The Khmer Rouge "Annihilation" Machine

It would be a mistake to go into S21: The Khmer Rouge Killing Machine looking for a history of Cambodia, the Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot, or even Tuol Sleng prison (security prison S21) itself. Rithy Panh’s documentary only deals with these things to the minimal extent that it has to, i.e., he only makes relatively brief mention of Cambodia’s historical situation in the 1970s to place us. It’s up to the audience to do the legwork involved with formulating theories as to why the Khmer Rouge was able to come to power, why Cambodia was in the state that it was, and most importantly here, how such atrocities as those described in the picture’s 100 minutes have taken and continue to take place. Indeed, while I do not think that Cambodia is unimportant here, S21 is mainly about the facticity of institutionalized killing on a grand scale. That is its focus and perhaps the reason the film takes such a meandering and seemingly haphazard course. It is a piece that is exploratory in nature, as opposed to authoritative and expository.

S21 forces questions common to Eichmann in Jerusalem, Ordinary Men, Obedience to Authority, and other germane works to the surface. But for those who may respect the value of these inquiries all the while internally groaning over their perplexity, it should be noted that S21 has something incredibly powerful up its sleeve that is nothing short of a marvel of human experience: it allows a former inmate of prison S21 to confront and engage former prison guards. In whole, S21 actually features two survivors of the death house, Chum Mey and painter Vann Nath (supposedly two of the only 7 survivors, out a total 14,000+ prisoners/victims). However, we never see Chum Mey in the same shot as one of the former prison workers. Considering his rapture while standing on the grounds of the prison, it would be no surprise if facing those unfathomably cruel devils from his past were simply impossible.

On the other hand, Vann Nath is possessed of a composure that stupefies. He is the piece’s protagonist of sorts. I would call him our guide, but that would be inaccurate and would obscure what are some of S21’s most truly disturbing scenes. Through some means, Rithy Panh manages to get his former prison guards to elaborately re-enact their former routines. (Though perhaps it took no coaxing at all, thus revealing yet another possible avenue for psycho-social speculation, theorizing, and inquiry.) Aging Khmer Rouge shout verbal abuses at imaginary prisoners, threatening them with physical beatings should they fuss to much, not be quiet, and go to sleep; they check imaginary locks; and peer into empty cells. During these scenes, it is hard to penetrate the psychological interiors of the men. On some level are they taking a stroll down memory lane? In circumstances as extreme as these, it is troubling to watch these old routines repeated in such cold and icy fashion.

Perhaps a clue is given to why this is so in a late exchange between Nath and three of the former S21 keepers. Nath argues that the Khmer Rouge’s stated practice of annihilation goes beyond that of killing in that annihilation leaves nothing of the victim but dust. One can extrapolate that it is a complete eradication of his past and traces; it leaves not even a memory of an individual’s time on earth. This is obviously more than a rhetorical embellishment given that the Khmer Rouge as discussed in the film would kill women and children, leaving no legacy or relations of supposed traitors, informants, or “enemies.” But can one not come away from this scene in particular without noting the utter vacuous looks of the former guards in contrast to Nath? The annihilating sword is revealed to be double-edged; in the case of the former stewards of S21, it is their humanity which has been completely stripped away and exterminated.

Movie Poster Mayhem

Is this an homage? Or is this the same guy recycling an idea?

A Woman in Trouble, but Who is She?

It is roughly a month to the day since I saw David Lynch’s latest, Inland Empire. I anticipated it a great deal: 2006 I found to be a dismal year for art cinema (despite Three Times and The Death of Mr. Lazarescu). So the year-end buzz circulating around both Lynch’s new project (and Children of Men) had me optimistic towards the possibility of a formidable year-end push in 2006’s waning moments. Technically, a last ditch effort before rolling out Dick Clark one more time, if you will. To boot, the showing I had tickets for at the AFI Silver was to be graced by Mr. Lynch himself. Indeed I was poised: though 2006 had technically already passed, its filmic redemption stood before me, flanked by our very potential benefactor, Mr. Lynch…

Any casual fan of The Simpsons will recall the scene of Homer watching Twin Peaks (for you serious fans, that would be episode 3G02 from season 9, entitled Lisa’s Sax). To the image of a man dancing with a horse, Homer exclaims: “Brilliant! I have no idea what is going on.” A similarly casual fan may also recall (from BABF22, season 12’s HOMR) Homer being escorted out of a movie theatre for not laughing at a punch line incorporating Regis Philbin’s would-be meme: “Is that your final answer?” Though an admittedly flippant means towards elucidating my impressions of Inland Empire, these two scenes are freakishly apropos. Bewilderment and an acute alienation stemming from not “getting it” best encapsulate those three hours. With every chuckle of the sold-out crowd at another quirky line or character, I sank deeper into my chair and grew more anxious and desperate for the movie-cum-torture device to be over.

Naturally, Lynch is worthy of being taken seriously, and it would be cheap to simply throw up hands and say, “I just don’t know what he’s on about!” In fact and to the contrary, I do feel a dull desire to see Inland Empire again. Astute reviews from the likes of the NYT’s Manohla Dargis reinforce these feelings. But what is not so dull is my profound consternation over what Inland Empire lacks. And most importantly, I don’t think any number of viewings will yield it. While critics rave about Laura Dern’s performance, I cannot get over the simple fact that this piece lacks characters of any depth or situations that resonate in the key of the human world.

I think Lynch knows this; I believe it is part of his overall plan. Somewhere around the midpoint (though it’s certainly hard to specify a midpoint when time is seemingly standing still), one of the whores (or actresses, or friends, or hangers-on, or…damn it, I’m not sure) asks directly into the camera, “Who is she?” This is, indeed, the film’s guiding question. But I’m afraid it’s impossible to want to engage in solving the riddle when the viewer isn’t provided enough context to remotely care. Lynch’s very own sense of mystery leaves so much in the shadows that it is impossible to latch onto anything or establish a connection. Who is she? Why should I care? I don’t even recognize this as having anything to do about life.

Ultimately, I cannot help but be reminded of Ingmar Bergman’s Persona. Granted that in it, we begin with two distinct people as opposed to an actresses’ on and off camera life. But no matter, both films attempt to render the dissolution of the self into another and the struggle to discover and posit one’s own “I” and identity. And Persona is certainly just as self-aware and deconstructionist as Inland Empire. The difference is that the former is able to root its themes in a simple, coherent narrative and provide characters cut out just enough to provide a foundation. Thus, its force. And conversely, these missing aspects from Lynch’s latest and highly-autonomous project belie its effectiveness, leaving it only able to imbue anxiety and frustration.

RIP Sven Nykvist

I have a long way to go towards becoming well-versed in the work of the late Sven Nykvist, but suffice to say that Fanny and Alexander could be one of the most brilliant movies I've ever seen (a double meaning, to be sure). Cries and Whispers, for its part, is high in the last as well. His AP obituary stating that Nykvist suffered from dementia, I hope he did not suffer a bad end. Goodbye, Sven.

I had hoped to write a piece on Ozu's Early Summer by now, but it never materalized. I've been perhaps a bit overhwelmed. In the past month or so I've seen The Conformist (on the big screen, none the less), the aforementioned Early Summer, The Power of Kangwon Province, and My Night at Maud's. I have no idea where to begin, but maybe Ugetsu will get my fingers typing later this week.

Tag Lines: Beyond Thunderdome

This blog shall not fester. A short piece on Ozu's Early Summer is forthcoming very soon, but first I must briefly mention something else, something from the category of things that make you feel embarrassed though you bear no responsibility for them whatsoever. It's a shame over being alive, I guess. Yet, an associate and I still have a minor obsession.

Recently I was at Blockbuster and I overheard, very dryly, "'His road, his rules.' This sounds pretty good." It was absolutely amazing. Behold: the tag line. Not only the tag line in full bloom, but the tag line demonstrating both its narrative efficiency and its allure. Imagine, then, my excitement over the tag line for the movie shown on the poster above: "One goal. A second chance." The symbolic grandeur cannot be understated. It is Jesus Christ scoring a fucking touchdown.

So, if you've actually read this far along, share with me one of your favorite tag lines, and be sure to tell me what movie it's from.

My Reflection, in a Snow Covered Hill

It is the mark of a watered-down social criticism to take recourse to tropes—reciting them without second thought but with a degree of self-satisfaction. Disaffected youth, consumerism, and milquetoast suburbanites—these themes are dull as they are abundant. But this does not mean they are wholly illegitimate; clichés are not to be completely discarded, though the Orwell in us may sometimes lash out. On the contrary, these matters—far from off-limits—demand a wealth of care when taken-up, not avoidance. A lazy observer only contributes to an already voluminous and enervated accumulation of work. The space grows increasingly crowded and the problem itself suffers. But shrewd observers are able to take the thing and position it in a brand new light. They have that unique and special ability to make us give pause and re-examine our own opinions, even though we may not give voice to a given doubt.

Three young people (Vicky and 2 males friends) are on holiday from Tapei. They have ventured to a snowy locale. They play outside in the snow; it appears to be Vicky’s first time, and she is delighted. But symbolically, what is not at work here is the yearning for a child’s innocence; this is a not a portrait of salvation or reprieve from the sins of the city (e.g., casual sex, drug abuse, indolence, etc.) on a virgin white backdrop. No, but this is something otherwise natal. What has value here is bringing something into the world—for leaving one’s mark on it. The modern city stifles one into oblivion and anonymity, be it filed away in an apartment stacked upon and under more apartments, as a listless passenger on a train, destination and origin unknown, or crammed into the seemingly collective, breathing, sweating, and pulsating of a dance club at capacity. Removed from all of that, Vicky and her friend playfully plant their faces into a snowdrift. Pulling away, giggly wildly from the cold on their faces, an impression remains. This is a metaphor which reflects not just a visage, but alienation as well.

The image is central to Hou Hsiao-Hsien’s Millennium Mambo. It is all it takes for Hou to prove his astuteness and insist on not insulting us with another ready-made critique of youth culture. The faces in the snow—the newness that is brought forth by their creators—is the contrasting force that tugs in the opposite direction of nostalgia for how things used to be, for "back then." And it is also a symbol of our homelessness, of the possibility that we will not recognize ourselves anywhere in our lives: in work, in social circles, in politics, even in our own art. As noted above with respect to the modern city’s mammoth and impersonal structures, the megalopolis has a consuming dimension that drowns the individual into a condemned insignificance and namelessness. When we go about in our daily lives, toiling in these mazes, how effective can we be in choosing the direction of our own lives? And if we cannot be particularly effective, what might this engender in people?

Hou transplants Vicky from Taipei to emphasize the importance of our milieu. It is not to make any deterministic point, settling the old debate on the side of nurture, but to demand recognition of the fact that we live in situations. There, in the snow—literally, with their faces in the snow—it is about these people and their struggle to affect the world. It is a question of people and time and place. Here we are faced with Hou’s most difficult and haunting question. That question is not, “Whatever shall we do with the bored inertia of today’s youth?” or “How can we reclaim the great spirit of the past?” It is: do they recognize themselves in the snow? Could someone else?

In Ozu’s Tokyo Story, the old police chief Numata, drunk and introspective, says, “To lose your children is hard. But living with them isn’t always easy, either. A real dilemma.” Shukishi’s reply will show us, though, that this is not a simple matter of “can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em,” or, to give it a more sophisticated ring, vive la différence—only substituting kids for women. Numata, in his drunken ramblings, forgets about men and their situation. He takes his values and his life lessons and applies them to students of a different school. “Times have changed,” says Shukishi, “We have to face it.” He clearly feels a similar disappointment, but it is mixed with acceptance and legitimate resignation. It is informed by the acknowledgement of time and change. Indeed, Hou’s latest, Three Times, expounds on this idea with deep, almost sociological, focus, showing us Taiwan in 1911, 1966, and 2005. The problem of generational friction and conflict is universal; it is certainly greater than any one city and any 1 epoch (or 3 of them).