by Daniel Santelli, Staff Writer

Was 2021 a good year for anyone? It started in chaos and ended with a question: “Could 2022 be any worse?” And we thought we had it bad in 2020. These generalizations can no doubt be disputed, but, for me, the year 2021 was undoubtedly my worst year. And movies didn’t necessarily help mitigate the various crises; I nearly fell out of love.

Movies are a lot of things. Entertainment. Art. Enlightening. Enigmatic. Airy. Demanding. The best of them can affect us deeply, in all sorts of ways. Intellectual. Visceral. Sensual. And the worst can still manage to impart an inspired idea or engender a titter at their expense. They’re the most powerful of illusions, and maybe the most concrete. A projector light shines through 24 still cels every second, their imprinted images beam onto a wall, and a reflection of reality plays out, like those shadows dancing on the wall of Plato’s Cave. You’re awake, yet you dream.

Movies can enhance life. They make those everyday struggles more endurable as we see our hopes and dreams, frustrations and anxieties play out on the screen, be it in the most grounded of dramas or the most exaggerated of science fiction or fantasy. That sense of shared feelings and universal truths, of character and situation, lets us enter those worlds, instead of viewing them from afar, so that we may glean deeper insights and maybe challenge our notions of being and perceived truth. They remind us that we’re not alone. But movies (or, more generally, art) can only mean something when we make the choice to live, to exist. And when we deprive ourselves of that life, and see what’s up there on the screen as a means to a fulfilled end, we perceive that illusion through delusion, one imposed by the self out of ignorance. And those who wander too far into the dark may never find their way out.

But movies can still be a lifeforce. They’re mirrors to our reality. They encourage us to engage further with those around us. They’re an essential component to helping us understand ourselves and the world we live in. The experience we bring to the movies can make them that much richer or poorer. And because the experience of movies is ultimately subjective, there is no right or wrong way to approach them, because there’s fundamentally no right or wrong way to make them. And once we recognize there’s more to judging movies than simple binaries and descriptors (good/bad, competent/inept, “cinematic”/stagy, etc.), we open ourselves up to the possibility of a more fluid understanding of visual language, a more fluid understanding of narrative, how each works, and the potentials of both. And it’s precisely that which makes the art of movies so fulfilling.

I’m resolved to enter 2022 on a strong note. In keeping with the tradition of evaluating my previous year in the dark, I offer a selection of my favorite discoveries for your consideration. This year’s list sees a heavy emphasis on Asian cinema, but there’s still offerings from America, France, and Iran. Some of these are readily available on platforms or YouTube; others will require some digging. Some are not for all tastes, but I hope you’ll still consider their worth by way of the writing.

Haru (dir. Yoshimitsu Morita, 1996)

A very soothing, touching, and poignant cyber-love hypnotrance. A film this hip to then-novel technology (the internet, chat rooms, and e-mail) should’ve aged like milk, but Morita somewhat sidesteps datedness by leaning into the core’s tale-as-old-as-time nature and refracting that through the idea of technology serving to facilitate (maybe even enhance) basic human interaction and connection, all while still seeing it as a fantasy outlet (not unlike cinema) and one that conjures its own distinct sense of user isolation. But honestly, this film’s treatment is far more dynamic than that, constantly shifting and reframing and reverting its thoughts in the ways we all do when confronted with newness, so desperate to pin it or them down so we can discern comprehension, sometimes to our detriment. Then again, maybe the timelessness stems from how both Haru and Hoshi accidentally find love in their respective searches for purpose and recoveries from loss, and how the anonymity allows these two free spirits (one more closeted than the other) to escape everyday drudgery, loneliness, and the specter of conformity through a Ghost that feels deeper and more real despite the disconnect. Morita even makes time for peripheral insights on the malleable nature of identity (online and off), reinforced by the array of quotidian imagery throughout (people at work, at play, by themselves, with others, exploring their inner network of selves), and the circuitous routes we take to find happiness and peace, as well as one subliminally powerful use of mismatched eyeline (via the camera jumping the axis) in the platonic marriage proposal scene. You’d think a movie striving to convey romantic tension through scrolling text would be tedious and passionless, but here we are. ( ^ ─ ^ )

Haru is available to stream on Rarefilmm.

All Is Forgiven (dir. Mia Hansen-Løve, 2007)

Only my second Mia Hansen-Løve film and now I feel bad for putting her off after Things To Come left me cold. Attentive, elliptical, ambiguous, beguiling, deceptively simple, and wholly absorbing, heavy on human observation and evading audience edification/reassurance. Being such, All is Forgiven plays less as a trenchant portrait of addiction/withdrawal/aftermath and more like a study of human action and consequence, how it affects the Now, our perception of Then, and the to-be-determined Future, as well as the delicacy of human intimacy and memory and the winding paths that lead to reconciliation. Hansen-Løve doesn’t make it easy to figure her movie out, but her intentions are signaled by the eliding of certain scènes à faire, none more impactful than a premature fade-out that precludes us from seeing Pamela react to some dire news. I’m eager to see this again, mainly to focus on the film’s temporal games. At first glance, however, I’m tempted to argue there’s a meta-commentary tied to the passing of time – notice how only the daughter visibly ages – that suggests Hansen-Løve is chasing something more poetic than mere naturalism. I’ve a feeling this will stay with me for a while.

All is Forgiven is currently streaming (thru June 22nd, 2022) on Metrograph.

Burning Snow (dir. Patrick Tam Kar-Ming, 1989)

Hong Kong filmmaker Patrick Tam is virtually unknown in the wide world today, but when he’s remembered at all, mainly in cinephile circles, it’s for his formidable slasher film, Love Massacre, starring Brigitte Lin. A forthright visual stylist with a tendency toward the abstract and the subversive, he dabbled in disparate genres through the 1980s – including horror, wuxia, action, and romantic comedy – never forsaking his directorial prowess and almost always appearing to open up the material, no matter how limited it may seem on the surface. No less than Wong Kar-wai acknowledges Tam as a mentor and an influence; WKW wrote the script for Tam’s Final Victory, to which Tam returned the favor by helping edit Days of Being Wild. Burning Snow, a steely melodrama bathed in listerine blues, is the bleakest and saddest film of his films that I’ve seen and a very accomplished piece of work. Three caveats: it’s very hard to find, it only seems to exist as a low-grade VHSrip of dubious provenance, and is best seen after getting a taste of Tam. I recommend starting with either Love Massacre or Nomad, both terrific works and, at the time of this writing, both available on YouTube (in admittedly subpar quality) with English subtitles. Here’s a slightly revised version of my initial thoughts on Burning Snow, previously posted to Letterboxd:

Going against the tides of misery and fate. As is the case with cinema, Burning Snow’s material matters less than how Patrick Tam treats (and undermines) it. On first watch, this feels about as radical in purpose as Nomad and nearly as effective, tracing the sad plight of Cher, lonely and abused, sold into marrying a violent lout (he repeatedly assaults her, physically and sexually), before encountering reprieve in a sympathetic criminal on the run. Water and glass are constants: showers for cleansing one of pain, the sea symbolizing isolation and a pathway to death, and an array of windows and mirrors to let Tam and Christopher Doyle divide and expand the space; the flashback structure and pensive voiceover complement the reflective qualities of both motifs. Tam’s control of style remains the prominent feature of his oeuvre, and here he’s able to convey so much with camera maneuvers, color (an icy blue-gray palette punctuated by splotches of red), and a deliberately stylized mise-en-scène, not to mention an evocative soundscape that employs specific recurring effects (train signals, crashing waves) as triggers, for Cher and us, that recall memories and feelings that get to the heart of this despairing work.

A Moment of Romance (dir. Benny Chan, 1990)

Consummate Hong Kong genre-fluidity swerving forcefully between lowlife crime, hardboiled action, and impassioned romance; there’s a magical centerpiece that fuses all these strands and climaxes with what might be the film’s master image: two lovers embrace while an explosion protrudes in the background. Andy Lau is the bad boy with a heart of gold, Jacklyn Wu is the rich girl he takes hostage before she steals his heart, and together they journey through a propulsive array of timeless movie tropes, voguish pop-video poetics, and 80s neon blur. It’s too easy to label this clichéd, as it demonstrates how context and setting can revitalize hackneyed material; to that point, there’s a tremendous sense of place, with Lau's milieu sporting a lived-in quality and suggesting deep-rooted dynamics through exchanges, as well as a noticeable concern for shifting power and fading mores (possibly a stand-in for pre-Handover anxieties). Essentially, both Lau and Wu are imprisoned by perceived authority (her by parents and class, him by loyalty to Big Brother and the shame of street life), and their yearning to break out on their own terms is part of what ignites their passion. The film is credited to Benny Chan, but was possibly ghost-directed by Johnnie To; whoever was at the helm made this a compulsively exciting work that blends intoxicating movie-narrative fantasy and simmering suggestions of real-world socio-politics in microcosm while one-upping As Tears Go By at its own game. And you may very swoon until you don't.

License to Live (dir. Kiyoshi Kurosawa, 1998)

In which Kiyoshi Kurosawa sorta crafts a dour, dysfunctional spin on the Kore-eda film, watching cycles of life play out in microcosm on the fringes of society, watching his characters cope with the mysteries of fate and chance. In some ways, this is exactly what you'd expect from a Japanese Family drama made during the Lost Decade (the post-bubble period of economic stagnation) — fractured, mournful, meditative, disenchanted, searching for purpose, and dreaming of someplace else — but also stranger, sadder, and funnier than that might suggest; it also feels of a piece with KK's later Tokyo Sonata. This fits quite snugly into his 90s filmography (that I’ve seen), for the palpable sense of gloom and existential anguish, as well as the corresponding theme of disintegration, not just that of the family but Yutaka’s reintegration following a 10-year coma coinciding with the psychic realization of how much has been lost and whether the now even matters because of it. This is not a horror film, but KK assuredly applies his Cure stylistics (dejected tone, detached gaze, spare long-take staging) to the dramatic scenes in ways that heighten the undercurrents of loss and dislocation as well as the tensions between characters, while showing a more playful hand with comedy (there’s a very amusing instance of characters entering/exiting static frames). I spent a lot of time noticing the abrupt sound transitions and thinking about them in relation to perspective; at points, it suggests a subjectivity that clashes with the image’s purported remove.

Intruder (dir. Tsang Kan-Cheung, 1997)

The most unexpected (and unexpectedly great) discovery of the year was this tantalizingly grim and ideologically fraught slasher/home-invasion hybrid from Hong Kong, made in the year of the Handover. It’s also my second discovery to feature Jacklyn Wu Chien-lien, whose performance in A Moment of Romance could not be any further away from what she’s up to here. Knowing a thing or two about the Handover may heighten appreciation, but this is so overwhelmingly tense and layered with unnerving knife-twists and crafty set-pieces that those lacking the social/political contexts can still relish Intruder as an expert showcase for thrills and sadism – that is, if you derive pleasure from this kind of thing. Below is a slightly modified version of my initial thoughts, originally posted to Letterboxd. I’d love to see my colleague Victoria Potenza consider this for her Women Who Kill column.

Dark and stormy nights set the stage for Jacklyn Wu’s stalker antics in this gleefully cruel slasher/home invasion feature from Johnnie To’s Milkyway Image, in which Wu plays a Mainlander who slays a prostitute and steals her identity before escaping to Hong Kong to do much the same. This doesn’t mess around with elaborate plotting, nuanced characterization, or even much dialogue. It’s a grimy, grungy, lean, mean, stalker machine bolstered by Jacklyn Wu’s eerie reticence and a fantastically tactile visual sense. Clean lines, geographic clarity, suggestive camera moves, and blue-gelled moonlight and nighttime chiaroscuros that make the ordinary appear baroque. And because this was produced in 90s Hong Kong, it doesn’t take much to figure out what this is saying. Nasty, wicked, and impressively heartless.

Queen of Diamonds (dir. Nina Menkes, 1991)

The first of Nina Menkes’ films that I’ve seen, the elliptical and powerful Queen of Diamonds ventures through the tedium and melancholy of living as a left-behind in the sphere of late-capitalist America. Menkes’ decision to set this in Las Vegas, a man-made city that’s become a national icon of excess, might’ve been a bit too pointed had she not focused on its physicality and seeing that through an almost alien eye, as if to let the glitz and kitsch speak for itself. But her primary focus is on the outcasts, the people living in dive motels and trying to get by even as disorder and ennui intervene as often as the sun rises in the sky. And in one extended scene of monotonous action repeated ad infinitum, this imparts the meaninglessness and lack of fulfillment that comes with working a shitty job better than almost anything I can imagine. Here are some stray thoughts and impressions previously posted to Letterboxd.

Signs of life on the edge of a Modern Abyss. Complete dislocation: endless cycles of work routine and personal meanderings, in the face of capitalist excess, emotional apathy, unwanted attention, and the harsh elements. All those hard cuts juxtaposing the stillness of the rural (desert) landscape with the glitz of manmade Vegas, be it casino or the Strip, jolted me each time. Comparisons with Loden's Wanda are earned and inevitable, but I couldn't help but think of Antonioni's L'Eclisse and some Bresson. If you love feminism and/or hate capitalism, this'll probably do something for you.

You can rent Queen of Diamonds digitally from Arbelos Films via Vimeo.

Come back next week for Part Two…