that despite the escape and all, the brothers were also stuck in a time loop — just one that is longer in time and larger in space.

An Always Intense Life

The only “car” films I know involve magic (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets), racing (The Fast and The Furious) and aliens (Transformers) — and Repo Man (1984) has all. It combines these three aspects in a flurry of flavor that leaves a bad taste in my mouth — mostly because the mix of characters used were, in my opinion, mere self-centered and self-indulgent plot devices. There was no real character development in the film. Each and every character only had their own goals and agenda in mind, with absolutely no care for anyone else around them. For instance, the repo men in the Helping Hand wanted the 1964 Chevrolet Malibu in order to win the corresponding $20,000 bounty; Leila and the United Fruitcake Outlet wanted the Chevy Malibu to retrieve Dr. Frank Parnell and the aliens; and for some reason, a government agency led by the woman with a metal hand also wanted to acquire the Chevy Malibu. They treated each other as means to their own desired ends, regardless of the label of their relationships — be it parent and child, girlfriend and boyfriend, or mentor and mentee.

Aside from the sloppy character work, the cohesiveness of the film felt rather forced as it attempted to connect countless coincidences throughout the film. However, its series of strange stunts or gags, such as the generic labels on consumer good, the flying alien car that zaps people, and the shoot out at a convenience store, were absurd yet well-delivered thus serving to provide entertainment in the unexpected moments. The straightforward and serious dialogue of the characters complemented these scene, such as “Let’s do crime!”, but there were lines that served only to add details necessary for the subsequent scenes. The monologue of Miller is a perfect example, since I feel that it was only executed to give a vague explanation as prelude to the final scene of the film.

Nevertheless, I did love the color palettes and the design used for both to the production set and to the costumes of the characters. These assisted in conveying the general mood of the scenes, made the scenes memorable, and embedded the characters in my brain based on their standard style. In addition, Repo Man’s soundtrack made the film slightly more likeable than it really is, as the punk rock reinforced the attitude of the characters, the story, and the film itself.

On the other hand, the camera work was not superbly impressive but it did the job of capturing the narrative. What irritated me the most was the poor animation of the alien car at the final scene: it feels as if they did not even try to make it a fringe more realistic. Maybe this is part of its “charm”, but it honestly just threw me off as bewildered, exasperated, and moderately amused.

Overall, Repo Man by director Alex Cox embodies its characters in a sense that it does not care what the audience thinks — like the film or not, it exists. This rebellious and rather punk attitude against conventional Hollywood standards is fun and inspiring. Personally, there was no time or energy left for me to digest or interpret the deeper meanings of the film as I was too caught up in disliking the characters and the cheap animation. The film, as Otto so accurately says, is “just a white suburban punk like me.”

Golds, Greens, and Gays

My brand of sheltered-ness is not limited to the places I go, the things I do, the people I hang out with, or the films I watch — it also includes the music I hear. Coming into Velvet Goldmine (1998) by Todd Haynes, I only knew of the name of the music genre featured in the film: glam rock. I did not what it sounded like. I did not know any big names of the people who have made it famous. I did not know what these people looked like. But one thing I did know was that I was extremely excited to get the answers to my wonderment.

“Getting answers” is an inconspicuous underlying theme that make its appearance in the film. For instance, the opening scene was that of little boy Oscar Wilde who answered a question regarding what he wanted to be when he grew up. His answer: a pop idol. Side note, funnily enough, the name Oscar Wilde rang a bell for a historic poet and playwright whose works I had read — The Picture of Dorian Gray would fit perfectly with this film. On another account, the adventure of British journalist Arthur Slate in writing about the withdrawal from public life of Brian Slade, also known from his stage moniker as Maxwell Demon, is a portrayal of the necessity to “get answers” and never be truly satisfied.

As this was the 1970’s glam rock scene, the strikingly colorful patterns of outfits, the heavy and picturesque makeup on each and every one of the characters, the vivid and lively musical score, and so on. The production design for Velvet Goldmine was excellent in bringing out and highlighting the wonderful and colorful time of most of the people in the country. All of these together has served to captivate me and my classmates deeper and deeper into appreciation of the film — especially since Arthur Slate had to do to an article about the ever-elusive Brian Slade who had faked his own death.

Ironically, despite the film being about glam rock start Brian Slade, also known as Maxwell Demon, viewers never get to hear any parts of the story from Slade himself. Instead, Arthur Slate takes the viewers to a wild goose chase of interviews — wherein almost everyone who has been affiliated by, with, and to Brian Slade. Thus these characters serve to form only a jigsaw image of Brian Slade as the characters accurately and legally piece together their little stories of and encounters with the glam rock star.

The journey of the emerald jewel brooch from one hand to another is crucial, I think, to monitor the development of the characters holding them and the further deepen the themes surrounding the film, such as singularity, sexual liberation, and otherness. It was first seen pinned to the blanket of baby Oscar Wilde, as the child had been deposited on a doorstep in a basket by a spaceship. Years after the death of Wilde, the emerald brooch appears in the dirt next to a little boy Jack Fairy whose face had been beaten, bloodied, and planted on the ground by bullies. He goes home and pins it onto his shirt, as he rubs the blood over his lips like lipstick. “jack would discover the somewhere, there were others quite like him, singled out for a great gift. And one day, the whole stinking world would be theirs.” It was a truly iconic moment in the film.

Velvet Goldmine was truly a gold mine for ushering in an era of open queerness and singularity, especially as related to this rather magical music genre — glam rock.

On the road that never leads home

In search for love, care, acceptance, and for his mother, abandoned street hustler Michael Waters declares himself as a connoisseur of roads: “I’ve been tasting roads all my life. This road will never end. It probably goes all around the world.” And truly, his search for his mother did take him all around the world — from Seattle to Portland to Idaho to Italy and back. Of course, this quote could also be an allusion to his neurological disorder, narcolepsy, which affects his control of sleep and wakefulness thus leaving him vulnerable in narcoleptic episodes wherein he suddenly falls asleep during daytime, wherever he might be and whatever he might be doing. These are all seen in the opening scene of the film: wherein Mike is alone on deserted stretch of highway, falls into a narcoleptic episode, and dreams of his mother comforting him.

Mike’s flashbacks of his mom are always grainy and seemingly distant. In this quest to find his mom, Mike enlists the help of his best friend and fellow street hustler, Scott Favor. Unlike Mike who is a homeless vagabond, Scott is the son of the mayor of Portland and is destined to inherit his father’s fortune once he turns 21. However, both friends suffer from the lack of biological parents’ presence — a gap that is filled in by Bob Pigeon, a middle-aged father figure and mentor to street kids and hustlers who live in an abandoned apartment building. Whenever Bob would be in the camera’s shot, I noticed that the characters shift from simple modern English to Shakespearean English. This created a bit of confusion for me at the beginning; that is, until I realized that Scott’s character was similar to that of Prince Hal — the Prince of Wales, eldest son, and heir of King Henry IV of England — from the Shakespearean classics Henry IV (part one and part two), and later, Henry V. After this realization, I definitely enjoyed the film more as a Shakespeare enthusiast looking for plot devices and other items that were akin to the Bard’s works.

As with most Shakespeare-like adaptations, this film was a pure tragedy doused in utter sadness, especially for the main protagonist: Mike suffers from a disorder that leaves him powerless and poor; Mike professed his love to Scott only to get rejected; Mike watched the man he loved fall in love with someone else; Mike is abandoned by his mother, then eventually his best friend and true love; Bob is rejected by Scott whom he treated as a son; Bob dies in misery; and Scott never seems to find his true self. One of the only “happy” moments that stood out for me was Bob’s lively and rather colorful funeral, especially in contrast to Mayor Jack Favor’s bleak and black funeral.

Moments filled with the mix of reality and fantasy, especially the latter, are not necessarily “happy” moments, but they are somewhat fun and entertaining to watch, thus alleviating some of the immense sadness of the film. For instance, the weird musical and dance number of Hans was… well, weird and a little creepy, but still amusing. The scene in a magazine shop that had topless men on all the covers suddenly shifted into fantasy as each topless man begins narrating their background of being a prostitute. The editing in this film is truly quite unorthodox and out of the ordinary.

Lastly, another detail of the film that was out of the ordinary: the clips of salmon leaping (which is what their etymology, salmo or salire means in Latin) in salmon run. A salmon run is when salmon migrate from the ocean and swim upstream to spawn on gravel beds; then they return to the ocean and repeat the cycle. This clip must have meant so much as it was also shown prominently on the film’s trailers. I think this is reflective of Mike’s roundabout journey: the film opens with him experiencing a narcoleptic episode on a deserted highway and the film closes with him experience a narcoleptic episode on the same deserted highway. Try as he might to search for his own private Idaho in places and in people, he never could find it. Mike keeps going back to his hometown but never truly comes home — and that, I think, is the biggest tragedy of this film, My Own Private Idaho (1991) directed by Gus Van Sant.

Bother me all you want

Despite being an absurdist dark comedy, Sorry to Bother You (2018) directed by Boots Riley was my favorite film of those shown in class. Personally, the film hit too close to home — as a struggling scholar faced with the decision of putting my Management course into a corporate career, knowing full well that structural capitalism oppresses people like my parents who are call center agents, Sorry to Bother You really did bother me. As my friends and I walked to our next class (which, ironically, is entitled Strategic Management), we raved about how intelligently it was done. Every insane thing thrown into the film worked together in the end: the social and political commentary on existentialism, racism, capitalism, status quo and protests, the splashes of comedy, the original sound track, the dark yet colorful production and costume designs, and of course, the magical plot twist at the end.

To clear the air, let us delve into the film’s in-your-face commentary that cannot possibly be ignored. First, existentialism was captured brilliantly in the opening moments of the film, where Cassius Green converses with his girlfriend about: “I’m just out here surviving. What I’m doing right now won’t even matter.” This sets up the audience to follow Cash and his journey to “mattering”, which becomes the foundation for introducing the other themes in the film.

On the other hand, racism was all over the film: in the importance of using the “white voice” for Cash to make sales and eventually get promoted to Power Caller status, as well as for Detroit to sell her works of art; in the insistence of Steve Lift, Chief Executive Officer of Worry Free, and his posse for Cash to rap; in Cash’s rap itself; and even in the name of the leading lady, Detroit. This paints the sad reality that even people like Cash, who have been brought up in the horror stories of black slavery, still choose to subject themselves and others into a type of modern slavery just to get by in life.

The film was also heavily imbued with aspects of capitalism: the most obvious being the existence of Worry Free’s slave labor disguised as efficient production. Worry Free pitches a worker’s life where everything is provided for, such as food, clothing, living space, among others — only at the expense of your labor. In spite of being horrific and hilarious at the same time, it is a very accurate portrait of the road that capitalists are already on. I sadly expect that we would be witnessing real-life commercials like these soon enough. Side note, a funny little thing that screams capitalism is the name of the protagonist himself: Cassius “Cash” Green.

“Stick to the script” is a tagline that not only insisted the telemarketers’ adherence to the words they speak to the people they call, but also insisted the telemarketers’ adherence to the way things are, to the norm. This insists that they stay in their place, thereby discouraging any kind of rebellion — including the protests of the union, as organized by Squeeze.

In relation to the protests, my favorite comedic splash was that of the iconic “Have a Cola and Smile, B*tch!” scene. Although the surrounding circumstances of that video clip and its subsequent commodification of the girl who made the clip were dire, I am still up for the laughs of a good and viral Internet meme. Overall, I think that the film consistently featured a comedic tone throughout its run time in order to alleviate the heaviness of the darker underlying themes.

The film evolved from different iterations and forms, namely that of an original soundtrack and a book of the same name. This musical score, created by director Boots Riley, Tune-Yards, and The Coup, aided in giving energy, potency, and distinguishable character to the film’s narrative. Along with the music, production, light, and costume design was dark yet colorful, further empowering and complementing each other’s effect to the film.

My favorite character in the movie was Detroit, played by Tessa Thompson (Valkryie!). Her costumes and accessories established her character as a rebellious artist, perhaps even more so than her lines, her sign twirling, and her art exhibit — especially since she rather gave in to the norm by using her “white voice” in her performance and in selling her works of art. Nonetheless, her character kept my attention throughout the film and was part of the reason why I enjoyed the film so much.

Finally, the magical plot twist that caught us all off-guard: the equisapiens. Despite the way the film was built, I was completely unprepared for the revelation of Worry Free making equisapiens. Their rationale behind it, however, somehow made perfect sense to me: the worth of laborers in this capitalistic society is tantamount to their productivity and effectiveness in achieving the company’s goals; thus “improving” their capacity for labor increases their productivity and effectiveness, and ultimately results into the achievement of company goals. But of course,

I heard a comment from the class while we watching that it was “like centaurs”, but I beg to disagree. Centaurs are human from waist-up and horse from waist-down, unlike the equisapiens who are a mix of both all throughout. These creatures looked more like Bojack Horseman than Firenze, the centaur from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. The animation and cinematography of the house of Steve Lift, the cage of the equisapiens, and the equisapiens themselves made it appear eerily too possible in the real world.

To conclude, Sorry to Bother You was excellently and bravely executed. It is a must-see for everyone who exploits and is exploited by the structural capitalism which we all unwillingly help perpetuate.

Stories in a Store

With aisles full of regular consumer goods, an interesting variety of consumers, and a fun set of employees, Futureless Things (2014) opens in an ordinary and mundane convenience store — and establishes itself only in that convenience store. The premise of a single location for a story is not new: there have been dozens of experimental films that played with the idea of telling a story in and with just one space. Most of these films shot in single locations are about characters being stuck in a place that they desperately need to get out of, so the films follow the characters’ story and struggle for freedom.

In Futureless Things, however, characters are already given the freedom of movement in and out of the convenience store. Although the film touches on the distinguishable characteristics and little stories of the people who are in the convenience store, as well as how their lives are intertwined in some way, I think the film was not about the characters. Instead of telling a story of a certain character which we can follow throughout the duration of the film, Futureless Things tells the story of a space: the characters that use or occupy the space, the things the space witnesses, and the events that happen in a space with or without people around.

The camera explored a lot of different yet creative angles and perspectives: wide shots that featured the entire store or an entire aisle, shots from the perspective of the employees at the counter, mid shots of people conversing, and even shots from a security camera overhead. It took us all around the store (even to the storage room) and once outside the store. These different aspects contribute to the amount of and richness of the “story” that can be told from and about a single space. This was an undeniable feat of director Kim Kyung-Mook.

As the film tackled social, economic, political, and cultural issues in the form of its characters’ interactions in the subplots, such as homosexuality, learning English, plastic surgery, poverty, work life, underage vices, discrimination, and harassment, one could reduce Futureless Things to a commentary on the harsh realities in South Korea. However, its strange, magical, and supernatural elements render transcendence from the humdrum. In fact, it even took a dark turn at the end: not only when the owner of the store hanged himself, but more so when the government (or was it someone from the bank?) official came in and began labeling the items — including the store owner — as their property, due to the store owner’s immense debt. The film ended in the weirdest way possible: with a vigorous dance number of the store’s employees.

Futureless Things raised more puzzlement and questions than answers — so much that I am uncertain if I understood it or not. However, if there is anything I learned from the rest of the films in this class, there are films created for us to comfort the disturbed, disturb the comfortable, and sometimes, just to disturb us all. I used to think that my comprehension and interpretation of a film takes precedence over anything else, but Futureless Things made me realize even more that I can thoroughly enjoy something that I do not fully comprehend and might never truly comprehend.

Trains and Spots

“Choose your friends. Choose your future. Choose life.”

This was the opening and closing speech of the main character, Mark Renton, as he ran from both the authorities and his mates. At the beginning of the film, this scene made me look forward to the film with excitement and anticipation for the action that awaits; and at the end of the film, this scene rattled and threatened me, as it made me feel that Renton was coming for me, going to treat me the way he treated his friends and everyone else, and I would never be able to see him coming because he would be blending in with all of us typical people who chose life.

Trainspotting (1996) by Danny Boyle initially bothered me and my goody-two-shoes personality, as rebellion of any kind against my parents, friends, and society was something I was brought up to never do or tolerate. However, with its captivating colors, amazing wide shots and filming sites, convincing special effects and camera tricks, catchy soundtrack, and memorable yet not so lovable characters, soon enough I found myself on a roller coaster of entertainment and disgust at every turn of the film.

First, what interested me was the dark yet still seemingly lively and colorful color palettes used in the film. Upon further research, I discovered that the production designer, Kave Quinn, drew inspiration from two things: the shoot locations themselves and the paintings of Sir Francis Bacon.

The effectiveness of the color palettes somewhat served, at least to me, as metaphors of a life in substance abuse — lively and colorful, yes, but still in darkness. Related fact: Trainspotting was accused to have empowered an entire generation to “choose heroin” as critics claimed that the film “glamourized drugs.” Personally, however, as a child who grew up and still lives on a street where drugs are made, used, and abused by fellow lower middle class people, I think the film gave justice to this issue in its only honest portrayal of an addict’s difficult life.

Second, the wide shots captured the immensity, as well as the isolation of the characters in the extensive space, of both the indoor and outdoor filming sites. An indoor example would be Renton’s withdrawal scene, wherein the bedroom is shown to be long and spacious yet somehow seems to close in on Renton. An outdoor example, on the other hand, would be the scene at the mountains, wherein Tommy adamantly says that they are “going for a walk!” The characters are seen to be isolated in contrast to the wideness of the mountains and field that surrounds them.

Third, the special effects and camera tricks were superb, especially when you consider what year the film was made and how much budget they had to work around with. I barely watched The Worst Toilet in Scotland scene because I thought it was going to make me throw up, but I was so curious as to how they managed to pull it off that I looked it up on the Internet and saw an explanation from behind the scenes regarding the mechanics of the toilet. If it is any consolation (albeit I admit it might just make things worse), the brown stuff in the toilet is apparently chocolate. I admired the construction of the toilet and the way Ewan McGregor made it work with his acting skills.

Another scene which warrants praise for special effects and camera tricks was Renton’s withdrawal scene. It has the camera inside the sheets, capturing Renton’s sweaty anxiety; the dead baby crawling on the ceiling and its cuts back to Renton, capturing his utter horror and inhuman shrieks; Renton’s friends under the sheets with him, standing at the side of the bed, or sitting on top of closet; Renton’s parents talking with a doctor about human immunodeficiency virus (HIV); and a random TV show. The camera kept moving, shaking, and cutting from weird angles to wide shots — an exhibition that more or less gave an accurate depiction of a cold turkey withdrawal from heroin, based on studies that describe the phenomenon.

I am not well-versed in songs from the 80’s or 90’s, so most of the music in the film were new to me — but in a way, still vaguely familiar either due to its catchy quality or its timelessness. Whatever the reason, the soundtrack was remarkable. Each song enhanced the experience of the scenes, highlighted the actions, and invoked the desired emotions to the viewers. Despite my love-hate relationship with the film, I downloaded most of the songs in the sound track just so they can now be a part of my life.

Lastly, the characters were quite distinguished and memorable, yet it was difficult to root for them as they were all equitably unlikeable in their own unique ways. Their rather toxic relationships with each other and with the people around them painted an image of the power of friendship: how it transcends lifetimes and circumstances, how it haunts and drags, and how it molds the people involved. Side note: as much as I do not enjoy reading while watching, I appreciated the subtitles of this film because their thick Scottish accents were difficult for me to follow.

Trainspotting was truly one of a kind: no wonder it became a cult classic and even had an entire generation named after it.

Monster bigger than bureaucracy

At first glance of the monster, you would not think that Shin Godzilla was created in 2016 by directors Hideaki Anno and Shinji Higuchi. The computer-generated imagery made the monster look like a comic lizard with raisin skin and googly eyes, making it appear more funny than frightening. Perhaps it was nostalgic in a sense, given the historical reputation of the Godzilla films; but for me, it was odd to have a rather poorly-curated aesthetic for the monster.

Noticeably, however, the film did not focus on the monster as much as I thought it would. Instead, most of the film featured the havoc wreaked by the beast, panicked people running and fleeing, and of course, officials of the Japanese government and other relevant institutions going through the bureaucracy of handling this national calamity. There were a lot of people in the film but there were hardly any characters, as in people with some distinguishable character. Almost all of the people in the film were undifferentiated and kind of bland, meaning there was hardly anyone I could related to or root for. I felt bombarded by the sheer amount of people in the film, though, as every new person was introduced with Japanese characters and English subtitles.

Despite my qualms against the undeveloped characters, I do admire the actors’ on-screen skills. I might have no prior experience in film classes, but I have acted for quite a few of my COM friends’ short films so I can recognize the rigor and discipline necessary to achieve a clean one-take wonder shot. The camera movement was remarkable, as there were many instances when it moved swiftly yet smoothly. It was also able to fully capture the intensity of the monster’s actions and the wreckage, as well as the urgency in the simplest transfer from the board room to a war room.

Due to the slightly light-hearted approach of this film, viewers (especially those who are unaffected by Japan’s historical events and government structure) would find it comical and mostly satirical. But as someone who has been taking classes on disaster risk reduction and human rights, I got irked by people’s humor at the horrific destruction left in the wake of Godzilla. Bureaucracy is both a gift and a curse: a gift, as it stabilizes people and gives them a societal structure to hold onto, especially when the world seems crumbling; but also a curse, as it necessitates going through strictness of protocol, hierarchy of authorities, and recognition of accountability. Intervening international organizations, such as the United Nations, are important in this situation, but in the face of the United Nations’ recommendation to nuke the beast, the Japanese government was still understandably hesitant — thus the formation of a seemingly group of misfits who were “general pains-in-the-bureaucracy” reveals the critical role of local experts and interdisciplinary ad hoc committees for the time-bound crises such as these.

As a science fiction enthusiast, I became hooked with the work of Rando Yaguchi and his group, especially when they (1) discovered the monster’s origins, (2) uncovered Goro Maki’s codified research notes and how to decipher it, and (3) skillfully executed the deep-freeze plan merely hours before the scheduled nuclear attack. In spite of the heightened anxiety and excitement at the final attack and success, the conclusion of the film was barely triumphant — but still, in a way, hopeful for the future.

The Schizo Situation

Fixed with a proper suit, acclaimed director Steven Soderbergh strides confidently to the stage and does three things: first, he acknowledges that speaking to the viewers was “unusual”; second, he declares that “this is the most important motion picture you will ever attend”— so important that everyone must watch it, or else the delicate fabric which holds us all together will be ripped apart; third, he warns viewers that some scenes would be confusing (and the confusion would be the viewers’ fault), thus it would require multiple and repetitive viewing of the film so that one could understand its elements.

This breaking of the fourth wall was unconventional, especially for the era when the film was released, but it set the mood for the film: as some weird type of comedy. Soderbergh’s declarations set my bar of expectation higher: as someone who rarely dares to venture out of my comfortable and safe little bubble of mainstream feel-good films, I felt curiosity and a surge of excitement upon his announcement. I went into Schizopolis (1996) with high hopes and expectations on its “importance.”

Barely a few minutes into the film, however, I was already distraught. The plot line did not feel like a line at all, but rather like an attempt to make a favorite Filipino summertime dessert — halo-halo. It features a variety of elements, most of which are shaky camera shots, nonsensical dialogue, doppelgangers, and straight-up disjointed scenes, but all mixed into something that would eventually make you smile and laugh in enjoyment and confusion.

First, the shaky camera shots gave me a headache. I did not know where to look or what to focus on as it was all a blur, especially car scenes, so I just tried to fix my eyes on a steady spot so that I would be able to bear the scene. Even though these kinds of shots made it difficult for me to remember them or to follow the story, they served to be entertaining in the bigger picture.

Second, the nonsensical dialogue reminded me of three things: Ewoks in Star Wars, Minions in Despicable Me, and Nathan Pyle’s alien comic strip. We really just string together words, sounds, tones, actions, and facial expression in an attempt to effectively communicate with each other. Funnily enough, even if I did not understand a word of — was that Japanese? — I could still figure out the gist of what they were talking about in some scenes.

Third, the doppelgangers were difficult to identify at first. I thought that Steven Soderbergh’s character was just a guy like the character Xu (and Dock and Bushi) in Avatar: Legend of Aang Book Three: Fire, Episode Three entitled The Painted Lady — someone who lived life as different people. It was hilarious to me when Mrs. Munson was seemingly cheating on her husband with someone who looked exactly like her husband. After watching the film several times, I still do not know how to correctly understand or interpret the doppelganger situation of Fletcher Munson and Dr. Jeffrey Korchek, but I am certain that it will always, without fail, make me laugh.

Traditionally, I follow a film’s narrative by focusing on a main character and their journey in the film. The characters were ordinary people going about their daily lives; but as the film only jumps from one glimpse of a life to another, I could not follow the story (if there ever was one). Trying to follow the story felt like being in a class where your professor switches slides so fast that you can barely keep up with the discussion. However, despite the disjointed scenes, I came out of the film with a slight idea on what had happened but with a full assurance that I had enjoyed not having a definitive interpretation of it. This was primarily because the film was already difficult to intellectually comprehend at face value so I did not have the capacity to go into an all-out meaning-based explanation.

And that, my friends, is the story of how Schizopolis got me out of my comfort zone and dragged me into a multiverse of (there is no other way to put it) weird films.