We recently looked at twelve fractious movie shoots, plagued by everything from bad weather and budgetary problems to domineering directors and badly behaved stars. You thought that was it? Well, think again! Here are twelve more unforgettable tales of trouble on set.
In urban Japan, there is a particular bathhouse. By day, it functions just like any other, a communal space for the unwashed masses to cleanse themselves. But by night, it becomes a Grand Guignol, where mobsters execute and dispose of bodies, turned to ashes in the water heater. ‘Business as usual’ takes on a whole new meaning in director/writer/editor Seiji Tanaka’s debut feature, and if this is his first step into cinema, he has a bright future ahead.
The matter-of-factness of the setting and main character Kazuhiko’s place within it gives the film a certain Scorsese-esque tinge, where the normality of such grotesque actions gives way to its own brand of quiet terror. The visuals make it a point not to linger on the blood spray for too long, treating it as routinely as the characters themselves.
Kazuhiko, a Tokyo University graduate who hasn’t managed to hold down a full-time job yet, finds himself venturing deeper and deeper into the bathhouse’s hidden utilisation, but it only briefly serves as a shock to the system. Beyond that, it becomes simply part of the job description, as he cleans up the blood and corpses before the day customers arrive.
It serves partly as casual horror, but it also gives way to a certain gallows humour. Watching Kazuhiko converse with his co-workers and his family, whether it’s talking around the specifics of his work or getting into the simple mechanics of why certain people meet their end at his workplace, it’s difficult not to notice the absurdity of the situation. It also potentially leads to cries of “why is he still there?”, but that turns into another avenue of dread, one far closer to home.
The truly messed-up part of this premise is that, even removed from its violent specifics, it’s a scenario that is all-too-frequent in the workforce across the board. The more a given employee knows about who they work for, the more likely they are to find certain… discrepancies. The people and groups that the work helps keep funded, the actions made to keep the work coming in and out, the blind eyes that get turned whenever something unsavoury pops up that may jeopardise the business; you don’t have to look far to find this going on right under people’s noses.
And much like Kazuhiko, most can’t afford to argue with it. Money is the oil that keeps the machinery moving, and since all humans need sustenance, lodging and a place to be made useful, rejection of the nitty gritty of the system is a luxury outside of the working-class tax bracket. Wrestling with one’s conscience to gather the funds needed to live is a sad state of affairs, but it’s reality. A reality that can be altered, but only through a possession of will, determination, and a willingness to change the system. That’s the weirdest part of all this: for as bleak as it is for its majority of screen time, it also contains a great big ball of optimism by story’s end.
In this drama from filmmaker John Fraser – marking his feature-length debut – we follow a lonely photographer down the dark alleys of Melbourne and through the glitzy world of the media. That photographer is Eugene (Peter Flaherty); a nondescript man who you could quickly lose in a crowd. Something which seems to work in his favour as Eugene likes to take pictures of the social decay he sees daily while looking after his invalid father (Roger Ward).
Drug taking, crime and prostitution all feature heavily in his work. It’s a turn off to the magazines he sends them to, but Eugene believes everything he shoots is in the public interest. When he witnesses 15-year-old sex worker, Josephine (Sarah Timm), being assaulted by her pimp, the mild-mannered photographer decides to intervene. And in doing so, puts both of their lives in danger.
Like a certain Todd Phillips’ comic book joint that came out recently, Choir Girl feels somewhat indebted to Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver. As Travis Bickle became obsessed with the adolescent Iris, so too does Eugene with Josephine. It’s an uneasy relationship to watch develop. Sure, Eugene wants to help her out of her current situation, but is he doing it because he can get more photos out of her? The waters are muddied by the introduction of Josephine’s pimp, Daddy (Jack Campbell) and Eugene’s magazine editor, Polly (Krista Vendy). To toss out a cliché, both characters are fundamentally different sides of the same coin; encouraging Eugene and Josephine to plunge further into the depths than they had been initially.
Shot in beautiful black and white, this is by no means a jovial film, and you’ll taste every bit of grit it force-feeds you in the first act, but once Daddy offers Eugene the opportunity to buy Josephine off him it all becomes tough to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Eugene effectively becomes the young girl’s pimp, protecting her from clients as she continues the trade that he’s been trying to save her from. Meanwhile, while Polly appears to be concerned for everyone’s welfare, it’s hard not to see the dollar signs in her eyes. And that’s where Choir Girl starts its bumpy road towards denouement, despite some excellent performances. Flaherty, in particular, does a lot of heavy lifting.
Films like Nil By Mouth or Romper Stomper show that tales of redemption don’t need to be as clean-cut as we’d like, or even have a happy ending. Choir Girl makes good on that philosophy and then some. This is a brutal film to watch, and Fraser has no intentions of making you comfortable throughout its duration. There will undoubtedly be some who find all its nihilism more numbing than shocking. Like exploitation, Choir Girl piles on the tragedy until you’re almost drowning in it and a highly aggressive sexual assault in the final act will undoubtedly put a nail in the coffin for many.
There’s no doubt about it, Choir Girl pulls no punches, and its arms must be heavy from holding up a mirror to modern society for so long, but in doing so, it does itself the disservice of potentially alienating the audience.
The widow of legendary opera singer Luciano Pavarotti is determined to keep her late husband’s flame burning, tirelessly promoting Ron Howard’s documentary about the great tenor, most recently at the Zurich Film Festival.
“It’s raining sparks,” says Haruka Echigo’s Saki, as the sky fills with dreamlike fireworks during Moonless Dawn – a moody 60-minute feature on existential youth.
Inspired by the music of Japanese band LOWPOPLTD, Harika Abe’s debut steers the intertwining stories of three students in Shibuya. The first is Yuka (Yuka Nakao) – a popular schoolgirl who occasionally meets with strangers in love hotels; Saki, a timid and troubled student who is at odds with her strict parents, and Kou (Yuzu Aoki), an aspiring musician whose wimpy father teaches at his school.
Sitting uneasy at the precipice of junior high school, these aimless characters are drawn together by Kou’s music and develop a platonic bond that fills the void of dull Japanese academia and home life. Their meeting point (or club treehouse of sorts) is the rooftop of a mysterious building that overlooks the sullen city. A place they can jointly escape to, away from the moral and forced-upon obligations of their daily lives.
The film also muses on interesting present-day concerns about modern technology and relationships – where people are so accustomed to communication through their phones that they’ve forgotten what true interaction and connection feels like. Take Kou, for example, who barely acknowledges the existence of his single father – a man physically bullied by his own students and incapable of retaliation.
In another awkward scene, with minimal use of dialogue and eye contact, Kou invites a classmate over with the intention of making a move on her. Yuka, meanwhile, finds some form of imprudent satisfaction from encounters with seedy older men – relentlessly vying for her attention on Shibuya’s busy promenade.
Contrasting the village-like suburbia with the city’s modern constructs, Abe’s restrained direction suits Japan’s grey palette and allows her young actors to deliver understated performances which gently unravel and build portraits.
But the one-two combo of Moonlight Dawn’s brief running time and slice-of-life narrative means it never truly gains enough traction – the screenplay drifting as free-spirited as its characters, before an odd twist (or turn?) and unsatisfying denouement. The result is a peculiar and laconic snapshot of Japanese adolescence that would better suit an intriguing TV pilot, rather than a feature film.
At one point in writer/director Shonali Bose’s The Sky is Pink, a distraught mother (Priyanka Chopra Jonas) ties her personal wish tag onto a communal wishing tree, reminding the fates that her ailing daughter’s name is Aisha – ‘she who lives’. Aisha’s life is shown as a constant struggle from birth since she has inherited SCID – a rare disorder which makes her susceptible to life threatening infections.
The film is based on the true story of Aisha Chaudhary (Zaira Wasim) – an author and motivational speaker, who died at the age of 18 from complications caused by a bone marrow transplant. Bose’s previous film Margaritawith a Straw (2014) was also about adapting to chronic illness, parents who strive to establish normalcy, and the effects of grief. The rosy titles of these films are a nod to her positive treatment of depressing material. Both films are dedicated to Bose’s own son, Ishan, who died in a car accident at the age of 16.
The lead actors – Zaira Wasim, Priyanka Chopra Jonas and Farhan Akhtar are all primarily connected with the Hindi commercial film industry (Bollywood), as is the musical composer Pritam. This film, however, is indie in its orientation. The treatment of the songs is modern and understated. Vignettes of family life, celebration or romance are montaged to appear quite natural (as opposed to choreographed and staged). The mise en scene is natural although it extends to glamorous realism when the family’s wealth increases.
Although Priyanka Chopra Jonas gives a grounded performance, it is difficult to disassociate her from the diva of her filmography. Farhan Akhtar as Aisha’s father disappears more convincingly into his role. Zaira Wasim is the soul of the film even though it is primarily focused on Aisha’s parents, who facilitate her beautiful albeit short, life.
In both the Sky is Pink and Margarita with a Straw the main characters are well off financially. This makes it easier for the filmmakers to concentrate on emotions, since day-to-day economic survival isn’t an issue[i] and life enhancing trips abroad are an option. In their poorer days, the parents are unable to afford their daughter’s treatment but that obstacle is quite simply, and perhaps too conveniently, surmounted. Emotional trajectories are salient with lots of chronological breaks covering a 25-year period – juxtaposing scenes of Aisha’s dark, empty bed in the present with shots of the parents’ sunny love affair; the trauma of treatment with the joys of family life.
The narrator is Aisha who, as a motivational coach, is not sorry for herself, for her family or for us. (‘We all have to die some time.’) The narration, written by award winning Juhi Chaturvedi (Vicky Donor, Piku) and Nilesh Maniyar, capture a wry humor which, combined with Bose’s innate understanding of adolescence, make for an endearing character. The film does get melodramatic towards the end but relative to other Hindi films, it’s not overly sentimental given the real-life material.
A team of non-Indian producers is credited which points to the fact that the film is targeting festivals and an international audience. Aisha’s brother (Rohit Saraf) is not given enough attention to justify his many brief appearances. The songs – although pleasant, just add unnecessarily to the film’s length. A tighter edit and perhaps a little less fragmentation might have made it the film it wants to be.
Slam poetry’s aim to communicate the hardships experienced by the marginalised, comprising of one-part confronting lyricism and one-part performance, becomes defanged thanks to a competitive poetry circuit whose round-robin nature resembles The Masked Singer. With no Lindsay Lohan or obscure Australian pop-star hidden beneath a mask in sight, this competitive world of slam poetry is explored in the honest-yet-doughy documentary Don’t Be Nice.
The film follows the journey of the Bowery Slam Poetry Team – a team comprised entirely of people of colour – in the lead up to the 2016 National Poetry Slam. The National Poetry Slam offers entrants more than just a soapbox to discuss inequality. For the competitors, it provides the opportunity to perform in front of large crowds and an entry point into the entertainment business.
Vulnerability is part of the game, with each competitor digging deep into their traumatic past to convey a confronting look at the current climate. It is not enough for these participants to say how they feel; they must bleed for it.
From ideation to fruition, director Max Powers invites the viewer to witness the creative process for these artists. For these vanguard poets, it is a journey that is equal parts rewarding as it is frustrating, with the fruit of their labour put under constant scrutiny by their coach.
Their handling of critique, whether destructive or constructive, allows Don’t Be Nice to introduce a discussion on criticism culture. To the detriment of the film, this theme is not explored further with the documentary unable to draw a satisfying point-of-view on the matter.
Don’t Be Nice is unafraid to question the legitimacy of its practice, with members of The Bowery Slam Poetry Team questioning those who ‘write good poetry’ with those who ‘write to win competitions.’ This question of artistic integrity versus crowd-pleasing is explored with thorough concern and demonstrates deep thinking on behalf of the filmmakers who remain committed to upholding the sanctity of slam poetry.
This degree of complex thinking is most evident in the slam poets’ performances, with each participant using every opportunity on-screen to leave an impression. They are performers who use words and expressions to provoke strong emotions; their everyday fears coupled with the Black Lives Matter movement being some of the prevalent themes in their work.
Slam poetry is an art-form that draws its intense power through a frenzy of provocative right-hooks that speak to the human experience. It is when the filmmakers decide to incorporate visual elements, the output having the same quality as a YouTube video, where Don’t be Nice breaks its neck trying to enhance the medium. It becomes an indie effort wanting to turn mainstream that ultimately clashes with the underground nature of slam poetry.
All sizzle and little pop, Don’t Be Nice offers a fascinating yet unfocused glimpse into the world of competitive slam poetry.
The latest from director Shunji Muguruma (Shadow Kids, Oh! My! God! Kamisama kara no okuimono) is a tune made up of familiar notes. A trio of high school girls form a band and, when discovering that their favourite hot spot, Tero’s Rock Café is at risk of closing down, they enter a band competition to raise the money needed to keep it open. The trio are mentored by Jyo, a former musician who felt he missed his chance at stardom while his former bandmate raked in the glory, learning to rock again through the youthful energy of his proteges.
Of course, like the best music in the genre, cliché is part of what makes it work. The music itself, courtesy of Koji Endo strikes a heartful chord through its simplicity, allowing the infectiousness of both the tunes and the performance thereof to flow in and out of the frequently melodramatic narrative. It’s almost unfair how catchy the music is, making ‘humming the baseline’ into less of a suggestion and more of a foregone conclusion.
While Kaori Tanimoto’s scripting toys around with the tropes of the genre, which makes for an uneasy but ultimately successful blend of the expected and the unexpected, the real shining moments come from the framing. Between the teenaged band Drop Doll, Jyo and his experiences as part of JoKers, and café owner Tero’s own past history as a musician, the story essentially contains three generations of musos. The vigorousness of the teenagers just starting out, the brooding on what could have been from Jyo, and the nostalgic satisfaction of Tero that he ever got to play at all. Between these three is the blueprint through which all rock and roll resonates.
Rock and roll is a driving force in pop culture for a reason, and whether you’re from the land of the rising sun or the house of the rising sun, the shared experience remains.
JK Rock may be held back somewhat by its familiarity, but the delivery and frenzied glee makes for a very fun feature. Watching these musicians put their heart and soul into their playing, it’s hard not to get lost in the euphoria of it all, and if film is meant to make an audience feel more than anything else, you’re most certainly going to get that here.