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FROM WHOOPSY MAGAZINE, March 2005 Edition
The soy cheese has truly fallen off the rice cracker of Japanese culture, and Suicide Club may well be "Exhibit A" in proving such. There seems to be an uneasy malaise roiling throughout those crowded isles. However, that may just be cultural ignorance coming through. It's quite easy for an American who's never been to Japan, but watches too many Japanese films and/or reads the reviews of those films to make such a conclusion. Perhaps something does get Lost in Translation. Still, in light of Japan's recent fall from economic preeminence and its ambivalent, perhaps ill-advised meth-fueled jump into Westernization, I'm going to conclude that, indeed, Nippon has gone "all pear-shaped." Admit it. It's not easy to reconcile an historical culture of honorable warriors with free-for-all consumerism. But are films like Suicide Club and Ringu a symptom of Japan's disease or a call to arms to confront its affliction? I tend to go with the latter, but the question is worth pondering while watching this literal and figurative train-wreck of a cult classic. Suicide Club, love or hate the film, will stay with you, like the untreated parasites from those fresh oysters you shouldn't have eaten, for life. Only long bouts of Jungian Psychotherapy could wipe this baby from your mind's eye, and, to be honest, even the best therapist's chances of success are indeed slim. You have been warned. Mass suicide is sweeping Japan. Self-absorbed teenagers and overworked adults alike are killing themselves by the most insidious methods. I'll spare you the details of the suicide scenes, and just say that most of them are off the charts. Some sort of cult is suspected of inducing people over the internet to off themselves, but as it turns out… Forget it. I'm not telling. The most talked about scene in this film takes place in a bowling alley. It may be one of the most surreal and disturbing commitments to celluloid since Un Chien Andalou. If you dare pop this one in the DVD player, keep your thinking cap on, and the barf bucket nearby. -Joe Mitchell Broken Wings This beautifully understated Israeli film is all too easily likened to Ordinary People. Broken Wings may be on the same emotional plane and share a similar plot with that 1980 film, yet it fortunately manages to avoid depicting the tragic death of a family member as some sort of shrill Oprah-esque catharsis for the those left grieving. Maya Maron plays Maya Ulman, the eldest offspring of a brood who have just lost their patriarch to a freak accident for which she may have been responsible. The guilt Maya exudes does more than suggest that she feels she is. Though she is of the tender age of 17, Maya is thrust into the role of quasi-parent to her two youngest siblings while her mother works double-time at the local hospital to support the family. All of this is made all the more complex for Maya by the fact that her teenage brother Yair has fallen off the deep end and her budding career as a songwriter and bandleader is being absorbed by her familial duties. A festering mother/daughter conflict comes to a head after the sullen-eyed youngest son, Ido, goes into a coma and Maya goes AWOL from Haifa to record with her band at a swanky studio in Tel Aviv. Maron's face makes this film. It is stoic and worldly on the outside, but obviously belies the young psyche about to crumble beneath it. Along with an impeccable soundtrack and score by Avi Belleli, it is a face that has kept the Broken Wings DVD within arm's length of my television for more than a year, and one I hope to see in more films over the coming years. -Joe Mitchell The Nomi Song My impression of Klaus Nomi, for years, was never very high. At best, I'd considered him nothing but a sinister diva from the land of Nico and Warhol. When I first saw Mr. Nomi on a large video screen at a Houston club in the early 80's, the expression on my face, and the faces of even the most "tarted-up" members of the audience was indicative of just how much he put the "Mar(s)" back in "Weimar," and perhaps even the "why." He seemed a freak show and nothing more. Over the years, when people asked me who Klaus Nomi was, I could only answer, "Oh, the first artist of any renown to die of AIDS." However, The Nomi Song has shattered my wrongly held precepts about this unique contributor to the annals of pop music and performance art. Nomi, despite the artificiality of his stage appearance and his act, was a kind, sweet, lonely little man who was quite pained. He was so desperate for a "connection" that his attempts to find such eventually killed him. Horn successfully trots out numerous associates and friends of Nomi to create a colorful and detailed portrait of a tragic human being. But the best parts here are the archived footage of Nomi performing live, belting out his trademark falsetto from outer space. Yes, my friends, that is a man singing. The scene where Nomi, dressed in renaissance leotard and not his usual
geometric attire, sings "The Cold Song" with a full orchestra
rendered me lachrymose. I walked out of the film realizing that Nomi was
not a gimmick. He was the real deal. A lot of bands, no matter their genre,
owe this man no small debt for expanding the range of possibilities in
performance and presentation.
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