Article: Procedural - Cure (1997)

Some of the best horror is effective because of how the uncanny quietly seeps into the mundane. Director Kiyoshi Kurosawa is masterful in injecting the eerie into the everyday. Pulse (2001) prophesies a world of deadly loneliness and makes the loss of connection commonplace, with characters quietly succumbing to the “ghost in the machine” once the internet's grip takes hold. Creepy (2016) has its antagonist distressingly abuse the social contract of neighbours in a manner which films like Speak No Evil (2022) riffed on years later. With Creepy, hidden rooms, sedative drugs and corpses become the order of the day, simply due to discreet manipulation of people’s obligatory requirements of “being nice”. Cure (1997) was released 2 years after David Fincher’s deeply pessimistic Seven (1995). However, Kurosawa’s enigmatic feature plunges us into a discomfort that crawls deeper under the skin. The frostiness which inhabits Cure is illustrated in its “middle distance” visuals. There are rarely any close-ups employed to humanise the story’s characters. Isolation is the name of the game here. Dissociation rips through regular people in Cure with a steeper potency than the deranged pseudo-religious crimes of John Doe. The crimes in Seven can be isolated, pinpointed and despite the repercussions, somewhat contained.  In Cure, it’s suggested that transgressions that occur will have no end. That what conspires may spread like a virus, quietly destroying the unassuming nature of its victims. This leaves them with a terrifying outcome and no idea of how such violence came about.

Kenichi Takabe is a police detective who is balancing his troubled private life while trying to solve a spate of violent killings. The murders are puzzling, as each case has the perpetrators caught close to the scene with no explanation as to why they’ve committed the murders. This is despite freely confessing to their crimes with complete recollection of what they did. Takabe is fighting to crack the case while also struggling to care for his schizophrenic wife, who is slipping away from him mentally. Soon it is discovered that each killer encountered a mysterious drifter named Mamiya. Takabe slowly uncovers that Mamiya, despite his extreme short-term memory loss, is the architect of these crimes. Asking simple questions and triggers actions using the elements. Very soon, Takabe and Mamiya collide, with the mysterious nature of Mamiya’s “mission” gradually taking the detective to breaking point.

You meet an unassuming stranger, who disarms you with a series of innocuous questions which subconsciously loosen your inhibitions. Moments later, you are compelled to murder someone close to you. Something you would never consider when your civility is armoured around you. Everything you do to the person you remember, and while you were shocked at your actions, your intentions suggest it was always at the back of your mind. This hideously simple yet terrifying conceit lies within Cure, a film in which its antagonist quietly fractionates those around him through frustration, repetition, and obfuscation. Cure toys with the idea that people believe they’re more in control than they are. With the thin veneer of polite society as the one thing that stops the chaos, Mamiya’s ability to easily remove that layer of civility makes Cure terrifying. We like to believe that we have control. Even when it’s evident that we don’t. Mamiya's actions are devastatingly simple, and the menacing aspect stems from the fact that he doesn’t even seem to know himself how easy it is to arm multiple timebombs. Lit fuses that are primed for volatility because their courtesy is so neatly removed, and the last thing you would expect to be keeping you from becoming a raging killer. By removing people’s consideration for others, Mamiya unlocks a seething repression that lies within the characters. Cure proposes that this violence is always within us, and by opening them up to this brutality, it purges one's soul. They become vessels for a blank-faced missionary.

Takabe is a classic flawed protagonist. His quiet animosity towards his ailing wife, along with his frustrations on the case, slowly blend him into a dark anti-hero, a cop who’s only a couple of degrees from boiling over. The mannerisms between Takabe and Mamiya are in stark contrast, yet the motivations of both pursuer and pursued are muddied and troubling. In the scant confrontations between the two, there’s always the feeling that Mamiya’s quiet manipulation will unlock Takabe’s restrained anger. Mamiya’s mission appears to be setting people free from the restraints of society. Takabe is so tied to society through his wife and job that he’s unable to break free. Yet Kurosawa crafts the scenes of the duo in such a way that we’re never too sure if Mamiya hasn’t infiltrated the fracturing detective’s mind.

Cure plays on the known unknown. Tearing at the fabric of Japan’s well-known social norms of etiquette. Kurosawa primes everything to unsettle, with even the hum of a washing machine becoming something which unbalances the ambience. A familiar appliance which we use for cleaning is now something which rattles the nervous system. While no sequences in the film are executed as grimly as in Seven, the detached way Kurosawa situates his characters manoeuvres Cure into becoming the Yin to Seven’s visceral Yang.

Cure’s ethereal ambiguity and dread make it tough to talk about but absorbing to watch. Every watch gives a fan something new to chew on, yet it never feels possible to get a full handle on the events at play.  Its vaporous nature gleefully rewards you with added strands to any theory you may have, while also obscuring any previous certainty. On a previous watch, I was more certain about the melancholic relationship between Takabe and his memory-depleted wife. This current viewing left me further in doubt, with more reason to question Takabe’s possible malevolence.

Such thoughts bring me to the film’s ambivalent finale, which suggests a possible “passing of the torch” or a previous continuation of events that had never diminished. That the film is happy to leave its conclusion in the delicate hands of its viewer is a strong example of its assuredness. It’s also the best display of the film’s ambiguous power. The final moments remind me of another deeply disquieting thriller: Michael Haneke’s Cache (2005). We’re given a wide shot loaded with information, but no clear explanation of the outcome. If you rewatch both scenes, it’s possible to pick up something deeply unsettling that may not have been considered before.  What makes it more horrific is how easily the threat of violence is lost within a sea of the mundane. Something insidious occurs but is soon lost within a crowd of the everyday, which is how Kurosawa likes it.

 

Cure is available to buy on Blu-ray. 

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Article: Procedural - Insomnia (1997)

Christopher Nolan’s 2002 remake of the Nordic crime thriller Insomnia was perhaps most known for being the feature which allowed him to make inroads into the mainstream. However, it can feel that Nolan’s snappy feature, filled with Hollywood stars and flashy direction, has overshadowed the demurer original film that inspired it. Nolan’s Insomnia is a crowd-pleaser. A mid-range that gets a director noticed. But the 1997 original film feels like one of the quieter progenitors of the Nordic Noir thrillers that became more popular in the 2010s. It’s bleaker in its execution of the same material, and possibly all the better for it.

Stellan Skarsgard plays Jonas, a Swedish cop who arrives in Norway to help solve the murder of a troubled teenager. The case becomes complicated when Jonas mistakenly shoots his partner in the fog during a planned stakeout to catch the suspect. Jonas goes against owning up to his culpability as he realises that most of the force believe the suspect is behind both murders. However, it becomes apparent that someone knows what really happened in the fog, and Jonas’ guilt, represented by his insomnia and the glare of the midnight sun, becomes blinding. 

Erik Skjoldbjaerg’s thriller is a streamlined, matter-of-fact affair that is not bothered with the American heroism and sacrifice that Nolan’s remake brings to the table. Jonas is more stoic and less trustworthy from the off. Even before the death of his partner, the interactions with the force already feel frosty. Meanwhile, his sexual appetite is not only swiftly highlighted but deeply problematic.  Skardsgard enters the fray as aloof and proud before the guilt of the shooting and insomnia start to wear him down. Once this happens, he only ever feels more questionable. The sun begins to bleed through the hotel room, creating a daytime that never ceases. The fractured perspective of Jonas is highlighted further with the use of simple visual motifs. Distorted viewpoints are brought on by cracked or rain-drenched windshields. The visuals become more burnt out and bleached during certain daytime sequences. Meanwhile, the film is often cleverly cut to skew the geography surrounding Jonas, making scenes feel disjointed and unpredictable. 

Despite this, Insomnia 97 is a subtler text. The flashy spectacle that Nolan brings to the larger budgeted American film isn't found here. And while enjoyable, it is not missed. This is a muted and more disquieting affair, which never lets its main character off the hook in the same way its remake does. The difference between Skarsgard in 1997 and Al Pacino in 2002 is night and day. Nolan’s Insomnia may have the better antagonist, with a superlative Robin Williams. But Skjoldbjaerg strips down the idea that Jonas is any sort of maverick hero. Making his version of the film the more uncomfortable affair, as it suggests Jonas is damned for his actions, even if justice may occur. 

Insomnia is available on BFI Player via Amazon Video. 

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Article: Heist, Heist, Baby - Face (1997)

 Ray used to stand for something. Throughout the runtime of Face, he is called a commie, a left winger and a socialist. In the film's numerous flashbacks, Ray is on the front lines of protests, demonstrating for workers' rights with his mother. His girlfriend, Connie (Lena Headey) who he met during protests, looks after child refugees in a London boarding house. Ray’s beliefs are somewhat vague in their entirety, however. He leans left politically. At least he used to incline that way. One of the more potent themes in Face is how capitalism stamps over idealism. Ray may have held principles in the past, but those days are in the rear-view mirror of his youth. Ray is now an armed robber, more focused on money for himself than the virtues of his past. Even though he would have earned a better crust on the straight and narrow than what he gets now. The problem is capitalism has an interesting way of skewering a person’s view.

Face was released in 1997, a year before the dick-swinging mockney gangsters of Guy Richie infiltrated cinema. Don’t get me wrong. There’s plenty of room for Richie’s flashy aesthetic, with his early work showing a sense of populist cinema I would mind seeing more from British filmmaking nowadays. But Antonia Bird’s shadowy crime feature of a heist turned sour is equally compelling although in a different way. Face’s conflicted criminals with compromised souls are very different from shallow “Cool Britannia” energy that radiates from Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.

Narratively Face is no different from many heist movies before or after it. A motley crew of criminals headed by the morally conflicted Ray (Robert Carlyle) fall into trouble when a spate of incidents befouls them after the successful undertaking of their latest heist. Tension is already high since the crew doesn't manage to swipe the minimum amount they aimed for. Now, someone has taken the money from them. And murmurs of a rat in the group grow steadily larger. Ray leads the charge to discover what happened and how they can reclaim their money. The plot of Face doesn’t sound too different from the dozens of post-modern, Tarantino-spliced movies that littered the 90s. But Antonia Bird’s feature (written by Ronan Bennett of Top Boy fame), while stylish, is draped in a political cynicism that someone like me is crying for to come back.

When it feels like societal change and community building is a task worthy of Sisyphus, how willing are you to give up those beliefs and take the bag? This question resides at the heart of Face, which is unflinching in that the 80s ideals of the left have failed, and now, in the 90s, the only thing you can do is take the money and run. Perhaps the most revealing moment comes late on in the film when a character bluntly states that there is no public service, only money and the people who can obtain it. It’s a marked moment in the film that hits home even more after 14 years of modern conservatism. The film feels even more barbed as it came out only a few months after Tony Blair became Prime Minster with New Labour taking over Britain. Then there’s an element of discombobulation remembering pictures of Oasis’ Noel Gallagher wining and dining with Blair at the beginning of his tenure.

Meanwhile, Blur’s Damon Albarn appears as a young member of Ray’s gang. As if Oasis and Blur didn't just draw battle lines with Roll with It and Country House. Albarn’s appearance holds an element of stunt casting, he’s not in the film for long. But it is telling to see him in this film as his debut, with the outer knowledge of his future activism. Elsewhere, Oasis drew controversy with their dynamic pricing in their comeback tour…

Antonia Bird captures the strong sense of alienation felt by people frustrated by years of doing what they felt was morally sound. She fills the background with billboards which yell Enough is enough and Graffiti that argues “Vote Apathy”.  A prang of jealousy can be felt when Ray meets up with his right-hand man Dave (Ray Winstone) before preparing to do the job. Winston’s character has benefited well from criminality and his London suburb home is evidence of that. If Ray was even less married to his principles, would he be found here, far away from the protests and politics? This is the dopamine bliss money provides: Ignorance from a world that needs saving. The tensely shot heist stands out as it has Ray look at the honest workers he’s stealing from with Bird cross-cutting them against the faces of protesters and the needy he stood with years before. Solidifying him as a man of certain standings who has lost his way. If Ray was less married to his politics, would he be here?

Robert Carlyle shows his worth here. Almost more than he does in his more noted performances. Ray is a more complicated character than the likes of Trainspotting’s Bigbie. While you wouldn’t be surprised that both characters could have the same velocity, there’s a simmering intensity to Ray, that suggests a more profound sense of danger.  This is blended with Ray’s values. While a guy like Bigbie shows clear warning signs, it’s harder to see such things in Ray. What’s fascinating is watching Carlye have Ray constantly wrestling with his conscience in almost every scene. Carlyle's turn reminds us of how potent the actor was in the 90s and early 00s. Ray Winstone is also strong here. His role of David is a lot more shaded than so many of his “geezer” characters. Winstone’s performance feels like a stepping stone towards his iconic performance in Jonathan Glazer’s Sexy Beast (2000) only 3 years later.

Films such as Face and Sexy Beast almost feel like anomalies by the early 00s. Face has one foot in the bygone eras of decades past. Feeling much more like The Long Good Friday (1980) than anything that came after it. By the next year, the game had changed. With Guy Richie’s cheeky chappies ushering in something more over the top and cartoonish than before. It’s not surprising that Bird’s film loses a bit of its potency in the third act of the film when the film becomes more conventional, and action-packed. Although it’s worth noting how well-staged the shootouts are. Managing to pack a real punch as the film winds towards a path well-travelled. The late Antonia Bird had this to say about her movie:

“It’s set in the East End where I’ve lived for the past 20 years and it’s about the people I know and care about... You could have a drink with a lot of guys I know, and you’d never guess that they were involved in crime... In Face, I wasn’t trying to show them in a good light, but I was trying to say these are real people with real inner lives. They have the same emotional responses and needs as you or I because that is truer to what I know.”

With this said it’s bittersweet that the film’s narrative bows itself to movie convention in the finale. This doesn’t mean Face loses relevancy. If anything, the dark cynicism that ebbs throughout the film only feels more precedent as each year passes. The desire of Face to be a confident genre piece that also happens about something has only strengthened the film as time goes on. Mostly because it feels like we’re seeing less of this sort of thing. Films stumbling at the final hurdle is absolutely fine if it means we could get more of this ambitious, well-crafted fare back. It’s not like the material isn’t there. We just need folk to pick up the mantle.

Face can be found on BFI Player. I viewed it on an out of print DVD however.

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Article – A Little Ramble about George Armitage's Cult Killers – Miami Blues

I like directors when they’re allowed to be weird little guys. When their odd visions are allowed to flourish on the screen. I rewatched George Armitage’s Grosse Point Blank (1997) for a podcast and took so much more from it than past viewings. This is most likely down to age. Its effective pop needle drops, offbeat charm, and crafted cynicism towards encroaching adulthood in the ever-ironic 90s certainly made a mark this time. I do feel the film would be a tougher sell to the IP junky executives of today.

Grosse Point Blank was a minor hit for director George Armitage, who struck out the last time he tried to put together an off-kilter tale about a violent sociopath. Miami Blues, released in 1990, is a bold and bizarre crime comedy that throws Alec Baldwin, Jennifer Jason Leigh, and Fred Ward into a blender before adding tonal shifts to the mix and switching everything up to full blitz.

Fredrick (Baldwin) is a violent ex-con who flies to Miami after being released from prison in California. After unintentionally killing a Hari Krishna member, he checks into a hotel and arranges an encounter with a call girl. Said sex worker is Susie Waggoner (Leigh), whose sweetness is only overshadowed by her naivety. What starts off as a typical sexual transaction swiftly becomes an unlikely coupling. Susie’s dreams of living happily ever after soon cloud over Fredrick’s sociopathic tendencies. Meanwhile, a dim-witted cop named Hoke Moseley (Ward) finds his investigation of the murdered Krishna disciple leads towards the unconventional couple. Chaos soon ensues when Fred manages to steal Moseley’s badge and gun.

Grosse Point Blank would be a hard sell today. I believe Miami Blues would be borderline impossible now. This is a world of violent, insensitive characters set against a Miami backdrop far from what you’d see in a more populist production. Frederick’s cynicism and selfishness make Susie’s blind interest in him feel questionable. While Moseley is unheroic and callous and seemingly over the hill. All three characters are unmistakably unlikable.

But Miami Blues does a remarkable job of mining the humanism out of these people that would have been lost in a different movie. Then again, when Jonathan Demme, a fellow Corman colleague, shows up producer credit, it suddenly makes a lot of sense. Halfway through the film, Fredrick and Susie move to a house in the suburbs. For Fredrick, it's a good cover for him to hide out. As Susie wanders from the front garden into the house, the camera slowly captures the mundane environment. For Susie, the two sharing the home stirs an assorted range of emotions. An idyllic, yet idealistic view of suburban life.

In a film that indulges in images and situations of mirroring, facades and imitation, moments of introspection suddenly jump out at Fredrick unexpectedly. By stealing Moseley’s credentials, Fredrick has no trouble committing more robberies. However, the theft also allows him to play the hero. Something that he gains a taste for. His selfishness plays a huge part in his enjoyment. But a modicum of curiosity also sets in. Blink and you possibly miss Fredrick considering this the successful conclusion he cynically jokes to Susie over.

Miami Blues becomes a strangely engaging artefact to observe. The humour is dark in a way that many modern films would try to avoid. Fredrick causing the death of a Hari Krisha by merely breaking his hand is the sort of absurd, cartoony gag that some people may feel bad laughing at. And that’s understandable. The same goes for when Fredrick witnesses a restaurant robbery and shoots the thief first before asking him to stop. A macabre goofiness runs through the film that may only appeal to a niche crowd. Yet Miami Blues dovetails with its Armitage’s own Gross Point Blank by humanising its strange characters in unexpected ways. Like Martin Blank in Grosse Point Blank, Fredrick is an antisocial square who doesn’t fit into society's round hole. His pessimistic viewpoint bubbles to the surface more than once in exchanges with Susie. In one scene, he cruelly mocks Susie’s desire to open a franchise restaurant. He has little understanding of her small, mundane dreams. Yet by exclaiming that they should “skip straight to the happily ever after” it suggests that he sees a future with the two of them together. Most likely a criminal one. However, in the short timeframe of knowing each other, Fred really seems to dig all the meals Susie cooks for him. Maybe he could tune into the frequency of domestic life. This aspect serves to be part of the core of Gross Point Blank’s appeal. Something Armitage enjoys. Mining humour out of at the start and end of the 90s.

Miami Blues is worth digging into if only to be reminded of a time when American genre films were happy to be so off-centre. Armitage refined his concept later in the 90s. Ensuring John Cusack strolled the echelon of cult classic cool. But it’s fascinating to see him show his workings here. Miami’s Blue’s pastel-toned world is dark and strange. It’s a little bit weird. But hopefully, viewers will take a look back and enjoy when filmmakers were allowed to indulge in their odd little visions.

Article: Making Promisies - Looking Back at The Pledge

While film Twitter indulged itself in yet another madding round of Marvel vs Scorsese discourse, I needed something to watch. I found myself settling on Sean Penn’s The Pledge. A detective thriller based on Friedrich Dürrenmatt’s 1958 novella of the same name.

In reading reviews of the film, I found opinions of some of my usual go-to writers veered wildly. Roger Ebert raved about the film. Reviewing it twice and placing it on his list of great movies. Mary Ann Johnston however despised the film. Disliking its ugliness and absurd climax. I had The Pledge on my watch list for the longest time. Put off by Penn’s frustrating 2007 feature Into the Wild. A film I’ve never returned to due to the lead character’s stubbornness. Something that pairs nicely with this film.  

On the Eve of his retirement, Detective Jerry Black (Jack Nicholson) finds himself caught up in a child murder case. Jerry makes a solemn promise to the victim’s mother (Patricia Clarkson) that he intends to find the killer. However, soon after the promise is made, the police apprehend an intellectually disabled native American (Benicio Del Toro) and consider the case closed after a botched detainment. Jerry isn’t so sure. After leaving the force, he decides to embark on his private investigation of the case, based on little more than his promise and a hunch. Very soon Jerry is triangulating the area of the crime with other cold cases. He’s buying gas stations which he mans, as he believes the killer may frequent there. Jerry also becomes acquainted with a single mother (Robin Wright) whose child would be the perfect next victim for the killer. Quickly they move in with Jerry and a mutual affection grows between the three. But it becomes hard to tell if he’s using the girl as bait. And what of the friendly god-fearing bachelor who befriends the girl? What is his motivation for all this?

The Pledge is very much a Sean Penn film. It is less a film of excess as it is a film of a muchness. At times the film wants you to see that it’s directed. With a capital, D. Be its indulgence in a multitude of visual tics to having known actors swinging for the cages despite only being in one scene. It’s a film with personality. And that personality is that of Sean Penn. He may not appear in any shot of the film, but each frame feels very much like the man making it. Much like the performances of Penn in his pomp, The Pledge wants you to know of its importance.

That’s not a bad thing. Despite a sense of indulgence, The Pledge is an absorbing quasi-procedural. One that lingers on like a bad stain. Perhaps this is because Penn has chosen a story created to purposely frustrate. Sneering in the face of the kind of exceptionalism that is often found in such crime dramas. Jerry is dogmatic in his obsession, and usually, we find this to be a good trait in our cop protagonists.  But much like the novella, the film is based on, the film undermines much of what we expect in detective fiction. That brilliant “cop logic” found so often within crime thrillers is greatly flawed. Obsession can be defeated. Often by chance.

The Pledge almost feels like a precursor to Bong Joon-Ho’s Memories of Murder (2003) and David Fincher’s Zodiac (2007). A crime thriller that debates that maybe such crimes aren’t sufficiently solved by a certain logic. That the puzzle may not fit together despite holding the right number of pieces. Investors of the film got nervous after another film they distributed (Battlefield Earth) sank like a stone at the box office. Because of this Penn was rushed to complete the film. Tom Noonan claims that there were still scenes featuring himself which fully rounded his character. And yet allows Penn to indulge in distracting edits and insert shots. But it also helps show up the flawed interior of its main character. Jerry’s intention to catch the killer is absurd. His reasoning is faulty. Yet it’s easy to be charmed into his search for justice. It’s often why such movies are watched.  

And there is a strong wish for deliverance here. The crime is brutal. Its grimness is on full display. The investigation into the murder is shambolic. Much like Memories of Murder, the chaos and contamination are deeply frustrating.  Nicholson’s subdued yet dominating performance as Jerry is a winning one. A man sees this one last job as a chance to preserve his sense of manhood and relevance. But the film also lulls and distracts. Disarming both Jerry and the audience. Spending ample time wrapped up in tiny-town America in such a way that it helps champion the madness of Jerry’s obsession.

It's a cheat to say that The Pledge is about mood over logic. Such a statement screams cop-out. Yet Penn’s film plays with the irrationality of it all. Mary Ann Johnson considered the film thoughtless. I feel the film knows what it’s doing. Consider the star-studded cast. Big players give gravitas to one-scene roles. Pushing past the craziness of it all. Micky Rourke steals a scene as a distraught father. This is one of his best performances. He’s barely on screen for 2 minutes. Helen Mirren appears as some sort of shrink at one point. It’s never fully explained who she is and why Jerry goes to see her. Yet the casting of such a commanding actor forcibly glosses over the fact. It’s easy to go with it. The same can be said for a small, despicable scene in which Jerry speaks to a local deputy (Costas Mandylor) about evidence over an assumed closed case. Mandylor is so brash and slimy that it’s easy to ignore the surprising judgement call he makes.

It doesn’t all work. Benicio Del Toro would probably not be given such a role as a mentally challenged Native American. It’s a role in which he puts his whole self into. But also reveals why Penn’s performance in I Am Sam (2001) is also so cringe-worthy. The additional bigoty that takes place within Del Toro's interrogation scene doesn’t help matters. Now 20 years on, there would probably be at least an actual Native American in such a role. Not that it would help the discomfort of the scene. And yet, it’s not as if we haven’t seen such ugliness in other crime thrillers. Again, this seemingly fuels aspects of exceptionalism and masculinity within the main protagonist. Playing on the idea that Jerry knows best. And that tragic circumstances would not have occurred if he was still allowed to lead.

But is that wholly true? Moments of The Pledge suggest that Jerry is already somewhat checked out. Lost to his promise to avenge a tragic case. From incredible deduction skills to possibly using those who are closest to him as bait. What makes The Pledge fascinating is how Penn draws out the despair. Playing down Nicholson’s usual charisma to give a grim poker face which still tells us too much. This is a man who should fold his hands. The film decides against the easy route of gun fights and car chases. Rooting with this broken man’s blinded obsession and what he may do. With things being pushed to the brink. Of course, this makes the film's final moments even more haunting. The Pledge finishes on a note that gives no comfort or answers. Just the grim hand of chance at play. It’s a disorientating finish. One that as stated previously is rightly absurd. But it’s the right finish for this movie. Because life is absurd. And we perhaps should not make such bold promises when fate decides all.

The Pledge is currently on Netflix at the time of writing.

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