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Blu-ray Review: Naked





With DT-like wobbliness, the camera happens upon an alley, deserted aside from a few wet reflections of pasty yellow from a nearby streetlamp and two adult waifs screwing against a brick wall. The lens teeter-totters closer to the couple as, apparently, perfunctory passion turns to violence turns to the voiding of consent—not only on the part of the female being gripped unkindly by the male’s calligraphically thin arms, but on the part of the audience, who’s no longer observing action, but is now being forced to witness a transaction of sociopolitical advantage. They finish, the woman threatens the man rancorously with a beating from her brother, and both plunge into the surrounding night in opposite directions. The camera trails the man, who, within seconds, has retrieved a knapsack containing his only possessions, and is hurtling out of Manchester, as we later learn, by pinched auto to an ex-girlfriend’s in London.

The above is about as much of an exposition as we get from Mike Leigh’s biliously post-Thatcher—which is to say post-apocalyptic—salvo Naked, a film that effectively consummates the phlegmatic Labour Party politics of the director’s previous work with centripetal aggression. The dramatic impetus limned above is simple enough to be Hitchcockian: A man is carried away by a mistake and flees the scene of his embarrassment to avoid controversy. But the nebulousness of the “rape” and the sinister fear exhibited by this black-cloaked, unruly whiskered protagonist, Johnny (David Thewlis), are interpretative nuisances (of what significance is the inner conflict of a self-destructive character in a landscape already destroyed?) Johnny quickly becomes embroiled in the usual twentysomething mishaps: After arriving in London he sleeps with his ex’s punkish, pot-smoking roommate, then tires of the triangle’s entrapment and sets off on an odyssey through the seventh ring hell of the city’s after hours working class. Throughout, his acerbic, over-educated wit-spittle substitutes as a moral—or immoral, as the case may be—compass. (When the ex questions “how he got there,” he launches into a morbid description of the Big Bang, followed by Darwinian sarcasm, and capped with a Malthusian denouement and a “sprinkle [of] some grated cheese.”)

The movie’s sickly, urban gray-green-and-black color palette (courtesy of Dick Pope), as well as the aimless citizenry that comprises the cast, insinuates an uncluttered legislative thesis behind the grimly rendered world. But unlike Peter Greenaway’s more sturdily allegorical The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover, Naked resists one-to-one historical correlations or even cause-related psychoanalytical readings. From the way he spontaneously grunts and clenches his face while moseying up and down stairwells, it’s not hard to infer Johnny’s undiagnosed disorder, but the film is hardly a plea for socialized health care; if anything, Johnny’s unkempt irascibility seems to have been selected by nature as an expedient defense mechanism. Leigh’s screen traffic has political overtones, to be sure, just as it has romantic ones; intimate moments between Johnny and ex-girlfriend Louise (Lesley Sharp) nearly classify Naked as a breakup film. At the smoldering core, however, Naked is most indelibly a complexly loving humanist polemic scrawled in piss and vinegar.

Prior to Naked, Leigh’s cinema was one of incisive communalism, whittling sociological arrowheads either out of exemplars of uptight trends (the hilarious Nuts in May) or portraits of the interpersonal effects of economic malaise on impromptu families (Bleak Moments). The density of Naked, however, is oriented entirely around a single character who’s neither an efficient “everyman” surrogate for our shock at the film’s depictions of crime and penury nor a keen enough spokesperson for England’s seething populations. He’s sarcastic, filthy, sneering, intelligent but paranoid, capriciously helpful and resentful. And the remainder of the characters are essentially well-wrought foils that tease out Johnny’s dizzying mercurialness.

Sophie (Katrin Cartlidge), the disheveled roommate of Johnny’s ex, becomes a tool with which to perform carnal amusement and possibly rile the ex’s jealousy; later, when it’s clear that Johnny has no feelings for her, Sophie becomes distraught to the point of vacating both the apartment and the narrative. Then there’s the steely, affluent predator Jeremy (Greg Cruttwell), who offends and gnaws at the faces of women in a subplot that collides viciously with the primary one; his undeserved, unexplained wealth and repugnant demeanor suggest that as hateful as Johnny is, there are more severely inhumane culprits with more power in this environment. And when Johnny tours London’s underbelly, he plays part anthropologist and part soothsayer to the mottled throng; an uncontrollably flinching Scot hunting for his girlfriend funnily brings out the former, while a kindly, portly night watchman (Peter Wight) provokes the ferocity of the latter. In another, semi-satirical sequence, Johnny startles a chauffeur from napping and is invited into the posh car until the driver realizes—without, remarkably, any visible emotive shift on the actor’s part—his error. Johnny’s appearance and demeanor curdle the milk of human kindness, even if they resist demonization.

Indeed, there are those who will stop short of demonizing Johnny and those who see in him a frenzied funhouse mirror. Despite our differing approaches to intercourse, there are discomfiting similarities between the manner in which Johnny and myself are socially “received,” though I imagine that most intellectual misfits can parse themselves in some fashion through Thewlis’s performance. The film clearly wants us to internalize Johnny’s experiential perspective: The detachedly innocent handheld work of the opening grows slicker and more fluid throughout the running time, and by Johnny’s silhouetted eschatological monologue, the curious, upward tilting angles seem subtly informed by his mania. Some of my own identification might further be arbitrary corporeal congruency; as of this writing I am awkwardly lanky and underweight due to illness, as well as prone to grimacing, with a face and head that sprout unruly tufts of wiry, dirty blond hair. I own a long, black pea coat, and I become darkly anonymous by wearing it.

But part of the ease with which I can articulate a spiritual affinity with Johnny speaks to the character’s archetypal anti-socialism. His proclivity for puns toys with conversation in a manner that flies over the heads of most of his companions. (Upon gripping Sophie’s breasts he whispers, “Thanks for the mammaries.”) He also possesses a voracious curiosity toward that which disgusts him; his fascination with biology and evolution primarily furnishes him with more reasons to condescend to the human race. And he’s unwilling to accept fondness toward his person as anything but fatuous or misleading—and surely anyone who has ever begged off belonging to clubs that would have him as a member can in a sense empathize with Johnny’s desire to denote bombs beneath prospective supporters. Yet there’s also the sense that the above bitterness is a calculated act, or perhaps an appropriation of tendencies outside of Johnny’s control that deserve sympathy—particularly in the tender interactions between Johnny and his erstwhile lover Louise. Upon finding her battered old boyfriend in her apartment, and then being insulted by him directly after arriving home from work, Louise grimly smiles, saying, “I can see you haven’t changed.” Louise’s agency at the film’s end in warding off the gigglingly ruthless advances of Jeremy, who’s revealed as her and Sophie’s landlord, also implies that her passivity toward Johnny’s intermittent abuse is a similarly calculated expression of love—even if it fails to fashion a sustainably dysfunctional dynamic between them.

It’s debatable whether finding one’s self in such pathological fictive constructs has any interpersonal use; I can’t learn from Johnny’s mistakes any more than I can confront my misanthropy through his (non-existent) “redemption.” More than a model for self-empowerment or a cautionary effigy, however, I have recognized the potential of Johnny’s near-fungal lifestyle as a far more potent influence on critical voice. Johnny is, in many ways, a termite critic par excellence. He’s itinerant and weightless. He moves uncomfortably close to handle roughly that which attracts him. He processes all information with shamanic alarmism, fashioning batshit, species-wide conspiracy theories that are either useful subterfuge or clever self-validation for his incessant anxiety. He fetishizes subtext, even in the sense of industrial metropolitan underbellies. (He stops at one random moment to feel the “vibrations” of the city beneath London, one of subways and pipes and other municipal entrails.) He’s both skeptical and open-minded, both pilgrim and untouchable.

But most crucially, Johnny understands that there are pressures both aesthetic and global to which reacting with lucidity is monstrously dishonest. Coherence is the onus of expository text; while the obligation has been long since pulverized by the practitioners of other expressive techniques, critics continue to stuffily cart it about like a pack of pallbearers. Likewise, compared to Johnny’s boundary-chewing animus, the remainder of the world he inhabits appears to be in a state of reflexive mourning: When some thugs beat Johnny up for a passing lark, it feels grossly casual, and even the psychopathic Jeremy appears listlessly supercilious. Johnny, on the other hand, launches into a tirade during one scene at the incendiary suggestion that he might merely be “bored.” The critical impulse is often tethered to a fierce self-destructiveness; at our most useful, we unleash dangerous ideas that are intended, at some level, to be virulently rebutted and scoffed at. Any assessment of the value of these ideas must be structured around their ability to rouse others from torpidity. Criticism, at its most trenchant, stimulates as the at-first-befuddling tug of the hair or the interpretatively panicked blow to the gut. Comfort must be eschewed at all costs, a realization that also befalls Johnny, and quite rudely. His response to that epiphany is a motto ripe for the picking: “I hope that you dream about me. And I hope that you wake up screaming.”


Naked would not be half the achievement it is without Dick Pope’s grime-accentuating cinematography and Andrew Dickson’s plaintively pulsing score, and the clarity offered by Criterion’s high-def upgrade deepens their abetting of Johnny’s rampage. One hesitates to call the 1080p transfer “spotless,” given the milieu, but the additional lines of detail provide a visceral cleanliness to the pale flesh tones and darkened alleyways. The new restoration isn’t notably different in tone from Criterion’s original release in 2005, but the boost in resolution further enhances our enveloping by Johnny’s perspective. This is a London infested with filth, begging to be put out of its misery.


The supplements are the same as on the 2005 release, with the plum still being the revealing commentary between Mike Leigh, David Thewlis, and Katrin Cartlidge that, among other things, lays to rest a number of myths about the director’s putatively “scriptless” shooting methods. In a video interview, Neil LaBute compares Thewlis to Marlon Brando; there’s also a decent discussion of the film by Leigh from a 1990’s BBC program. Finally, there’s Leigh’s 1987 TV short The Short and Curlies, also starring Thewlis in a nearly nebbish role that stands astoundingly perpendicular to his turn as Johnny. The context provided by these extras is valuable if only to suggest the studied meticulousness and rare inspiration that bore the masterpiece of Naked into being.


Mike Leigh and David Thewlis’s cerebral rape and pillage in the village of Naked peel back the maggot-infested curtain of Thatcher’s London to reveal an atom of hope.

Cast: David Thewlis, Lesley Sharp, Katrin Cartlidge, Greg Cruttwell Director: Mike Leigh Screenwriter: Mike Leigh Distributor: The Criterion Collection Running Time: 131 min Rating: R Year: 1993 Release Date: July 12, 2011 Buy: Video



Blu-ray Review: Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Berlin Alexanderplatz

Now Fassbinder’s 15-hour-plus epic runs at 25fps, as per the original German television broadcast.




Berlin Alexanderplatz

Until its self-described two-hour epilogue, Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s adaptation of Alfred Döblin’s 1929 novel Berlin Alexanderplatz is an engrossing psychological portrait of Franz Biberkopf (Günter Lamprecht), a Weimar-era worker bee whose slow corrosion of self both parallels and paves the way for the impending rise of Nazism. He’s a vividly realized allegorical golem, at moments passive and acquiescent, at others viciously in control. Emerging from a four-year prison stint at the start of Fassbinder’s 15-hour-plus epic, he plugs his ears and contorts his mouth in silent scream (the on-screen title reads: “The Torment Begins”), though he’s no mere victim of the pogrom’s progress slowly infecting the German id.

In retrospect, Biberkopf is more of an accumulative symbol, as he wears his ideologies—Nazi newspaper seller, drunk, underground criminal, pimp—like the latest fashions, discarding them when they violently fester or cease to be useful. The residue of his experiences—multifaceted, oft-contradictory—nonetheless remains, so the impression in the moment is one of revelation: With each narrative step forward, Biberkopf seemingly gains in clarity (the length of the work is a benefit, allowing for a novelistic density and, at times, a mesmeric depth of character), though Fassbinder is, in fact, merely setting up his metaphor-slathered patsy for an empty-headed last-act kill.

To his credit, Fassbinder’s highly problematic directorial intentions don’t emerge from the literal nowhere. The bibilical story of Abraham and Isaac is crucially invoked, played in voiceover counterpoint to a scene of a younger Biberkopf strangling his lover Ida (Barbara Valentin). This is the only glimpse we get of Biberkopf’s past—the only extra-narrative detail—and Fassbinder returns to it again and again over the course of Berlin Alexanderplatz, the same matter-of-fact shot-sequence replayed, each time with a different aural accompaniment, so that it burns irremovably into the psyche. This is the wellspring, the moment in time that births the character of Biberkopf and sends him flailing forth on a sacrificial ascension up the Teutonic mount. Yet it is finally lazy psychology, in toto suggesting that all of Biberkopf’s travails—and, implicitly, Germany’s—can be traced back to a singular point.

I don’t think Fassbinder entirely believes in this bill of goods he’s selling us, but he seems incapable of resolving the complex undercurrents of Berlin Alexanderplatz, preferring to indulge his (not incorrect) instincts toward self-destruction. In conception, the film’s two-hour epilogue is ingenious, a descent into absolute hysteria and madness wherein Biberkopf wanders through a politically and spiritually charged psychosexual dreamscape, complete with anachronistic musical cues from the likes of Janis Joplin, Lou Reed, and Kraftwerk.

Yet the experience of watching this intentionally incongruous coda is excruciating, and to no defensible effect beyond a shrug of the shoulders and an acknowledgement that literalizing the metaphysical isn’t Fassbinder’s forte. This is the sequence that helped me to understand Phillip Lopate’s otherwise erroneous dismissal of the film (“flat and indifferently realized, a TV mini-series directed by the yard”) in the closing paragraphs of his essay “A Date With Fassbinder and Despair.” I would personally urge Lopate to go back and re-view certain parts of Berlin Alexanderplatz, some of which rank with the finest work in cinema, though in light of where it all finally goes—a haphazard succession of sub-Anger sexual imagery, half-hearted slaughterhouse/Christ motifs, and the kind of head-slappingly pretentious apocalyptic imagery brilliantly skewered by The Critic—I’d understand his hesitation to do so.

Berlin Alexanderplatz’s best scenes revolve around more interpersonal matters, specifically in Biberkopf’s relationship with the treacherous Reinhold (Gottfried John), the man who indoctrinates him into the criminal underworld and who eventually kills Biberkopf’s prostitute lover, Mieze (Barbara Sukowa). When the duo first meets in the fifth episode, they agree to share several revolving-door lovers—when Reinhold tires of his latest conquest, he passes her onto Biberkopf. It’s a brilliantly sustained roundelay on Fassbinder’s part, aided and abetted by an incessant Windham-Hill-from-Hell underscore and by the metronomic rhythms of an endlessly flashing neon sign. In ultimate effect, it is second only to the film’s best scene—captured in a distanced, yet empathetic single take—in which Reinhold murders Mieze.

Fassbinder recognizes this as Berlin Alexanderplatz’s high point: Reinhold and Mieze moving as if on a woodland proscenium, helplessly trying to avoid a violent, practically preordained confrontation. When it comes, it’s awkward, messy, yet possessed of a cosmic significance, an act at once unintentional and inevitable. Even the mist in the fog-shrouded forest descends as if on heavenly cue. It’s telling that Biberkopf is nowhere to be found (he spends the majority of the episode off screen) and even more revealing that Fassbinder appends the tail-end of this sequence to the final moments of his ill-advised epilogue, as if trying—desperately, regretfully, impossibly—to recapture and reclaim a long-lost moment of clarity.


Criterion’s 2007 DVD notoriously featured a slowed-down frame rate to account for displaying the PAL-formatted original broadcast into the American NTSC system. The Blu-ray makes up for this by using the correct PAL frame rate, marking an immediate upgrade from the prior release. In all other respects, though, the Blu-ray, sourced from the same 2006 restoration as the DVD, offers merely an HD upgrade of the older discs. That said, the image still looks great, with the tactile 16mm cinematography offering strong contrast only occasionally marred by compression artifacts. The jaundiced amber color timing and rich use of shadow looks far superior in high-def than on the DVDs, and the lossless audio is slightly crisper than before.


The extras here, including two documentaries, one an overview of the series with interviews with cast and crew and the other a documentary on the 2006 restoration, have been carried over from Criterion’s earlier release. A 1980 documentary on the making of the miniseries captures Rainer Werner Fassbinder in action, impressively commandeering this epic film’s making. Peter Jelavich, a film professor and author of a monograph on the miniseries, contributes an illuminating interview on the miniseries, from its source novel to Fassbinder’s additions and interpretations. Most interesting is the inclusion of a 1931 adaptation of the source novel by Phil Jutzi. A booklet contains an old essay by Fassbinder reflecting on the book’s influence on him, a thorough analysis and appreciation of the series by director Tom Tykwer, an interview with cinematographer Xaver Schwarzenberger, and a summarizing critical essay by Thomas Steinfeld that expounds upon Biberkopf as a Job-like figure.


Criterion’s Blu-ray offers only a mild upgrade in picture quality from the distributor’s earlier standard-definition release, but now Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s 15-hour-plus epic runs at 25fps, as per the original German television broadcast.

Cast: Günter Lamprecht, Gottfried John, Barbara Sukowa, Hanna Schygulla, Franz Buchrieser, Annemarie Düringer, Ivan Desny, Hark Bohm, Roger Fritz, Brigitte Mira, Karin Baal, Elisabeth Trissenaar, Barbara Valentin, Irm Hermann, Margit Carstensen, Helmut Griem, Helen Vita, Gerhard Zwerenz, Raul Gimenez, Mechthild Großmann, Angela Schmidt, Claus Holm, Fritz Schediwy, Axel Bauer, Volker Spengler Director: Rainer Werner Fassbinder Screenwriter: Rainer Werner Fassbinder Distributor: The Criterion Collection Running Time: 940 min Rating: NR Year: 1980 Release Date: February 12, 2019 Buy: Video, Soundtrack

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Blu-ray Review: Peppermint Soda Gets 2K Restoration from Cohen Media Group

Diane Kurys’s poignant debut powerfully evokes the bittersweet feelings of leaving behind the halcyon days of one’s youth.



Peppermint Soda
Photo: Cohen Media Group

Diane Kurys’s Peppermint Soda is like flipping through a young girl’s diary, capturing as it does snippets of the small-scale tragedies, amusing hijinks, and quotidian details that define the lives of two Parisian teenage sisters over the course of their 1963-to-‘64 school year. Through a delicate balancing of comedic and dramatic tones, Kurys’s debut film taps into the emotional insecurities and social turmoil that accompany the awkward biological developments of adolescence with a disarming sweetness and subtlety, lending even small moments a poignancy that shuns overt displays of sentimentality or nostalgia. As evidenced by the opening title card, in which Kurys dedicates the film to her sister “who has still hasn’t returned my orange sweater,” Peppermint Soda’s authenticity arises from its specificity, both in its characters’ tumultuous inner lives and the detailed rendering of their friends and teachers, as well as the classrooms within which they passed their days.

Structured as a series of loosely connected vignettes, the film bounces between the introverted 13-year-old Anne (Eléonore Klarwein) and her outgoing, popular 15-year-old sister, Frédérique (Odile Michel), who both attend the same strict, bourgeois private school. While Anne’s concerns often verge on the petty, be it her frustration at her mother (Anouk Ferjac) refusing to buy her pantyhose or at her sister for preventing her from tagging along to social gatherings, Kurys depicts Anne with a uniquely compassionate eye, mining light humor out of such situations while remaining keenly aware of the almost insurmountable peer pressures and image-consciousness that are the driving forces behind most irrational teenage behavior.

Some scenes, such as the one where Anne’s art teacher ruthlessly mocks her drawing in front of the class, are representative of the emotionally abusive or neglectful relationship between Anne and many of the adults in her life, and throughout, Kurys understands that it’s how Anne is seen by her classmates that most dramatically affects her state of mind. In the heightened emotional state of teenage years, the sting of simply not having a pair of pantyhose can be more painful than a teacher’s overbearing maliciousness. But Peppermint Soda isn’t all doom and gloom, as the bitter disappointments of youth are counterbalanced with a number of droll passages of Anne gossiping and goofing off with her friends. Particularly amusing is a conversation where Anne’s friend confidently, yet with wild inaccuracies, describes sex, eventually guessing that boy’s hard-ons can grow to around six feet long.

In Peppermint Soda’s latter half, Kurys seamlessly shifts her focus toward Frédérique, broadening the film’s scope as current events begin to shape the elder sister’s political consciousness. Everything from John F. Kennedy’s assassination to a classmate’s terrifying firsthand account of the police’s violent overreaction to a student protest against the Algerian War lead Frédérique to slowly awaken to the complexities of the world around her. But even as Frédérique finds herself becoming quite the activist, handing out peace pins and organizing secret meetings in school—and much to the chagrin of her mother and her sexist, conservative teacher—she’s still prone to fits of emotional immaturity when it comes to her boyfriend.

It’s through these frequent juxtapositions of micro and macro concerns, when the inescapable solipsism of childhood runs head-on into the immovable hurdles and responsibilities of adulthood, that Peppermint Soda most powerfully evokes the bittersweet feelings of leaving behind the halcyon days of one’s youth. Yet the sly sense of whimsy that Kurys instills in her deeply personal recollections acts as a comforting reminder of the humor tucked away in even our darkest childhood memories. Sometimes it just takes a decade or two to actually find it.

Peppermint Soda is now available on Blu-ray and DVD from Cohen Media Group.

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Blu-ray Review: Takashi Miike’s Audition on Arrow Video

Arrow Video outfits the most notorious and profound of modern horror films with a vivid transfer.





Twenty years after its release, Takashi Miike’s Audition still feels like the most visceral and evocative horror film since Tobe Hooper’s The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. There are commonalities between the movies as well, as both are still discussed with a degree of skittish awe—almost as if they’re radioactive—and both bend narrative expectations to reveal social fault lines. Yet to view Audition only as a horror film, to continually emphasize the graphic power of its final act at the expense of what precedes it, is to ignore the film’s robust vision. Audition is a psychological drama, a detonation of romantic-comedy clichés, as well as a brutal examination of social isolation and malaise, and the gulf that often exists between men and women. Miike’s greatest film to date isn’t a gonzo shock artifact, but a furious and mysterious howl of despair.

Based on a novel by Ryû Murakami, Audition has a conceit that could easily drive a mediocre rom-com, though Miike emphasizes social texture, underscoring the insidiously trivializing elements of such formulas. Aoyama (Ryo Ishibashi) is a middle-aged widower, a little soft around the middle, who’s raising his teenage son, Shigehiko (Tetsu Sawaki). Worried about his father, Shigehiko says that Aoyama should marry again, with a flippancy that suggests how someone might ask a family member to pick up dinner on their way home from work. Shigehiko is generally sensitive and thoughtful but sees women as accessories.

Indeed, the most unsettling element of these scenes, at least for contemporary American audiences, is the casualness of Shigehiko’s objectification, which Miike presents empathetically. This objectification is understood to be complicated by grief, as Shigehiko and Aoyama are processing a loved one’s death, in addition to a protective guilt that’s common for children to feel about their parents as they develop their own lives. Achingly lonely, Aoyama senses Shigehiko’s guilt and agrees to look for a new wife. At the urging of his filmmaking partner, Yoshikawa (Jun Kunimara), Aoyama holds a fake audition for a melodrama as a way of fishing for young, attractive, and obedient women.

Audition’s linking of rom-com tropes with savagery has always been disturbing, though this equation is thornier in the wake of #MeToo. The first hour of the film can be read several ways, often simultaneously. Outwardly, the narrative resembles an innocuous romantic bauble. On another level, men hurt women throughout Audition, partially because the men see women as “others” to be enjoyed and procured when convenient—a sentiment that’s alternately celebrated and rued by pop culture, giving the populace a kind of ideological whiplash. (Rom-coms condition us to see lovers as objects aiding us on our paths toward fulfillment.)

Though poignant, Aoyama is nevertheless revealed to have bedded and discarded his assistant, whose pain he’s oblivious to as he pursues a dream woman. (In this and other threads, there are shades of another classic film of male manipulation and self-isolation: Vertigo.) Even innocent Shigehiko confesses to a fear of women, born in part from his dead mother, whose absence failed to prepare him for healthy relationships with the opposite sex. Shigehiko brings home a girl, and Aoyama cheers him on as one might an athlete making a score—a punchline that feels cute and characteristic of the jokes of many American or Japanese rom-coms but becomes retroactively sinister. We’re seeing men reinforce one another’s limited views of women as prizes to be won, which are to complement the men’s notions of themselves.

In the audition process, an exploitation that Miike ironically stages with the cheeriness of a broad comedy, Aoyama becomes quickly stuck on Asami (Eihi Shiina), a young woman who conforms so perfectly to a Japanese ideal of subservience as to seem deranged from the outset. This is one of the film’s great black jokes. Aoyama is so determined to see Asami in a particular way (as a reflection of his own pain) that he misses her personal agency, overlooking her in the way that men in this film habitually overlook women. What Aoyama fails to see in Asami is a chasm of alienation and madness, fostered by the abuse of men, which far exceeds his understanding and experience, and which is expressed by her intelligent yet somewhat affectless eyes and coiled, wiry frame. She’s more than willing to educate him in the ways of her true self, in an act of torture born of vengeance, love, and reckoning.

In many of Miike’s most outrageous films, violence is a matter of gleeful aesthetic that’s impressive but fairly easily shaken off. Though far from being Miike’s most explicit film, Audition is his most disturbing for the patience he displays. Miike mounts a character study that’s rich in psychological ironies, portraying men and women as irreconcilably separated by social boundaries and personal traumas that must eventually be exorcised by violence. Aoyama and Yoshikawa can share a drink and a smoke at a bar and enjoy one another in a way that they can’t enjoy women, which is reflective of the behavior of many men in real life. This sadness, as well as the ghastly asymmetry between Aoyama’s deception and the punishment it eventually incurs, keep the film from being a pat male-hating parable. (As Japanese cinema historian Tony Rayns observes in an interview included with this disc, feminism doesn’t enjoy the stature in Japan than it does in the United States.) Like Hitchcock, Miike sympathizes with his male characters, yet he’s enough of an artist to see in his women what his men cannot. The women of this film perceive this mutual male enjoyment and yearn for it, and this is partially what Asami’s torture of Aoyama represents: a demand to be truly seen.

Miike also understands that men pay for their sexism, as this is a source of their feelings of hollowness. When Asami paralyzes Aoyama and sticks him with acupuncture pins and saws his foot off with fine wire, actions which Miike stages with a galvanizing calmness, she traumatizes him while providing him with a perverse catharsis. Aoyama’s fear of women has finally been realized and justified, as he’s seeing the heart of Asami’s sickness. But this interpretation is complicated by several slips in time and perspective. When Aoyama is paralyzed by drugged whisky, he flashes back to dates he’s had with Asami, which gain new significance, and which Miike rhymes with Aoyama’s encounters with other females, most perversely including his son’s date. In these sequences, Miike renders a free-associative vortex of male neuroses, in which women become interchangeable harbingers of longing and pain.

In these recollections/projections, Aoyama also sees images he shouldn’t be able to see, such as Asami’s apartment, to which he’s never been, and a burlap sack that contains a man whom she’s disfigured and taken prisoner, feeding as one might a dog. At a certain point in his drugged state, Aoyama flashes back to the night he slept with Asami in a hotel, only this time he checks his feet with relief to see that they’re still there. Aoyama’s torture and degradation might only be the fantasy of a guilt-ridden man, then, which is but another kind of horror, as this interpretation suggests no catharsis, no bridging of the gulf between Aoyama and Asami.

Asami’s torture of Aoyama suggests an explosion of the pent-up gender hostilities that fuel pop culture. As Audition progresses toward its no-exit finale, Miike gradually informs its atmosphere with the aura of a horror noir, and so the film grows sicker and more neurotic before our eyes. (The turning point is the first glimpse of Asami in her apartment, staring at her phone in anticipation of Aoyama’s call as the human bag sits in a corner. Later, when the phone finally rings, her lips curl into a blood-freezing smile.) Restaurants and alleyways go from being white and sterile to shadowy and inflamed with redness, as Aoyama begins to envision—or hallucinate—fleeting scenes of Grand Guignol atrocity. Yet, unlike many modern horror films, Audition understands such atrocity to be built on a seemingly banal bedrock of illusion, elusion, and accommodation that’s as scary, in its way, as a cooing wraith strapped in fetish gear, who, when confronting a lover, feels as if she’s facing her maker.


This 2K restoration of Audition by Arrow Films is a significant improvement over prior home-video editions, which have often sported soft, splotchy colors. The colors of this image are quite vivid, particularly the blues of the ocean in an early scene and the reds of Asami’s infernal world, but there’s still quite a bit of grain and a sort of brownish tint that are probably inherent to the film’s source materials. Overall, however, this image is attractive, with quite a bit of startling and newly apparent details. The 5.1 channel DTS-HD soundtrack is subtle and disconcertingly immersive, especially in the film’s final act, with aural flourishes distributed astutely across the various speakers. This track is also much cleaner than those of prior editions, with considerably enhanced clarity.


A new audio commentary by Takashi Miike biographer Tom Mes offers a terrific deep dive into Japanese film culture, particularly the straight-to-tape cinema in which Miike began his career. Mes also tackles Audition’s head-spinning thicket of subtexts, elaborating on how Miike foreshadows various events with the repetition of motifs and camera angles. This criticism is complemented by a new interview with Miike and an appreciation by Japanese cinema historian Tony Rayns that’s been ported over from a prior edition. Miike admits that he wonders if he disappointed audiences by never making another film with Audition’s impact, while Rayns wrestles with the film’s ambiguous gender themes and how they resound within larger Japanese culture. Interviews with most of the cast members and an audio commentary by Miike and screenwriter Daisuke Tengan have also been carried over from prior editions. This very solid package, rich in observation and context, is rounded out with an assortment of trailers and newly commissioned artwork by Matthew Griffin.


Arrow Video outfits the most notorious and profound of modern horror films with a vivid transfer, and with supplements that wrestle intelligently with its many mysteries.

Cast: Ryo Ishibashi, Eihi Shiina, Tetsu Sawaki, Jun Kunimura, Renji Ishibashi, Ren Osugi Director: Takashi Miike Screenwriter: Daisuke Tengan Distributor: Arrow Video Running Time: 115 min Rating: NR Year: 1999 Release Date: February 12, 2019 Buy: Video

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