Strange Vistas

Movies, anime, books, and games

Young cadets with red berets look at each other

A man in a suit barks instructions at a group in uniform. One, in particular, displeases him, and the man berates the cadet as he works on his AK-47.

“Don't lose focus!”, he shouts. “Vova, how do you disassemble an assault rifle, dammit? Who the fuck showed you that the sight goes against the ground?” He pauses to glare. “Are you serious?”

The group is comprised entirely of boys. The one being yelled at can't be older than 12. An even younger boy looks at Vova with a measure of incredulity. They are on stage, preparing for some sort of function, armed with assault rifles.

Ksenia Okhapkina's stunning Immortal looks at life in the town of Apatity, an overgrown industrial village of not even 60,000 people in the north-western-most point of Russia, as boys and girls prepare for a ceremony to be inducted into All-Russian Military Patriotic Youth Army.

She documents their indoctrination into this Putin Youth, which starts from an early age (some of them don't even look on their teens). We hear how they are told about self-sacrifice, about medals awarded on death, about serving the state. We attend their lessons, meet their teachers, see how everyone is taught to fetishize war paraphernalia, to goose step, to live with their assault rifles. We participate with them in combat games, hunting each other through industrial ruins, where an announcer calls out “Killed in battle: return to base to resurrect”.

This is interspersed with views of the machinery from the mining corporation that is Apatity's main employer, large machines built with a single purpose: to dredge up and carry raw material for fertilizers in bulk.

In a show of self-discipline, Okhapkina doesn't impose a narration to give us her perspective – she just points the camera at her subjects and lets them speak as they will. The adults, emboldened, act up. The boys and girls perform as their trainers have taught them.

Her imagery, though, leaves little doubt as to how she feels about the proceedings.

The camera looks at life in the town through claustrophobic angles that would be perfect for a Nordic horror film: on an alley, partially hidden behind a wall; focusing on a railing, as shadowy figures run across it; just behind anonymous individuals, under their shoulders, rendering them faceless as they wait for something unspecified. There's the hint of something predatorial, waiting.

Anybody who believes in the freedom of the individual and the virtues of inquisitive thought will be revolted. Okhapkina's restraint, though, may run afoul of Poe's Law. While it is clear she disapproves of this brainwashing, someone who is on the side of the massive state apparatus could come out of this movie with a misplaced sense of patriotism.

Look how good a job we are doing?, they could think. And that's just Apatity.

That thought by itself is the most unsettling part of Immortal.

#documentary #poff #russia #kseniaokhapkina #immortal

Contains minor spoilers for secondary characters.

Oleg holding a gun in the forest, Andrzej on the background

Oleg, the second feature by Latvian filmmaker Juris Kursietis, is a mixed bag of sensational performances and problematic elements.

Valentin Novopolskij plays the eponymous Oleg, a timid butcher from Riga who travels to Ghent, Belgium, looking for higher wages. It's not just a chance for a better life – we learn early on that he has debts to some people back home who are not above aggressive collection.

It's a tough job but it pays cash. It doesn't last.

Oleg gets fired when he gets blamed for an accident by a lying co-worker. He can't even get a new job, since his work permit is attached to the current company. He gets a lucky break when he meets Andrzej, a charming young Polish who promises that he will not only get him a job but his own room and – if that wasn't enough – an EU passport.

Uh-huh.

It doesn't take too long for that to go south. Andrzej is the very definition of superficial charm, a violent psychopath bubbling just below the skin, spilling out at random intervals. Dawid Ogrodnik plays him while avoiding most of the cliches of suave behavior that have plagued filmmaking since Anthony Hopkins won an Oscar. Ogrodnik's Andrzej is not a cold mastermind – he is little but a vicious little creature with low impulse control, looking for the next petty scheme. Oleg isn't a key piece on Andrzej's plans – it isn't even clear if he does have a plan.

The interactions between the two of them, and the way things develop, make the story feel organic. It avoids some narrative clichés (although I won't go into which), makes small moments compound, things flow more or less realistically.

Its internal politics, though, are nowhere near as well thought out.

Lithuanians come across as thick. Romanians steal from their workplace and sell it on the blackmarket. Polish characters range from drunken lying slobs to volatile psychopaths. There are two female characters that get any amount of screen time, and neither comes out well. The first is a shallow, older woman who is happy to fuck Oleg while she thinks he's an actor, but horrified when he isn't. The second is a younger girl who is introduced doing her nails, and whose character arc is from enabling a criminal, to victim, to attempting to use and seduce Oleg, to prostitution. Only Latvian men come across as capable of holding an honest job or doing something other than running scams (a genius theater director).

Even with all that, its main issue is Oleg himself.

We never learn why Oleg is deeply in debt. There's an argument that we don't need to, if we take it only as a motivator, but it would tell us something about this shapeless lump of clay: Is he gullible and was conned into a raw deal? Did his appetite for risk taking burn him, which is why he is now so passive? Is he just terrible at making choices?

This is compounded by his passivity. Oleg only makes one single active choice during the first 95% of the movie, a clumsy but opportune attempt at escaping his situation... and then his next immediate decision wastes it, causing just enough of a delay so that the script can push him back to his captors. While his inaction during key points could be in character – and we don't need every male lead to be a hero – this feels like lazy writing. Oleg has made a choice, has come up with a plan, and then he fumbles it in a writer-mandated way because otherwise the film would end half an hour earlier.

You need to feel that Oleg is trapped by circumstances. You need to see the light coming in through the cell door, and want him to reach for it, then it be snatched away. The movie never gives you that.

Decisions, no matter how big or small, are the what draws the line between timid and bland. Oleg, the man, ends up on the wrong side of that line, and in doing so it only helps highlight how the film portrays everyone else around him.

And then the ice cracks beneath its feet.

#poff #drama #oleg #juriskursietis #latvia

A woman, in a factory, in front of a pile of plastic spoons

Spoon opens with a black and white shot, a sign of things to come. An enormous industrial machine fills the screen. A few thick pipes flow out of it. A woman sits to the side, near a comparably small control panel. A few people scamper around, nervously trying to get out of the frame. A pulsating electronic soundtrack mixes with what we can only assume are noises from the machine. After a while, the woman reaches up to the control panel, right below the SAMSUNG sign, and taps the touchscreen while turning to the camera.

This has taken two minutes. The scene changes to a different environment. Lingers. Changes. And again. And again.

It will be another 47 minutes before we get something other than a wide shot of some unexplained location.

Spoon is a documentary by Laila Pakalnina, tracking all the moving parts involved in the creation of the disposable plasticware we think so little of.

Nobody narrates or describes what is going on. The film doesn't overtly pass judgement, but for the longest time, it isn't clear what there is to judge. It merely documents ships from Russia and the Netherlands, factories and materials from China and who knows where, excavation sites all over the world, trucks, industrial trams, oil rigs, and the workers involved in menial tasks, going into creating something that we will use for a few seconds, maybe minutes, then discard.

All I see are people carrying out repetitive motions, human machines, workers whose jobs won't exist in 10 years once the artificial apparatus behind them has gotten good enough.

I appreciate where it's going, but even with it clocking at just 65 minutes, it takes too long to get there.

It feels like a few shorts munged together. It sometimes veers into kōjō-moe, gazing at the factories and their intricate arrangements. Other times it seems to feel for the workers, who keep breaking out bunches of spoons and stuffing them into plastic bags, as the machinery accumulates more and more clusters behind them. When spying shoppers at a market, enticed by a taste conveyed at the end of such a throwaway yet laboriously produced implement, it seems to wag a finger at how little heed they pay to the utensils themselves.

It never picks between any of these paths, but stumbles and wanders between them.

Any of these approaches could have carried a shorter, more disciplined documentary. Its current incarnation takes too long to get to the point, and by the time it gets there, it may have lost its audience in its meandering.

#spoon #documentary #poff #lailapakalnina

Sense - this picture makes none

Woke up this morning, it seemed to me that every night turns out to be A little bit more like Bukowski and yeah, I know he's a pretty good read But God who'd wanna be, God who'd wanna be such an asshole? God who'd wanna be, God who'd wanna be such an asshole?

— Modest Mouse, Bukowski

“It's all symbolic. The bicycle is Swedish, which is the country that will be most affected by immigration”

In Bed with a Writer

You were talk, talk, talk, talkin' in circles that day When you get to the point make sure that I'm still awake, OK?

— Modest Mouse, Bukowski

“Now I just make duck porn”

In Bed with a Writer

#poff #estonia #peetersauter #manfredvainokivi

Three kids from Jelgava 94

You've seen this movie before.

Buttoned-down, smart kid is bullied at school, discovers girl, starts trying to find his path. Budding rebellion. Teenage awkwardness. Embarrassing stunts. Tentative renegades. Careless camaraderie. Kids, talking about all the great things they will do, which they will never do.

Janis Abele's Jelgava 94 captures the ungainly freedom of wasted years with mortifying accuracy. It is a coming-of-age movie – one of its first scenes includes a discussion about how our hero is now a man and should decide his future. It's a sweet construction, even if you know the layout of its rooms in advance and only wait to see what the decorator chooses for the drapings.

It connected with me because I was that kid, all gangly steps outside the nuclear family's sphere of influence, all plans for the future, all day spent idealizing foreign culture from a distance, all year with a gnawing dead-end feeling of suspecting that you ain't going anywhere even if you are the best in your class.

If you didn't grow up in a place that was shitty enough to make you feel that way, but maybe not shitty enough to give you writing material beyond a sub-par Breakfast Club, it may not connect with you in the same way.

But even if you've seen this movie and heard this story before, you may find something endearing in the way Jelgava 94 tells it.

Even if you haven't been that kid yourself.

#jelgava94 #poff #latvia #janisabele #drama

Military sitting down and having tea during Nova Lituania

It takes a while to find out what Karolis Kaupinis is trying to do with Nova Lituania, his first feature film unless you have the historical context. It isn't clear if he's parodying a difficult time in his own country, creating alternate history, or just making a tragicomedy about the unlikely friendship between hangdog characters.

He might be doing all of the above.

If you know about Lithuania's first president, and his actions around the time that the country got carved-up between Germany and Russia, seeing the country's leader posture and proclaim about their strength provides some dry amusement.

If you know the actors playing two of the main characters are – in Kaupinis' word – “choleric”, then seeing them play their muted weaklings adds to the entertainment value (like watching Nicholas Cage play a meek Franciscan monk).

If you know that there was indeed an academic arguing that Lithuania needed a back-up landmass in case of an invasion, where they could restart the country with intellectuals and bureaucrats, who would “build it right this time” and entice the diaspora to move there, then you know how to take his particular monomania when it comes up.

If you don't... then you will spend a long time trying to figure out the details behind this particular bit of droll inside baseball.

Those of us who grew up in less-than-developed countries can relate to the oppressiveness that comes through on the creamy black-and-white photography and tight angles, to the frustration of popular incompetents always getting ahead, but will have a hard time getting beyond that. Kaupinis seems to be attracted by absurdist realism, judging from what he said about his next project. Nova Lituania, sadly, is neither absurdist nor realistic enough to connect with the layperson.

#novalituania #poff #karoliskaupinis #lithuania

A boy hanging on a parachute from a tree, a creature watches him

A boy wakes up on a desert, hanging above the sand, his parachute caught on a tree. A translucent hominid, empty white eyes set on a meters-tall inky body, approaches and engulfs the boy. It transports him to a hopeless, pulsating void, which he barely escapes from by unhooking his parachute and running away.

The creature follows.

That's about the first 2 minutes of Gints Zilbalodis' animated feature film Away, a dream-like chronicle of the boy's attempts to outrun the ruiner who pursues him. It's an emotional story, told solely through movement and sound, without a single line of dialogue.

It is Zilbalodis' movie. He animated, scored, and wrote it, creating it on his laptop on a micro-budget across three years. He didn't write a script for it: he only created an outline and went from there to setting up scenes, characters, playing with things in real-time, finding the movie in the process. He wanted to start directing, and didn't think the industry would let him get there until he had climbed the ladder and was in his 30s or 40s, so instead he went off and did it himself.

It's not only an emotional movie but a lesson on using your limitations to your advantage.

Physics take a while to calculate and render, so they would have slowed Zilbalodis' process down. Hence, no physics. The boy runs with a frictionless quality, a rock skipping across a surface is animated by hand, a motorcycle skids across the land, all lending the movie even more of a dream-like quality.

Models take time to create, so he duplicates a clutter of cats, uses the same animation loop. The obsidian felines come across as possessing a mechanical whimsy, not unlike Mononoke's kodamas.

Nobody would trust him with a budget for a feature film, so he instead got funding for four shorts. All come together in the four parts of his movie, creating distinct sections of the story. When he was done with the fourth he realized the first one wasn't as good, so he re-did it, but could create this do-over in isolation.

Away invites comparisons to Miyazaki, which Zilbalodis is happy to name as his influence, but in actuality comes across as more like a collaboration between Fumito Ueda and Makoto Shinkai. Its environments, its tactile light, its emotional connection, all brought together by a single person, are a reminder that when someone talks about “democratizing creativity”, they are trying to sell you something.

If you want to create, right now, you can. The tools are out there. You just need to grab them and let the process consume you.

Ride that road until you reach its end, then turn around, start again.

A mountainside road, a boy on a bike

#away #latvia #animation #poff #gintszilbalodis

The Endless movie poster

“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, Supernatural Horror in Literature

That quote has become so threadbare that by now it is the horror equivalent to the fading sign at a decrepit funhouse warning the faint of heart away.

There is truth in it, though, and the line itself encapsulates Lovecraft's output well. He was terrified of the unknown, as defined by anything he wasn't comfortable with, and it showed in his literature – whether this discomfort came from the depths of the sea, foreigners with accents he didn't grasp, or people with different skin color. Lovecraft has become associated more with the tentacle-twisting, sanity-melting that became more fashionable as special effects became cheaper, but his characters were more likely to recover from encountering Dagon than from marrying anyone but a white protestant girl and embarrassing their family.

This is the type of dread that The Endless goes for.

Brothers Justin and Aaron receive a Betamax tape in the mail containing a message from Camp Arcadia, a death cult they escaped ten years earlier. It arrives just at the time that Aaron is getting fed up with the dreary tedium of their bare survival. At his insistence, the brothers take a break from cleaning people's houses, boiling packaged ramen, and going to deprogramming therapy, so that they can check if their old friends are still alive. Justin dragged them both out of there, convinced the cult members were about to kill themselves to “ascend”, so how come they are still around a decade later?

Aaron wants to reclaim the past he sees through idealized memories. Justin wants to humor him, but you can tell that – at least partly – he wonders if he made the right call.

They encounter the suspiciously pleasant and accommodating cult members they escaped, who not only have managed to not “ascend” but not age, and don't exactly look worth escaping.

Until things start getting a wee bit unnatural.

The Endless is what a disciplined, cosmic-inclined David Lynch would come up with, and I was so stuck on my preconceptions that I almost missed out on enjoying it.

Benson and Moorhead don't do horror – what they do is supernaturally-flavored drama. They are resourceful, too. The Endless feels like their largest production and it doesn't feature anyone you'd recognize, keeping it so low-key that the pair stars as Justin and Aaron, likely to save the budget for more expensive things.

The trouble with writing these pieces is that it changes how you watch movies. Often, you sit down to see a movie while a few hundred words coalesce in your head about how something matched against what you expected of it. You are not appreciating the ride as much as you are chronicling its major turns.

I came into The Endless expecting a fun romp, a slightly less deranged The Void on a shoestring budget. I was writing even before the credits came up, mostly around its being a prosaic approach to a supernatural mystery (which I didn't mean as unimaginative but as commonplace or unromantic).

Then it hit me that was not what they were going for. Benson and Moorhead, who had also created Spring, get a thrill out of setting the brothers' story against what might be a Shub-Niggurathian backdrop, but they spend as much time with the family struggle as they do with the metaphysical mechanics around camp.

Did Justin make their last decade unnecessarily harder by letting his preconceptions get the best of him? Does Aaron belong there more than in a city? Have Justin's prejudices against an oddball religion and I-know-better-ness irreparably damaged the relationship?

Those are more important questions than what exact brand of weirdos the camp members might be.

#theendless #horror #drama #justinbenson #aaronmoorhead

I only got one episode into the three-part documentary Inside Bill's Brain: Decoding Bill Gates. Not that it's bad, much less offensively so. It's not what I was looking for.

I came for a vivisection, maybe with a sprinkle of analysis on top, and they instead served me a hagiography.

I wanted to see the hunger, the drive, the callousness that gets you to the point where you can then decide to be anything – even a saint who channels his non-insignificant brainpower to finding people who are capable of solving the world's greatest problems, and then convincing them that they should help.

Instead, the documentary focuses on the latter, and inevitably, lionizes his efforts with the Gates Foundation.

It's great work, sure. Want to eradicate polio? Bring affordable sanitation to areas where children are forced to drink pestilent waters? Awesome. Big pat on the back for you. But there's nothing for me to learn there.

To do these things you need fuck-you money, and you don't get to Gates' heights of fuck-you money without having said fuck-you to a few people and the drive to step on them. Pretending that Gates' capacity to help tackle these big issues is all about how smart and uniquely talented Bill happens to be is disingenuous. His intelligence and drive help when pushing against apathy and inertia and corruption, I'm sure, but also do his uncountable piles of money. And to get there, you need to have behaved in a very particular way.

That behavior is what I wanted to see, to examine, to reverse engineer.

You can spend all your runtime lovingly zooming into perfectly glazed steaks which slowly in balanced light which brings out the impeccable garnishes.

Gorgeous, but that's advertising. What would teach the viewers something is to see the farm, abattoir, and butcher shop.

#documentary #billgates

Poster for Mandy

I saw Mandy early this year. I scribbled on my notebook as I was watching it, transcribed the notes a day or two later, then let the file sit in a folder for months.

I can put some of that on switching sites. I wasn't sure if I was going to continue writing but knew it wasn't going to be at Tumblr. When I started back in here, I had a long queue of things to get through (still do), and a discipline to rebuild (ditto).

Mostly, though, it's that doing one of these requires recapturing a movie's feeling, and with Mandy that feeling was a thick, oily unpleasantness I was in no hurry to taste again.

Mandy is what you do when you need to try heroin so you can hate it yet don't want to take the drug yourself, an electronic moving picture mix of William Blake and Richard Corben.

We can call it a revenge movie. Red Miller (Nicholas Cage, frantic, feral) lives in the woods with his wife Mandy (Andrea Riseborough, disheveled, doomed). The woods are both home and asylum, as both seem to have traumatic and violent pasts. There is peace for them in the mountains, but it doesn't last, as they get dragged into the libidinous machinations of Jeremiah Sand (Linus Roache, lascivious, languid), a Manson-like mix of charm and insecurity. When that is done, Red goes on a revenge rampage.

Anything I write could be a spoiler yet nothing could prepare you for how the movie feels when the plunger slams into the syringe and the movie turns into the bad trip version of an 80s metal album cover. Sex-obsessed cult leaders, redneck cenobites, mystical militia negroes, makeshift medieval weapons, and the Nicholas Cage-iest scene Cage has ever made, wading through a nightmarish miasma awash in red and purple hues, scored by Tangerine Dream's long-lost deranged twin.

It makes you feel dirty about having ever lost control, while simultaneously making it an alluring siren song.

It's memorable, it's well crafted, and it has some moments of pure gonzo. It will embed itself in your brain, which is both a recommendation and a warning.

#mandy #panoscosmatos #revenge #horror #nicholascage #andreariseborough #linusroache