Category: Movies

  • Lady Snowblood vol. 1 review

    snowblood1.jpgLady Snowblood is the story of an unstoppable and beautiful female assassin who leaves a trail of bloodshed and violence through the criminal underworld as she tracks down the four criminals responsible for destroying her family.

    No, it doesn’t sound terribly original, does it?  And the cover’s not exactly screaming “unique and original”, either.

    In fact, the only thing saving Lady Snowblood from being a complete Kill Bill ripoff is that it was originally published thirty
    years ago, and that the subsequent adaptation was heavily referenced in Tarantino’s film: From the music in the opening credits to the final scene set in a snowy garden, Lady Snowblood
    made an obvious impact on Tarantino. Accordingly, the original manga, written by the creator of Lone Wolf & Cub , is a pretty significant piece of work.

    Set in late-1800s Japan, Yuki  is born in a women’s prison to an inmate serving a life sentence for murder.  No one knows who the father is, since the mother has been sleeping with the guards since she arrived.  Her cellmates finally learn the reason: Not for sexual voracity or even to seek favours, but to bear a child to carry out the vengeance she can not.

    The adult Yuki is a highly paid assassin who pursues her blood vengeance between her
    professional assignments.  Most of this first volume concerns itself with the paying work, primarily as a way of showing how formidable she is. The character teeters on the edge of being completely and utterly invincible, which defuses some of the dramatic tension.  Kazuo Koike balances this by
    making sure not all of the stories revolve around more than simply Lady Snowblood‘s inclination to perform acts of great violence.  While she’s not opposed to slaughtering everyone in sight if that’s what it takes, later chapters in the book require more cunning and subtlety.  One assignment sees her armed with a paintbrush instead of a sword, while the final story involves pickpocketing, rape, murder, and the creative placement of several bodies.  The reader’s question becomes less “is
    she going to make it out of this?” than “what on earth is she doing?”

    Koike centres several stories around the politics and society of turn of the century Japan.  Western economic and political influence is seeping into the country, and there are those who want to embrace it and those who want to turn it away. Lady Snowblood offers a number of observations on the changes in society, from the top minds of the country to the lowest scum in the gutters. It’s often
    secondary to the plotting and carnage, but it adds more depth to the stories: while Lady Snowblood herself can be something of a cypher, the interactions with her environment elevate the story above the simple blood vengeance tale.

    In addition to inspiring Kill Bill, Lady Snowblood has a lot in common with the “Bad Girl” trend in comics that became particularly virulent in the 1990s.  Lady Snowblood is a hot chick, after all, who can pretty much kick any man’s ass.  And like any good bad girl, she frequently ends up naked in the course of her assignments.  One can suggest that it’s because fighting in a kimono isn’t exactly conducive to speed and agility, but few of the similarly attired men seem to view nudity as a strategic
    advantage.  There are some minor misogynistic themes cropping up, but at this point in the series it’s difficult to say if it’s the writer’s work or just a reflection of the setting of the book.  It’s not enough to seriously detract from the story, and as long as “Lady Snowblood gets naked and bloody” doesn’t become a routine plot device, it’s probably not a huge problem.

    Kazuo Kamimura’s illustrations capture the violence and depravity nicely.  Lady Snowblood is beautiful, while her actions are often terrible.  Koike relies on Kamimura to tell much of the story on his own – many sequences have little or no dialogue, and Kamimura depicts the action well.  Most of the fight scenes are expertly choreographed; I can’t quite tell if some are confusing, or if I’m still getting used to reading right-to-left.  Altogether, it’s not surprising that Kamimura’s artwork was used in the film to illustrate some of the backstory of the character.

    The first volume of Lady Snowblood is somewhat lacking in an overall narrative.  The main purpose here is to show off the main character and provide a look at her origin.  As a result, it reads like more
    of a collection of stories than one epic tale.  It’s still a very good collection of stories, introducing an intriquing character and showing off some excellent plots.  Lady Snowblood surpasses all of her imitators in grace, beauty, and ruthlessness; even The Bride would think twice before crossing her. Lady Snowblood is essential reading for fans of Kill Bill and Asian cinema, and a pretty good deal for anyone up a healthy serving for some sex, violence and vengeance.

  • Sin City movie review

    Contrary to the beliefs of my ex-girlfriend, there really is such a
    thing as being too faithful.

    Adapting any work from one medium to another is going to be difficult.
    The most common problem is going from book to film; it’s virtually
    impossible to tell a 500-page story in a 2 hour movie. Most films
    simply whittle material until all that remains is the essence of the
    story. A few films go the other way, maintaining almost a slavish
    devotion to the original text. The Harry Potter films are a prime
    example of directors adapting books so literally that the essence of the
    works themselves become lost amid irrelevant details and the need to
    cram in every single scene.

    But a comic book is not a regular book. Unlike novels, they rely on
    pictures to tell the story, with text to fill in the blanks.
    Theoretically, adaptations of comic books shouldn’t be as difficult to
    adapt, since the essence of the work is easily transferable.

    However, it’s hard to say in practice, since there have been
    exceptionally few comic book adaptations. Oh, there have been plenty of
    films based on comic books. But very few adapt specific
    stories; they’re usually adaptations of characters, concepts and themes,
    perhaps loosely based on one or two original stories. Prior to Sin
    City
    , the only real comic book adaptations have been Ghost
    World
    , Road to Perdition, and perhaps American Splendor.
    Possibly From Hell, but I’d really rather forget all about that.

    At a glance, Frank Miller’s work on Sin City seems
    perfect for adapting to the big screen. Miller’s gorgeous black and
    white art plays like art house cinematography on the page: Big
    entrances, dynamic action, great angles and intense emotion. More than
    one observer has compared the pages to movie storyboards, and director
    Robert Rodriguez clearly picked up on that as well. With Sin City,
    a director doesn’t need to spend as much time planning shots and
    sequences; Miller’s done it all so well himself.

    But while the visuals are ideal for film, one has to remember that
    Miller’s work is highly idiosyncratic. The world of Sin City
    is a highly stylized one: It’s full of hard-boiled criminals, beautiful
    femmes fatale and tough guys with codes of honour that would make
    samurai blush. It’s a world largely based on the pulp detective films
    and novels of the first half of the last century; when reading the
    books, it’s not hard to hear the voices of Humphrey Bogart, James
    Cagney, Mary Astor and Peter Lorre speaking aloud. It’s a dynamic,
    somewhat eccentric narrative style that works marvellously on the page.

    Unfortunately, it works horribly on the screen. Dialogue that reads
    great on paper can come off as cheesy and cliched when spoken aloud.
    There are few actors who can say “dame” repeatedly without sounding
    ridiculous. But the dialogue really isn’t the problem; Miller &
    Rodriguez can get away with a lot because of the style of the film.
    While there are a few actors who can’t pull it off, most of them know
    their stuff well enough to deliver their lines with the proper tone and
    flair.

    Rosario Dawson in particular stands out with her performance as Gail,
    the dominatrix of Old Town. It’s such a ridiculous role that it would
    be easy to slip into parody, but Dawson nails it with just the right
    mixture of drama and humour. Benicio Del Toro’s drunken fratboy cop is
    just about perfect, and Brittany Murphy makes for a nice sultry barmaid.
    Though she doesn’t get to speak, Devon Aoki is quite effective as the
    silent and lethal Miho. Jessica Alba doesn’t get to do a whole lot of
    acting, but she certainly looks nice.

    The three leads – Mickey Rourke, Bruce Willis and Clive Owen – are
    effective, if unexceptional; playing a stoic tough guy doesn’t allow for
    a whole lot of acting versatility. Meanwhile, Jaime King’s performance
    in the dual role of Wendy and Goldie is absolutely abysmal. She’s the
    most wooden and cardboard actor in the film; she doesn’t even manage to
    act stoic or angry. Of all the actors in the film, she seems to have
    the least idea of what it’s all about.

    The biggest problem is the narration. In the books, Miller’s narration
    adds depth to the characters. Internal monologues allow the reader to
    learn more about their motivation, and it can fill in the blanks between
    static panels. In the film, though, it just gets in the way. There’s
    almost a constant stream of narration for two thirds of the movie, and
    most of it is unnecessary. We don’t need to hear characters telling us
    that they’re upset, sad or angry; even the most amateur actor can handle
    that. We certainly don’t need the characters telling us what is
    happening on screen: It’s perfectly clear when an actor is reaching for a
    gun, coughing up blood or hitting somebody, yet all these things are
    explained.

    Beyond the redundancy, though, the narration really does get in the
    way. Everyone keeps talking. They talk and talk and talk, and while
    some of it is relevant and interesting, eventually one just gets tired
    of listening to everyone talk. There’s just as much, if not more
    narration in the books, but the nature of a comic book means it never
    gets in the way. The captions are off to the side, acting almost as an
    addendum to the images. In his attempt to be ultra-faithful to the
    original Sin City stories, Rodriguez has lost sight of one
    of the most important aspects: That Frank Miller is an exceptional
    visual storyteller. Miller never really needed words to tell his
    stories; they were just icing on the cake.

    Despite the fixation on narration, Rodriguez is still an excellent
    storyteller himself. The visuals of Sin City are just as
    good as you’d expect from the combination of Miller and Rodriguez.
    They’ve truly given life to Sin City – the characters and setting all
    seem like they’ve been ripped from the pages of Miller’s books. They
    occasionally stray too far towards caricature – Mickey Rourke gets lost
    behind Marv’s prosthetic forehead and scars, and the titular Yellow
    Bastard looks a bit too silly to be truly menacing. But otherwise it’s a
    dazzling visual adaptation, with exceptional design and some
    outstanding action sequences.

    The nature of the visuals – the actors did their work in front of green
    screens, and CGI backgrounds were added in later – results in some
    problems. The backgrounds work, but other components don’t: Despite
    everyone standing around in the rain and snow, no one’s hair seems to
    get very wet. A few get slightly damp, but certainly not “walking
    around in the pouring rain for an hour” wet. Otherwise, the digital
    touches are nicely done: Certain aspects of characters – clothing,
    jewellery, glasses – are emphasized, and the touches of colour are
    dazzling against the grainy black and white.

    It all looks great; if only everyone would shut up long enough for the
    audience to appreciate it. It’s no surprise that the most effective
    sequences are those which cut back both on dialogue and narration; when
    Miller and Rodriguez let the story tell itself, instead of imposing an
    artificial and clumsy narrative, the movie really takes off.

    The root of the problem – beyond a bizarre compulsion to tell the
    audience when a character is smoking a cigarette before he’s even
    started smoking it – is that Miller and Rodriguez have been too
    ambitious in their scope. In amalgamating three of Miller’s stories
    into the movie, they’ve clearly bitten off more than they can chew.
    Fitting three stories into two hours doesn’t allow for any character
    development or natural evolution. The plot points are forced to come
    hard and fast, one after another. Like the excessive reliance on
    narration, this, too, is contrary to Miller’s original work; he allows
    scenes to play out naturally, for characters to spend several pages
    doing simple things.

    But here, there’s no time to relax. There’s no time to get to know the
    characters, either: No time to look at who these people are, or why
    they’re willing to die for their respective causes. It’s difficult to
    form any sort of emotional bond with these characters. Consequently, The
    Big Fat Kill
    portion of the story plays out the best, as it’s the
    least reliant upon emotional reactions.

    The shifting time frame is also somewhat puzzling. Those who’ve read
    the books won’t have any problem, but newcomers to Miller’s work may
    wonder why Marv and Kevin are seemingly re-appearing in Hartigan’s
    section of the movie. They do so, obviously, because that’s how the
    book was written, but there’s no need for it in the movie.

    It’s curious, though, that for all the devotion to the original
    material, there are still a couple of odd deviations. For one thing,
    Bruce Willis doesn’t look like he’s sixty years old. He doesn’t look
    like he’s sixty-eight, either, and he certainly doesn’t look like he
    could be Jessica Alba’s grandfather. One would think that the simple
    solution would be to either a) cast another actor or b) change the
    script to reflect the fact that Bruce Willis is fifty, not sixty. One
    must also wonder why Kadie’s, a country and western bar where strippers
    wear cowboy hats and play with lassoes, is playing electronic dance
    music.

    Robert Rodriguez tried to do a very good thing. He found a work that
    spoke to him as an artist, and worked with the original author to create
    a film that genuinely respected and revered the source material.
    Unfortunately, he made two significant mistakes: He tried to do more
    than he should have, and he forgot that while they share many
    similarities, comics and films are still two very different mediums. He
    clearly had the best intentions, and one can hope that Rodriguez and
    other filmmakers will still see the value in respecting and properly
    adapting comics to the screen; there surely must be a happy middle
    ground between Sin City and League of Extraordinary
    Gentlemen
    . Sin City is a fascinating and ambitious
    experiment, but ultimately a disappointing one.