Shion Sono’s Suicide Club is a very strange movie, which apparently has acquired something of a cult following. It’s one of those recent Japanese movies that pushes the limits when it comes to gore (which is sometimes ridiculously theatrical, as in the opening scene when 54 schoolgirls commit suicide by simultaneously throwing themselves in front of a speeding train, and blood splatters everywhere; and other times disturbingly visceral and difficult to watch, without the redeeming and distancing aestheticism of, say, Kill Bill). This is definitely not a film for the faint of heart. But it doesn’t seem to me to be very similar to sicko splatterfests like Takashi Miike’s Audition either; Suicide Club is less concerned to shock, more philosophical, and ultimately far kinkier in its subtlety.
(I’d never heard of the director Shion Sono before, but apparently he also makes gay porn flicks, as well as being known as an avant-garde poet).
In any case, Suicide Club is an oblique film, for all its gore. It seems to change genre every fifteen minutes: from grotesque social satire to police procedural to horror to Rocky Horror Picture Show knock-off to baroque tragedy to poetic meditation to feminist detective thriller to I don’t even really know what. Visually the film is also quite discontinuous from scene to scene; sometimes there’s a jerky handheld camera, other times the scenes are almost classically composed.
In terms of plot, the film is about a plague of suicides, mostly by young women, though sometimes by boys and men and older people as well. There are also chains of sewed-together pieces of human skin that are found at the scenes of some of the mass suicides.
The suicides seems to be orchestrated through the Internet and cell phones (one brief scene of cell phone fetishism especially got to me, probably because of my own predilections that way). At one point it seems that an insane death-glitter-rock band is behind the suicides, but that turns out to be a red herring. Apparently the blame really lies with a bubblegum-pop group whose singers are five 12-year-old girls who wear matching cute costumes and do coordinated dancing as they sing their relentlessly upbeat ditties.
The film ends on a ritualistic note that I didn’t entirely understand; but I don’t think tying up loose ends was in any way the point. Existential conundrums are also repeated in verbal formulas throughout, often by small children.
I don’t really know much about Japan beyond the level of cliche; but it does seem to be a culture that is as imbued with latent (and sometimes not-so-latent) pedophilia as contemporary American culture is. At least, that’s what Suicide Club suggests. It intimates disturbing links between the sexualization of young children and the hysterical insistence upon their innocence, and between both and the romanticization of death.
In short, I’m not sure Suicide Club is a great film, exactly, but it’s definitely going to stay with me for a while.
(I’d love to see an American remake, but that will never happen; this isn’t The Ring. Besides, the only way to do it justice would have to be as an unlikely collaboration between David Lynch and John Waters).
Shion Sono’s Suicide Club is a very strange movie, which apparently has acquired something of a cult following. It’s one of those recent Japanese movies that pushes the limits when it comes to gore (which is sometimes ridiculously theatrical, as in the opening scene when 54 schoolgirls commit suicide by simultaneously throwing themselves in front of a speeding train, and blood splatters everywhere; and other times disturbingly visceral and difficult to watch, without the redeeming and distancing aestheticism of, say, Kill Bill). This is definitely not a film for the faint of heart. But it doesn’t seem to me to be very similar to sicko splatterfests like Takashi Miike’s Audition either; Suicide Club is less concerned to shock, more philosophical, and ultimately far kinkier in its subtlety.
(I’d never heard of the director Shion Sono before, but apparently he also makes gay porn flicks, as well as being known as an avant-garde poet).
In any case, Suicide Club is an oblique film, for all its gore. It seems to change genre every fifteen minutes: from grotesque social satire to police procedural to horror to Rocky Horror Picture Show knock-off to baroque tragedy to poetic meditation to feminist detective thriller to I don’t even really know what. Visually the film is also quite discontinuous from scene to scene; sometimes there’s a jerky handheld camera, other times the scenes are almost classically composed.
In terms of plot, the film is about a plague of suicides, mostly by young women, though sometimes by boys and men and older people as well. There are also chains of sewed-together pieces of human skin that are found at the scenes of some of the mass suicides.
The suicides seems to be orchestrated through the Internet and cell phones (one brief scene of cell phone fetishism especially got to me, probably because of my own predilections that way). At one point it seems that an insane death-glitter-rock band is behind the suicides, but that turns out to be a red herring. Apparently the blame really lies with a bubblegum-pop group whose singers are five 12-year-old girls who wear matching cute costumes and do coordinated dancing as they sing their relentlessly upbeat ditties.
The film ends on a ritualistic note that I didn’t entirely understand; but I don’t think tying up loose ends was in any way the point. Existential conundrums are also repeated in verbal formulas throughout, often by small children.
I don’t really know much about Japan beyond the level of cliche; but it does seem to be a culture that is as imbued with latent (and sometimes not-so-latent) pedophilia as contemporary American culture is. At least, that’s what Suicide Club suggests. It intimates disturbing links between the sexualization of young children and the hysterical insistence upon their innocence, and between both and the romanticization of death.
In short, I’m not sure Suicide Club is a great film, exactly, but it’s definitely going to stay with me for a while.
(I’d love to see an American remake, but that will never happen; this isn’t The Ring. Besides, the only way to do it justice would have to be as an unlikely collaboration between David Lynch and John Waters).
John Crowley’s The Translator is a beautiful and deceptively simple novel, with surprisingly little of the fantastic in comparison to Crowley’s other books. The novel is set during the Kennedy presidency, in the early 1960s; it concerns the relationship between I. I. Falin, a middle-aged, exiled Russian poet, and Kit Malone, an undergraduate woman at an unnamed Midwestern university where Falin teaches, and who helps him render his (unpublished in Russia) poems into English.
It’s hard to say whether almost nothing happens in the course of the book, or whether almost everything does. This is because the novel’s style is clear and crisp, and seemingly naturalistic; and yet everything important is elided, not by authorial whim, but because what is most important is what somehow cannot be said, cannot be recognized, cannot be narrated.
For instance, Kit and Falin are certainly in love in some sort of way, but it is never clear whether they ever have sex – years later, Kit sincerely cannot remember. When finally, toward the end of the book, they spend a night together, “It seemed to her that they spent a very long time there together: not hours but days, years even, the whole course of a long deep love affair… And yet she couldn’t actually remember it, long afterward, remembered nothing of what really happened.”
The Translator is about many things: about the trickiness of language and the impossibility of translation; about the nature of poetry, always trying to say the nothing that cannot be said, and of inspiration, that is as real as it is transient, and that can be passed on to another, but not really possessed by oneself; about the deepest passions, not those that dominate our every waking moment, but those that creep upon us when we are asleep, as it were in spite of our wills, those that make us demand things impossible and impalpable, the mysterious otherness of the person we love, rather than his or her simple, self-evident presence; and also how the personal relates to the political, to the inescapability of history, of society, of the sinister forces that rule us.
For the novel takes place during the Cold War, with all its creepiness, paranoia, and repression. (In fact, it is one of the best portraits I have read of the anxiety of that period, and of its pressures of conformism and groupthink. Kit is free neither from social censoriousness, nor from the spying of the FBI). As for Falin, exiled from the Soviet Union (instead of being sent to prison), he finds himself in an America where he is still under surveillance, still under suspicion, still able to live only under the sufferance of powers who are, themselves, accountable to no one. And the book culminates during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962; Crowley’s conceit is that, in some inexplicable way, Falin must sacrifice himself (relinquishing both his life and his poetry) in order to avert the ultimate catastrophe of all-out nuclear war.
The Translator is mysterious, exactly to the extent that it is utterly lucid. Reading it is a haunting experience, because everything is right there on the surface, both the naturalistic descriptions and the metaphors and themes; and yet this supreme lucidity points to something that is intrinsically ungraspable, so that, after I had finished reading the book, only then did I start to be possessed by all the details that I had read through or read over without any difficulty, but that in retrospect turned out to be dense and labyrinthine, as if it were only in the clear light of unambiguous evidence that we could stumble upon what is truly enigmatic.
John Crowley’s The Translator is a beautiful and deceptively simple novel, with surprisingly little of the fantastic in comparison to Crowley’s other books. The novel is set during the Kennedy presidency, in the early 1960s; it concerns the relationship between I. I. Falin, a middle-aged, exiled Russian poet, and Kit Malone, an undergraduate woman at an unnamed Midwestern university where Falin teaches, and who helps him render his (unpublished in Russia) poems into English.
It’s hard to say whether almost nothing happens in the course of the book, or whether almost everything does. This is because the novel’s style is clear and crisp, and seemingly naturalistic; and yet everything important is elided, not by authorial whim, but because what is most important is what somehow cannot be said, cannot be recognized, cannot be narrated.
For instance, Kit and Falin are certainly in love in some sort of way, but it is never clear whether they ever have sex – years later, Kit sincerely cannot remember. When finally, toward the end of the book, they spend a night together, “It seemed to her that they spent a very long time there together: not hours but days, years even, the whole course of a long deep love affair… And yet she couldn’t actually remember it, long afterward, remembered nothing of what really happened.”
The Translator is about many things: about the trickiness of language and the impossibility of translation; about the nature of poetry, always trying to say the nothing that cannot be said, and of inspiration, that is as real as it is transient, and that can be passed on to another, but not really possessed by oneself; about the deepest passions, not those that dominate our every waking moment, but those that creep upon us when we are asleep, as it were in spite of our wills, those that make us demand things impossible and impalpable, the mysterious otherness of the person we love, rather than his or her simple, self-evident presence; and also how the personal relates to the political, to the inescapability of history, of society, of the sinister forces that rule us.
For the novel takes place during the Cold War, with all its creepiness, paranoia, and repression. (In fact, it is one of the best portraits I have read of the anxiety of that period, and of its pressures of conformism and groupthink. Kit is free neither from social censoriousness, nor from the spying of the FBI). As for Falin, exiled from the Soviet Union (instead of being sent to prison), he finds himself in an America where he is still under surveillance, still under suspicion, still able to live only under the sufferance of powers who are, themselves, accountable to no one. And the book culminates during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962; Crowley’s conceit is that, in some inexplicable way, Falin must sacrifice himself (relinquishing both his life and his poetry) in order to avert the ultimate catastrophe of all-out nuclear war.
The Translator is mysterious, exactly to the extent that it is utterly lucid. Reading it is a haunting experience, because everything is right there on the surface, both the naturalistic descriptions and the metaphors and themes; and yet this supreme lucidity points to something that is intrinsically ungraspable, so that, after I had finished reading the book, only then did I start to be possessed by all the details that I had read through or read over without any difficulty, but that in retrospect turned out to be dense and labyrinthine, as if it were only in the clear light of unambiguous evidence that we could stumble upon what is truly enigmatic.
Yes, I know. Me and My Brother, by the Ying Yang Twins, is nothing but stupid (stoopid?) party music, heavily misogynistic and relentless in its praise of getting fucked up, wearing its ghetto “authenticity” on its sleeve (not the least through endless repetitions of the n-word), but probably appealing mostly to frat boys. Still, I can’t help myself: I basically ignore the words, but I find the beats infectious. The Twins’ production is at the opposite extreme from Timbaland’s: maximalist instead of minimalist, hitting you over the head instead of subtly insinuating, putting the listener (well, me, at least) in a hysterical state of sensori-motor overload. (And I really do mean that “motor” part: listening to this album on headphones, from my iPod, while sitting on the bus, I can’t exactly dance, but I feel that twitching all through my nervous system, from my ears down to my toes).
Yes, I know. Me and My Brother, by the Ying Yang Twins, is nothing but stupid (stoopid?) party music, heavily misogynistic and relentless in its praise of getting fucked up, wearing its ghetto “authenticity” on its sleeve (not the least through endless repetitions of the n-word), but probably appealing mostly to frat boys. Still, I can’t help myself: I basically ignore the words, but I find the beats infectious. The Twins’ production is at the opposite extreme from Timbaland’s: maximalist instead of minimalist, hitting you over the head instead of subtly insinuating, putting the listener (well, me, at least) in a hysterical state of sensori-motor overload. (And I really do mean that “motor” part: listening to this album on headphones, from my iPod, while sitting on the bus, I can’t exactly dance, but I feel that twitching all through my nervous system, from my ears down to my toes).
My new book on display at the MLA convention. (U of Minnesota Press booth in the book exhibit).
My new book on display at the MLA convention. (U of Minnesota Press booth in the book exhibit).
Warren Ellis is running a year-end series on his blog, where he asks various people to give their visions, or predictions, for 2004. Here’s my entry:
Surprise me.
That’s what I ask of 2004.
Some of the things I can predict for the year to come are good. Personal things, mostly. (Moving on to greener pastures, for one thing).Others are bad. Political things, mostly. (The re-election, coronation, and Ascension — in the “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” sense — of George W. Bush).
But nothing’s more dreary than predictability, the linear playing out of cause and effect.
Time passes: and that means that things can go off track, change course, suffer a phase transition, enter the orbit of a chaotic attractor.
Of, course, there’s no guarantee that these changes and surprises will be happy and fortunate ones. Sometimes they are, but other times they are tragic, unbearable, hideous.
But a world without change, in which everything is predictable, is a world that’s already dead.
So surprise me.
Warren Ellis is running a year-end series on his blog, where he asks various people to give their visions, or predictions, for 2004. Here’s my entry:
Surprise me.
That’s what I ask of 2004.
Some of the things I can predict for the year to come are good. Personal things, mostly. (Moving on to greener pastures, for one thing).Others are bad. Political things, mostly. (The re-election, coronation, and Ascension — in the “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” sense — of George W. Bush).
But nothing’s more dreary than predictability, the linear playing out of cause and effect.
Time passes: and that means that things can go off track, change course, suffer a phase transition, enter the orbit of a chaotic attractor.
Of, course, there’s no guarantee that these changes and surprises will be happy and fortunate ones. Sometimes they are, but other times they are tragic, unbearable, hideous.
But a world without change, in which everything is predictable, is a world that’s already dead.
So surprise me.
Norman Kelley‘s A Phat Death, or, The Last Days of Noir Soul is the third in his series of Nina Halligan detective novels (following Black Heat and The Big Mango). Like the others, A Phat Death offers a convoluted mystery plot, with ample doses of murder, mayhem, and steamy sex. This time Kelley focuses on the music business, with an ample assortment of murdered hip hop artists, thuggish black record company owners, and slimy, corrupt white politicians and media moguls. Nina Halligan, the detective protagonist and first-person narrator, is a strong black woman – but an emotional and impulsive one, deeply angry as any thoughtful black person in America will inevitably be, able to kick ass when the need arises, and NOT one of those “Mammy” figures who “endures,” and who is filled with comfort and wisdom. (Also, while Nina herself is straight, her close women friends are straight, gay, bi, and hermaphroditic).
But what’s most noteworthy about A Phat Death, and its predecessors in the series, is Kelley’s hard-hitting analysis of the crisis of Black America, and his exceedingly, wonderfully sharp and nasty satire. All the characters in the three novels have invented names, but the books are virtually romans a clef. It’s not hard to recognize the venomous portraits of African American businessmen, intellectuals, political and religious leaders, and musicians and entertainers (with a few powerful white figures thrown in for good measure). Kelley’s vision is a bracing and disturbing one: he portrays a devastated black America, in total social, cultural, and economic collapse, being torn apart and peddled to whites for profit by entrepreneurs, charlatans, and self-appointed saviors, all wanting only to “get paid.”
Norman Kelley‘s A Phat Death, or, The Last Days of Noir Soul is the third in his series of Nina Halligan detective novels (following Black Heat and The Big Mango). Like the others, A Phat Death offers a convoluted mystery plot, with ample doses of murder, mayhem, and steamy sex. This time Kelley focuses on the music business, with an ample assortment of murdered hip hop artists, thuggish black record company owners, and slimy, corrupt white politicians and media moguls. Nina Halligan, the detective protagonist and first-person narrator, is a strong black woman – but an emotional and impulsive one, deeply angry as any thoughtful black person in America will inevitably be, able to kick ass when the need arises, and NOT one of those “Mammy” figures who “endures,” and who is filled with comfort and wisdom. (Also, while Nina herself is straight, her close women friends are straight, gay, bi, and hermaphroditic).
But what’s most noteworthy about A Phat Death, and its predecessors in the series, is Kelley’s hard-hitting analysis of the crisis of Black America, and his exceedingly, wonderfully sharp and nasty satire. All the characters in the three novels have invented names, but the books are virtually romans a clef. It’s not hard to recognize the venomous portraits of African American businessmen, intellectuals, political and religious leaders, and musicians and entertainers (with a few powerful white figures thrown in for good measure). Kelley’s vision is a bracing and disturbing one: he portrays a devastated black America, in total social, cultural, and economic collapse, being torn apart and peddled to whites for profit by entrepreneurs, charlatans, and self-appointed saviors, all wanting only to “get paid.”
Lynn Ramsay’s Morvern Callar (after the novel by Alan Warner) is elliptical, opaque, and utterly gorgeous. The eponymous character (played with an almost alien blankness by the brilliant Samantha Morton) is a young, working-class Scottish woman (she works in a supermarket by day, and goes clubbing at night) who wakes up on Christmas morning (or the day before, I wasn’t sure) to discover that her boyfriend has killed himself. He’s left her a mixtape (which becomes the movie’s soundtrack, with music that ranges from Aphex Twin to Nancy Sinatra to the Velvet Underground to the Mamas and the Papas), and a suicide note with two requests: that she use his bank account to pay for his funeral, and that she send his novel to a publisher. Instead, she covers up his death, uses the funeral money to buy her and a girlfriend a vacation in southern Spain, and submits the novel under her own name.
That’s about it, as far as plot is concerned. And character motivation is entirely inscrutable.What we are left with, instead, is a film of atmosphere, drift, and escape. And it’s great.
Morvern Callar has very little dialog; besides the brilliant soundtrack music, there is lots of silence. Visually, there are lots of close-ups without establishing shots, odd angles, unexpected cuts, and continually varying lighting, which ranges from Scottish winter gloom to Spanish blinding sunlight, and from flashing neon and disco strobe lights to the fluorescent glare of the supermarket.
The start of the film looked almost Bressonian to me. (Interestingly, in an interview about the film, Ramsay speaks, not of Bresson’s framing and editing, but of his use of sound). But just as the light modulates from scene to scene, so the overall look and feel of the film modulate too. Morvern Callar simply drifts so beautifully, that it is not until a good way through that I realized that it was not in the least about aimlessness and anomie (which is how it seemed at first); rather, it is about escape. Morvern is looking for a way out, and she finds it. Although much of the movie is sad or disturbing, it is really a passionate and affirmative film. Though this affirmation-in-the-face-of-what-might-seem-to-others-as-deprivation is not spiritual in the manner of Bresson, but something even harder to give definition to. Morvern Callar is subtly, but powerfully, subversive, all the more so in that it never gives up its punk blankness and lack of direction, but turns these into positive qualities. What’s so moving about the film, finally, is something that I can only express oxymoronically: the way it gives palpable presence to the most evanescent of feelings, without them ever losing their evanescence.
Lynn Ramsay’s Morvern Callar (after the novel by Alan Warner) is elliptical, opaque, and utterly gorgeous. The eponymous character (played with an almost alien blankness by the brilliant Samantha Morton) is a young, working-class Scottish woman (she works in a supermarket by day, and goes clubbing at night) who wakes up on Christmas morning (or the day before, I wasn’t sure) to discover that her boyfriend has killed himself. He’s left her a mixtape (which becomes the movie’s soundtrack, with music that ranges from Aphex Twin to Nancy Sinatra to the Velvet Underground to the Mamas and the Papas), and a suicide note with two requests: that she use his bank account to pay for his funeral, and that she send his novel to a publisher. Instead, she covers up his death, uses the funeral money to buy her and a girlfriend a vacation in southern Spain, and submits the novel under her own name.
That’s about it, as far as plot is concerned. And character motivation is entirely inscrutable.What we are left with, instead, is a film of atmosphere, drift, and escape. And it’s great.
Morvern Callar has very little dialog; besides the brilliant soundtrack music, there is lots of silence. Visually, there are lots of close-ups without establishing shots, odd angles, unexpected cuts, and continually varying lighting, which ranges from Scottish winter gloom to Spanish blinding sunlight, and from flashing neon and disco strobe lights to the fluorescent glare of the supermarket.
The start of the film looked almost Bressonian to me. (Interestingly, in an interview about the film, Ramsay speaks, not of Bresson’s framing and editing, but of his use of sound). But just as the light modulates from scene to scene, so the overall look and feel of the film modulate too. Morvern Callar simply drifts so beautifully, that it is not until a good way through that I realized that it was not in the least about aimlessness and anomie (which is how it seemed at first); rather, it is about escape. Morvern is looking for a way out, and she finds it. Although much of the movie is sad or disturbing, it is really a passionate and affirmative film. Though this affirmation-in-the-face-of-what-might-seem-to-others-as-deprivation is not spiritual in the manner of Bresson, but something even harder to give definition to. Morvern Callar is subtly, but powerfully, subversive, all the more so in that it never gives up its punk blankness and lack of direction, but turns these into positive qualities. What’s so moving about the film, finally, is something that I can only express oxymoronically: the way it gives palpable presence to the most evanescent of feelings, without them ever losing their evanescence.
We celebrate both Christmas and Chanukah in our “multicultural” household. Happy holidays, everyone!
Christmas/Chanukah, 2003.
A few months ago, I started a WAPblog — accessible via net-enabled mobile phone — but I haven’t written much for it.The entries are still available, but I haven’t written anything new for it in quite some time.
Now I am going to try again. This time, I will make the entries from this blog available via net-enabled mobile phone, using Winksite (I learned about all this from Abe).
Just point your mobile phone browser to http://winksite.com/shaviro/pinocchio.
A few months ago, I started a WAPblog — accessible via net-enabled mobile phone — but I haven’t written much for it.The entries are still available, but I haven’t written anything new for it in quite some time.
Now I am going to try again. This time, I will make the entries from this blog available via net-enabled mobile phone, using Winksite (I learned about all this from Abe).
Just point your mobile phone browser to http://winksite.com/shaviro/pinocchio.
From a review of a forthcoming book, Killing Freud: 20th-century culture and the death of psychoanalysis by Todd Dufresne:
“Dufresne suggests that the upshot of Freud’s moribund triumph has been, intellectually, little short of catastrophic. Psychoanalysis subverts the essence of western rationality, substituting a bastard discourse for the fact-honouring conventions of dialogue that, intermittently, have served civilization well since Socrates. Rightly, Dufresne identifies the excesses of post-structuralism and postmodernism as Freud’s progeny, without wholly condemning all such movements. Yet his basic point rings true: wherever the bearded shadow of Freud falls, something unwholesome festers.”
This is precisely why, for all my suspicion and distrust of psychoanalysis (on grounds that have been worked through by Foucault, Deleuze, and others) I still consider it to be necessary, indeed indispensable.
From a review of a forthcoming book, Killing Freud: 20th-century culture and the death of psychoanalysis by Todd Dufresne:
“Dufresne suggests that the upshot of Freud’s moribund triumph has been, intellectually, little short of catastrophic. Psychoanalysis subverts the essence of western rationality, substituting a bastard discourse for the fact-honouring conventions of dialogue that, intermittently, have served civilization well since Socrates. Rightly, Dufresne identifies the excesses of post-structuralism and postmodernism as Freud’s progeny, without wholly condemning all such movements. Yet his basic point rings true: wherever the bearded shadow of Freud falls, something unwholesome festers.”
This is precisely why, for all my suspicion and distrust of psychoanalysis (on grounds that have been worked through by Foucault, Deleuze, and others) I still consider it to be necessary, indeed indispensable.