Mingji Liu

Short-ish film reviews

By Mingji Liu ·

Six short film reviews.

An Elephant Sitting Still

An Elephant Sitting Still (2018), directed by Hu Bo

He told me the other day. There is an elephant in Manzhouli. It sits there all day long. Perhaps some people keep stabbing it with forks. Or maybe it just enjoys sitting there. I don’t know.

This is a Chinese film that very few, if any of you, will have heard of or consider seeing. This is by no means a complaint or boast — it’s a difficult sell, with a crushing four-hour runtime and a bleak story surrounding its production. An Elephant Sitting Still is overshadowed by the fact it was the first and only film by director Hu Bo, who committed suicide shortly after the film’s completion.

The film can be difficult to objectively assess given its tragic external circumstances. While some media outlets suggested that the director’s death came following a long battle with the producers over the film’s length, it’s fairly apparent that the work itself is the product of a severely, severely depressed mind. It’s hard not to see it as a four-hour long suicide note.

Taking place over a course of a single miserable day, the film follows the complex lives of four characters in a decaying, winterly industrial town vaguely situated around the Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region of China. One is a bullied schoolboy from a dead-end public school, and another is his classmate, a lonely, neglected schoolgirl in an ill-fated relationship with her school principal. There’s also a low-level thug, whose actions led to a friend’s suicide, and a forlorn pensioner who is getting kicked out of his home by his own family.

Many hot-button issues in contemporary Chinese society such as corruption, selfishness, housing shortages, the treatment of the elderly, and failing public institutions are touched upon throughout the narrative. People fall to their doom. A dog is mauled to death. Someone catches on fire in a restaurant kitchen. People’s lives are ruined by social media. Characters proclaim the world is a wasteland and that there is no escape from the pain of life. All the while, the characters are drawn to the rumour of a mythical elephant in the China-Russian border city of Manzhouli (coming across as a sort of religious salvation entity) who sits all day in its enclosure, ignoring the rest of the world …

And what of the film’s artistic merits? Despite its daunting length, the film never feels punishingly long. The cinematography employs a bitter, documentary-like realism. The film has numerous long takes, which are all well-composed and surprisingly graceful at times. All four of the main characters receive adequate screentime, including the sole female lead who, despite not appearing much in the first half of the film, ends up with perhaps the most compellingly realistic storyline of the bunch.

There’s also an excellently brooding Chinese post-rock soundtrack underpinning the whole film. And the few moments of violence are never gratuitous, happening largely off-camera. There are parts of it which reminded me of some of Jia Zhangke’s films (A Touch of Sin, Mountains May Depart, Ash Is Purest White) with its fetishisation of firearms and in its depiction of callous, uncaring humanity.

To call this film “raw” is an understatement. To call this film “nihilistic” is an understatement. It’s a film that seems to embrace the call for total nonexistence and questions whether it is possible to find relief from human suffering, even by insensate means. This film is an interesting, heavy thing to exist in this world. I don’t regret watching it. But I wouldn’t recommend watching it unless you desperately think you want to. I’m sure many of you can find something better to do with four hours of your free time.

Antichrist

Antichrist (2009), directed by Lars von Trier

No discussion of Lars von Trier’s Antichrist is complete without mentioning two incredibly infamous scenes. Those scenes. Yes, those goddamn scenes. So it helps to move things along if I quickly describe them with perfunctory bureaucratic detail:

Scene One: Willem Dafoe’s character is attacked by his crazed wife, who crushes his genitals with a large wooden block. He passes out from the pain, upon which his wife then pulls out his penis and performs manual stimulation on him until he ejaculates blood. It spurts rather high into the air.

Scene Two: Later in the film, Willem Dafoe’s character is forced to watch the very same crazy wife take a pair of rusty scissors and perform female genital mutilation on herself. The camera zooms in on her nether regions (or rather, a convincing prosthetic crotch prop) and shows her violently cutting her own clitoris off.

Another graphic advisory warning: You also see Willem Dafoe’s naked buttocks throughout the film. And I mean a lot of his shiny, sweaty butt.

So, um, interested anyone?

Now time for a proper synopsis: After the tragic death of their child, an unnamed man (Willem Dafoe) and woman (Charlotte Gainsbourg) are confronted with the tidal waves of grief. In order to help his wife process her unbearable psychological pain, the man—who is also a clinical psychologist—takes her to their old cabin in the woods to heal. However, there are dark primal forces at play, both in the forest itself and within the souls of the characters as well.

Ever since I watched von Trier’s experimental film Dogville, a film set entirely on a black, minimalist stage with a punishing three-hour runtime and equally punishing moral content, I felt that I needed to check out Antichrist which is considered one of his most infamous works.

Despite going into this film knowing that it would contain quite intense content, I simply wasn’t prepared for it. The warped visual effects, the haunting soundscape, and the brutal depiction of a mother’s soul-crushing grief … I have to be honest; I had trouble sleeping for two nights after watching this film. I’m not fucking kidding. It genuinely messed with me.

But here’s the thing: I kind of loved this film.

Dafoe and Gainsbourg are superb leads. The cinematography is somehow both disorientating and beautiful at the same time. For example, the black-and-white opening sequence, which depicts the parents’ child plummeting to its death in slow motion while an Italian aria plays, is aesthetically outstanding.

Antichrist is also sharply paced with a dense, symbolic screenplay. The film painfully meditates on the treatment of women in the Christian tradition. It inverts not only Genesis motifs, but also Passion and Resurrection imagery. Most of all, I loved how the disturbing animal imagery used throughout the film culminated in (what I can only describe as) the film’s hallucinatory gnostic mythos of “The Three Beggars”.

But with that said, let’s not forget Antichrist is still a film that has sadomasochistic genital mutilation as a major plot device. It’s also a film about misogyny that struggles not to come across as a tad sexist. One of the major reveals in the film is that Charlotte Gainsbourg’s character, in the course of writing a thesis on gynocide (i.e. the killing of women for being female), began to embody the twisted beliefs she was studying. While this is an interesting idea—the internalisation of a society’s hatred by its very victims—the salaciousness with which the film depicts the true extent of her ‘feminine cruelty’ sat uneasily with me.

Another thing that occasionally threw me off was the film’s use of handheld, cinéma vérité camerawork. On one hand, this style is supposed to show human drama in a more raw and realistic way. But on the other hand, it’s also heavily used in the faux-documentary style of comedies such as The Office or The Thick of It. There were one or two times where the camerawork began to unintentionally veer into the latter category. For example, there’s a scene where the camera pans across a creepy attic and suddenly zooms in on a book bluntly titled “GYNOCIDE”. I actually giggled when this happened because the timing was so redolent of a punchline to a visual gag.

Further, the epilogue scene with Dafoe’s character limping along the forest while hundreds of women run towards him is a tad baffling. That brief shot of “The Three Beggars” looking at him, peacefully and approvingly, came across almost as self-parody. Was it meant to be a bit mocking? Was von Trier just trolling the audience? I can’t decide …

So is Antichrist a piece of sick, misogynistic troll-cinema? Or is it a serious work of genius? The answer is ‘yes’. It’s a terrifying and challenging film that completely has my recommendation. But only if you can handle very, very extreme content and a very, very naked Willem Dafoe …

Nature is Satan’s church.

Black Coal, Thin Ice

Black Coal, Thin Ice (2014), directed by Diao Yinan

Similar to my earlier review of the fascinating, if deeply depressing An Elephant Sitting Still, this is another Chinese film I saw recently that was set in a cold, miserable industrial environment. (Yikes, what is wrong with me?) This one is ostensibly a crime thriller, though a rather odd and uneven entry to the genre.

The reason I want to discuss this film is because I recently finished Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, a monumental work of Soviet-era political satire, and I’ve begun musing about the following puzzle: What strategies can an artist employ to indirectly critique their society/government without getting in trouble? I reckon this film is a good example of one approach.

At face value, Black Coal, Thin Ice is a neo-noir film about an alcoholic ex-cop haunted by a grisly murder case. It draws on the same dark, snowy language as Nordic crime thrillers, but unlike that particular sub-genre — which I never thought had much interesting to say, being set in (so-called) social democratic Scandinavian utopias and all that — Black Coal, Thin Ice oozes with social realism, drawing on thorny issues in contemporary Chinese society. Yet as far as I can tell, this film managed a wide release domestically and was fairly successful at the Chinese box office without drawing any ire from authorities.

It does this by using genre as a cloak. There’s a femme fatale, an underworld of vice, a suspected serial killer, and a bit of dismemberment here and there. All that clichéd good stuff. Yet it’s surprisingly easy to peer beneath its surface veneer and see a more cynical commentary. The film is set in the Heilongjiang province in far northeastern China and depicts it as a deeply unpleasant, polluted place. It’s lonely, the people are untrustworthy, and the economic opportunities are limited. The film, by drawing on the disgraced ex-cop trope, critiques the local police force as under-equipped and unprofessional.

Most interestingly, it’s a bit of a proto-Chinese #MeToo film, predating the movement in China (which is chronically quashed by state censors) by a few years. A major revelation is that the mysterious ‘femme fatale’ female character is, in fact, a victim of extreme, prolonged, and utterly arbitrary sexual abuse. An employee at a laundry business, she was forced into a sexual relationship by the owner of a jacket she had damaged. Near the end of the film, she confesses to murdering him in order to stop the horrific abuse. But this is not a world where ‘battered women’ can live in peace. The police arrest her and (in a bizarre depiction of Chinese police procedures) force her to reenact the murder at the crime scene while filming her on a camcorder. The crushing cruelty, domination and humiliation inflicted on the women by powerful men of all stripes is established as the ‘final truth’ of the film’s narrative.

This is by no means a perfect film. It’s clankily paced and its direction is not always cogent — at times, it feels like a few key scenes were accidentally left out in the editing process. But it’s a film that stirs contemplation well after it has concluded. Not sure if I’d ever like to visit Heilongjiang after viewing this film, although I hear it has excellent Manchu cuisine.

Enter the Dragon

Enter the Dragon (1973), directed by Robert Clouse

I can’t believe I hadn’t seen this movie sooner.

This film truly holds up as a masterpiece of 70s Hong Kong martial arts cheese. You know, I don’t get why people are so keen on martial arts parodies (Kung Fury, Kung Pow!, Kung Fu Hustle, what have you) when the originals are already quite comically entertaining. I must’ve giggled every five or so minutes while watching this movie. And what makes authentic martial arts film obviously superior to their soft knuckle parodies is that they depict people who are actually talented at martial arts.

So what’s the grand plot of this masterpiece? The late, great Bruce Lee plays a powerful Shaolin monk imaginatively named ‘Lee’. Due to his abilities, Lee is called upon by the British intelligence service to infiltrate a martial arts tournament being held on a private island off the coast of Hong Kong by the villainous crime boss Han.

On his perilous journey, Lee is accompanied by two diversity hires. Roper, a cardsharp white guy, as well as Williams, a streetwise black guy (who, incidentally, was forced to beat up two racist American cops on his way to Hong Kong because duh). There’s also some backstory about Lee’s sister being murdered by one of Han’s henchmen, but I’m not entirely sure what that was all about.

Now, if this sounds awfully similar to the half-assed plot of every PlayStation fighting game in existence, then you’d be right: Enter the Dragon was a brave pioneer in finding excuse scenarios for shirtless dudes to beat the snot out of each other in an enclosed environment.

Let’s quickly run down a list of what Enter the Dragon has in store for you, dear moviegoer:

To elaborate on that last point, during their stay, the hospitable yet nefarious Han sends Lee, Roper, and Williams his entourage of beautiful ladies as evening gifts. Lee—the pure and righteous Asian man—declines the offer and keeps his mind on the mission. In contrast, Roper (our token white guy) goes straight to the top and seduces the head procuress, while Williams (our mighty black hero) shows off his libidinal kung fu by going to bed with multiple women at the same time. It’s not exactly subtle.

In my opinion, it’s worth checking out if you get the chance. A lot of the fight choreography still holds up. And Hong Kong in its heyday is rendered, albeit briefly, in all its robust glory. Just remember that this is a film where the villain pets a white cat while delivering a monologue. Really.

You have offended my family and you have offended the Shaolin Temple!

An odd observation: One of the side characters in the movie is supposed to be a thuggish kung fu fighter from New Zealand. However, he is played by a Queensland martial artist. Sure, whatever. But what makes this case truly bizarre was that the director—in his attempt to make the character more Kiwi—decided to dub over the actor’s dialogue with what sounds to my ears like a mangled Aussie bogan accent, rendering the character even less of a New Zealander than initially.

Truly, a thirteen-year-old boy’s conception of the world.

Hereditary

Hereditary (2018), directed by Ari Aster

“Scariest film of the decade!” “As good as The Exorcist!” “The spookiest masterpiece of the year!”

Or so some film critics have said. I beg to differ. Hereditary is an entertaining and, at times, startlingly beautiful horror film with great cinematography, electrifying acting, and a bold screenplay. But alas, the heir to The Exorcist it is not.

Firstly, the simple fact is that no horror film can ever be as extraordinary as The Exorcist (which I consider to be a nigh-perfect film). Secondly, Hereditary is just not that frightening! Despite its disturbing atmosphere, the film falters due to its preoccupation with 19th century style American spiritualism, with its séances and ideomotor effects and gibberish Latin. That stuff simply isn’t particularly scary. It’s silly, Sam Raimi-style horror schlock.

Yet these are only venial sins. There are some gut-wrenching scenes of family drama and Toni Collette’s performance is an electrifying highlight. Hereditary even has some thematic teeth, with the film’s central concept being that of fate. The plot is essentially a Greek tragedy (it even outright mentions Sophocles near the start of the film, since who needs subtlety) that poses the following question: If you have no control over the suffering that befalls you—that is, the Fates have threaded your doom—is it really a tragedy? Does the inevitability of torment make it more or less horrifying?

Hereditary turns over this notion of an inevitable tragedy like a worry stone throughout its runtime. This idea of fate manifests in the film’s exploration of mental illness running through the family. This idea also manifests in its final reveal that a circle of naked cultists masterminded everyone’s grief and anguish. Bloody hell.

It’s worth a watch. But if you find it extremely terrifying, I’ll judge your emotional fortitude as a human being forever.

A brief aside: Since I can’t help myself, I’ll briefly log my views on the 1973 classic horror film The Exorcist. It’s a friggin’ masterpiece. The practical effects are horrific. The dialogue is unforgettable. And I (an atheistic heathen) found its gradual descent from the cool rationality of modern medicine into a desperate plea for faith utterly compelling. Max von Sydow shows up at the end and completely steals the show in less than 20 seconds flat.

But let me explain what the film is really about: It’s a film about having a gutsy work ethic. Seriously. The Exorcist culminates in two blokes knuckling down for the long night—that is, two priests confronting the physical manifestation of supreme evil itself with nothing but their wits and belief system. It’s about kids pulling all-nighters to get their essays done. It’s about political operatives hunkering down to get the votes through. It’s about the surgeons settling in for a multi-hour procedure. It’s Apollo 13 with demons. It’s every test-of-endurance sports film ever made, but with more Catholicism.

Melancholia

Melancholia (2011), directed by Lars von Trier

And when I say we’re alone, we’re alone. Life is only on Earth. And not for long.

— Justine

Lars von Trier’s Melancholia can perhaps be best described as a “science-fiction-cum-mental-illness drama”. It’s a film where John Ruskin’s concept of the ‘Pathetic Fallacy’ is realised par excellence—a film where the psychological turns of characters are associated not only with mundane forces of nature, but with the very end of the world itself.

A quick and greasy synopsis: Melancholia is a film cleaved into two beguiling and equally timed parts. Part one of the film depicts our heroine, a cripplingly depressed newlywed named Justine (Kirsten Dunst), suffering through her own wedding reception. Everything crumbles into ruination as an ensemble cast of cruel and dysfunctional characters turn what is meant to be the happiest night of her life into an exhausting, heartbreaking trial.

Part two of the film, in contrast, deals with the personal aftermath of the disastrous wedding and intimately explores how Justine and her sister Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg) deal with the imminent destruction of Planet Earth from its collision with a giant rogue planet.

Well, shit. This certainly is a film that knows how to mix things up at the midway mark. You may think I just spoiled the entire film for you. Not really. In classic von Trier fashion, the entire plot of the film (including the climactic destruction of the Earth) is summarised in a stunning and somnambulant eight-minute opening sequence.

It’s primarily a film about dealing with depression in the most buoyant (e.g. a wedding night) and adverse (e.g. the extinction of all life in the known universe) of circumstances. It’s about whether wounded individuals have the strength to stick it out to the very end. And it’s about whether it’s possible to find even a glimmer of solace in unspeakable end times.

As someone with a history of depression, I found Dunst’s performance genuinely quite haunting. I saw slivers of my own past experiences in her portrayal of nauseating fatigue and despondency. One scene in particular—the scene where she struggles to clamber into a bathtub while being desperately held by her sister—struck a deep, personal nerve and will stay with me for a long time.

The rogue planet that’s about to collide with the Earth is, incidentally, named ‘Melancholia’. Gee golly, do you get the symbolism??

The first half of the film is, without a doubt, the strongest. Melancholia has perhaps the most awkward and painful wedding celebration ever depicted onscreen. The centre does not even attempt to hold. Everything collapses, with actors such as John Hurt, Stellan Skarsgård, and cranky man Kiefer Sutherland portraying individuals that embody various shades of human assholery. The staging, the pacing, the smallest of character interactions are all painfully realised. A couple of the scenes were so cringe-inducing, I started laughing to myself in order to relieve the tension.

The second half, although conceptually fascinating (what with the imminent apocalypse and all that), wavers in its focus. Whereas the first half was told from the point-of-view of Justine, the second half of the film switches to that of her sister Claire and chooses to explore her grievous anxieties instead. Unfortunately, Gainsbourg’s character simply does not have as compelling a screen presence as Dunst’s character. Because the film ultimately concludes with Justine coming to terms with the end of the world, I would’ve much preferred the film to closely follow Dunst’s character arc all the way through.

Instead, towards the end of the film, Justine becomes a director self-insert character that delivers clomping, inorganic dialogue. “The Earth is evil, we don’t need to grieve for it,” she says to her sister at one point and begins claiming she has omniscient knowledge about things such as the number of beans in a jar or the uniqueness of life in the cosmos. Wait, what? So her depression … gave her oracular superpowers? Huh? The film briefly goes a bit loopy.

This is still a stellar film. It is not as good as von Trier’s Antichrist or as punishing as Dogville, but well directed and effectively acted. I give it both my happy and disconsolate recommendation. Enjoy Melancholia for its obtuse symbolism and intensely uncomfortable character moments.