25. Long Day’s Journey Into Night (2018, Dir. Bi Gan)
There’s nothing that hurts more in life than “the one who got away,” a person that wasn’t appreciated until much too late. What makes Gan’s film particularly brilliant is his ability to split the film into two halves. The first is an aching recognition of that loneliness, finding the familiar haunts now full of emptiness, lacking any greater purpose. Somewhere in the flashbacks are those regrettable signs that drew them away in the first place, cringing as you try to make your memory play out things differently. It needs to happen, for the sake of your happiness. At worst, the memory needs to hold so that it can comfort, allowing a look into the past. But is it comforting or hurting one’s ability to move forward? Gan masterfully captures the sense of isolation with the lingering pace, the inability to find actual fulfillment. Still, the delusion that things can get better keep one looking in the familiar spots, hoping for that miracle
The second half is the flashier sequence that features a near hour-length long take that takes the protagonist into a dreamlike urgency. From a technical standpoint, it’s an amazing accomplishment, finding the camera traveling high and low for some truth. There’s still the search for the unknown, the desire for answers as the camera weaves down alleyways and into private rooms, hoping that somewhere in these crowds is an answer. There needs to be. Gan understands the broken heart is often a quiet matter, and he finds ways to convey this with weariness and a misleading sense of hope. We all know that this isn’t probably going to work, and yet we keep looking. It’s a long journey into the happiness that has long passed. Is it really worth the plight? If nothing else, it’s sometimes the only thing that’s keeping us going.
24. Millennium Actress (2001, Dir. Satoshi Kon)
Everyone has a vision of how their lives played out. In some cases, there are leaps of fantasy that alter the moment into something more cinematic and alive, making us into noble heroes or tragic victims. The mind is a versatile place and nobody understood it quite like Kon, whose tale of self-reflection presents a bittersweet look into love and loss. It’s a puzzle hidden inside of fantasy, of an actress looking past her many credits to find something more authentic. What is there is dazzling, finding a camera crew wandering around in these moments that manage to balance profound observation with heartbreak and comedy in equal measures, finding ways to bring out a greater commentary on what it means to be alive.
Along with a personal journey is a story both of the Japanese film industry as well as history moving forward, uncompromising in its change. The actress takes upon many roles, doing everything she can to survive. Sometimes art can speak a truth that reality fails to express. Sometimes the fantasy is more comforting than where things have wound up. Cinema is the most accessible attempt at capturing memories in ways that are vivid, able to be shared with those outside of the mind. Even then, how does one capture the feeling, the essence of needing to have the same sensations that have long gone dormant? Kon’s tale is a beautiful look at growing old and still having those dreams. They may never be requited, but sometimes the hope to rekindle that long-lost moment is enough to keep one going. Until then, a film will do the trick.
23. Funeral Parade of Roses (1969, Dir. Toshio Matsumoto)
There is something dreamlike about this masterpiece, finding the story of transgender identity being explored with the stylized collage effect often saved for a Vera Chytilova film. There are moments of vibrant slapstick clashing with painstaking emotion, having Matsumoto create one of the most unique portraits possible. This is one of the most fulfilling stories of queer expression in the 1960s, allowing introspection and vulnerability to be considered. It’s a beautiful, tender movie that doesn’t so much observe the trans experience but lives in it, where every line and movement feels informed by their behavior and creates this deeper empathy. There’s power in making it so artful, validating a marginalized group in desperate need of better treatment.
In a film full of essential moments, the one that stands out the most is a collage. While looking at a gallery, a monologue begins discussing how everyone wears masks. It’s done in order to please society and make them feel like they belong. But how many masks one wears depends on their personal identity, a theme in constant conflict throughout this story. How does one hide their identity well enough to not be assaulted, to be cast out from loved ones and simply exist? Can one live with the pain underneath, itself another mask from the health and safety of their lives? So many aspects are at play in this phenomenal monologue that perfectly captures the entire film in a matter of minutes. Along with imagery of tunnels and photographs hiding faces, there’s a sense that we’re deep inside the mind of these characters. It may be strange and hallucinatory at times, but somewhere in there the mask is off and all we see is the real self desperately trying to reach out for acceptance.
22. Streetwise (1984, Dir. Martin Bell)
This is a documentary that can’t help but start on a very sad note. Bell follows the lives of several Washington area orphans who wander the street, panhandling and dumpster diving for meals. Even in the case of the memorable Tiny, there’s a need for prostitution in order to cover basic costs. It’s one of the most horrifying examples of needing to grow up fast, pushing aside any fantasy for the immediate need to survive. At no point do any of the kids in the film feel optimistic, capable of breaking free to a normal life. They have an adoptive family, themselves made of complicated individuals just trying to not get arrested. Endlessly Bell finds them on street corners, passing the days talking to strangers and trying not to draw attention to the loneliness and misery that impacts the rest of their time.
In a lot of cases, these stories don’t have happy endings. It’s a tragedy that feels evident from the first frame where a kid jumping from an overpass into the river feels both freeing and strangely suicidal. One has to wonder if he’ll return to the surface alive. Maybe things will work out. Even then, Bell’s impeccable ability to observe everything with honesty and vulnerability allows their stories to be immortalized, a strong and empathetic case for the real victims of Reagan-era economics. He immortalizes their experience in ways that hope to convey not only tragedy but their own personal efforts to survive. These kids aren’t hopeless, just victims of circumstance. As the story ends, Bell asks what exactly we’re all going to do about this issue. Are we going to continue walking by and accuse them of being degenerates, or is change on the way? Again, the answer isn’t so convenient but it’s not entirely bleak either. It’s somewhere in the discomforting middle.
21. Portrait of Jason (1967, Dir. Shirley Clarke)
The premise of Clarke’s documentary is deceptively simple. All that she does is get Jason to stand before a camera and talk. That’s all he does. Given that he’s lived a lush life full of wild stories, it’s easy to get lost in the extravagance, being in awe of a queer figure who in 1967 defied odds. These stories by themselves were compelling, giving one insight into an era that was much more judgmental, capable of putting him in harm’s way. Who is this Jason? The answer may seem obvious, but as the old saying goes: give them enough rope and they’ll hang themselves. He doesn’t exactly “hang himself” in that he admits to some awful crime, but finds that his persona is slowly being ripped away, finding something more vulnerable underneath.
It’s a reflection of a life unexamined, for the first time really being considered in real time. The horror in Jason’s eyes as he contemplates the meaning of his entire life is fascinating, capturing a character study unlike any other. Again, all that’s there is a camera, but by the end of the documentary, he’s on the floor having an existential crisis. The audience knows him maybe better than he knows himself, the question of what it all means weighs heavily on him. Clarke has created something that requires patience and focus, needing to times parse through the trivial to find something more meaningful. Once it hits, it hits with such power that it becomes a commentary on the audience. How honest are we with ourselves? When was the last time we honestly considered who we were and what we stood for? Will we get to the root of our identity and be happy with what we find? In some ways, this is the most personal and impersonal way to discover what that feeling would look like.
Coming Up Next: Reggae, Wildfires, and The End of the '60s
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