i try to write film reviews. again.

Tokyo Story (1953) by Yasujiro Ozu 

There couldn’t be a simpler film one could see, yet still have so much emotional bearing. In the story of an old couple visiting their children in 50s Tokyo, where urbanity is still a work in progress, we see how the rural Japanese take advantage of the routinely peace they have in their everyday lives—so it’s big feat then to cross the country and disrupt their homely affinities.

Not forcing any emotions to the audience, Ozu’s take on how the couple’s children talk about their parents and how they interact with them recognizes the disparity of both circumstances: in front of their parents they are still respectful but disengaged figures; but behind their backs they seem to be more active in complaining about their time-consuming presence in their households.

But what separates the movie from the vexation of the children, and their clumsy efforts to drive them away in the city, would be the warm and welcoming Noriko, who, if one would pay close attention, could be the film’s driving force and stark reminder of Japanese themes of casting a strong importance to family. Noriko was the wife of their son who died in the war, and yet she seems to be the closest one to the couple, a figure that seems to have never drifted from the family even years after her husband’s death.

Although the parents discuss their disappointment toward their children’s lukewarm treatment of them, we never once hear them compare their actions to Noriko’s, but it’s bluntly obvious. Setsuko Hara, who plays the wonderful Noriko, lays claim and ennobles her character through her coy smiles and shy but prideful ownership of her life as a widow. We see throughout the movie how committed she is making the couple feel at home, which somehow brings in a sour anger towards the children. One could narrow it down to the conclusion that it might have been her way of feeling closer to her husband, or it could be just her nature as person, or both. 

In 50s Japan, family destruction because of the war and modernization is a hard pill one should swallow: Children drift apart from their parents as they move, parents retain their lives as peaceful as they could, and nothing stays the same. Ozu carefully breaks through this sentiment, without leaving out the elements of indifference in the face of the children and familiarity in the person of a non-blood relative. No emotions are forced, and yet the comeuppance of the conclusive warmth between Noriko and the couple greatly speaks of emotional value. 

No other story could be as resolute as this masterful re-telling of centuries-old truths; family is family and yet, it does not always concern blood.

Cléo from 5 to 7 (1962) by Agnes Varda

Women are always (disparagingly) misunderstood in all aspects of life; either though our choices, our actions, the word we speak, even the food we eat and don’t eat. 

In Varda’s first entry come the French New Wave, we see a woman in her ripening years as a pop star in France but there’s a caveat to it: she is burdened by a Tarot reading that says she is about to fall sick from a terminal illness she could not help. We instantly learn that she had been to the hospital days before to get tested for any presence of cancer in her body.

The movie runs on her fear: Of death, of people misunderstanding her, of dying before not doing enough so much as living as a (lonely) singer. Tailed by the many people in her life that see her as a caged, sheltered child, Cléo vexes at the idea that all of these are meaningless and is worried that this could all be there is for her, empty, routinely, and parasitic connections. 

Her fear burns like a wildfire within her, but is only regarded as a niche, womanly weakness by the many, even treated as a portentous attempt of hers for more people to pay attention. But she does not need attention, for she only wants some peace from the things she saw in a span of two hours: Seemingly dreadful masks on display in stores that speak of death, street performers doing feats that verge on the weird and desperate, and the unbelievable people who seem to only know her as the French pop star with a great figure. 

In France, the fifth hour of the afternoon is the hour for meeting lovers, rendezvousing at random alleyways. It is the time for coffee, wine and strolling. But for Cléo, it is the hour she dies slowly. And yet she is disregarded. She becomes hyperaware of her surroundings as the hours go by, and she never seems to shrug off the details—a couple breaking up in a café, the expectant looks of fans eyeing her from head to toe, another couple complaining of the “noise” in the jukebox, which happens to be her song. 

All these disheartening scenes add up to the rising and fattening anxieties she acquired from 5 p.m. going to 7 p.m. But we never see the grand explosion in the end, the conclusive tantrum to a growing frustration. Instead, we see it right before 6 p.m. mark, as she snaps at the two musicians who visit her home and force her to be a lively figure through her music. After all, she’s just a pop star, her beauty is enough. 

“Your beauty is your health,” seems to the case in point of the superficiality of the people who surround her career, including a lover. She finds herself disgusted by this, correctly so. Varda masterfully sewed the moment in the middle to let the audience in on a secret: Cléo is not just another pop star. As with any female singer, being a woman in the entertainment industry is hard enough, so much so as a budding one, unwillingly groomed to impress.

The grand ending would happen some 20 minutes before the feature ends, as she meets a soldier in a garden hidden from the eyes of Paris. Sharing the same sentiments of life over a walk out to the city, a tram ride and long stares, we realize that a doomed connection is building up: Doomed because a soldier is paid to give his life, and therefore sign himself up foe death. They are walking the same gang plank. With this their eyes tell one thing, and love ensues. But the scene ends there, and we are left with the cruel conclusion.

Ever so slightly told, Varda tells us that women are and always will be at the sharp edge of the sword for all the things they are going through. Though regarded as one of the French New Wave’s pillars, it escapes me why she’s not regarded alongside the ranks of Godard, Truffaut, Resnais or Rohmer. It’s always these men’s name. Perhaps the film industry was never ready for the influence of a woman. Because Cléo is the turning point of that ticking emotion for women, and no one can come close to how Varda told her story. 

i've been reading again. here are my reviews:

Books I've read over the past three weeks: 

1. The Lonely City by Olivia Laing

In the author’s unwilling rest and involuntary peace, I find myself strictly choosing to read this book during the dead hours of the day, with no noise or the disturbance of having errands hours before I decide to stop reading. I currently live with my parents and my two younger siblings, so one could expect the external cacophonous company inside a two-storey house: it’s invitingly noisy yet too heavy to be in. Sometimes.

The two sides of the book, which discuss the criticism and the author’s critique of the works of some artists she deemed to be evidently troubled by loneliness, results into the explanation of why we, the reader, sometimes choose to be desolate an isolated from all other forms of feeling and connection; after all, humans are most aware of the feelings of inadequacy and loneliness.

In her “maps of loneliness,” Laing zooms into the works of Edward Hopper, Andy Warhol and David Wojnarowicz and their harrowing experiences somehow inculcates into those living in isolation in New York and its social and sexual expressiveness as a city sheltering all kinds of people. In the same arm, Laing also lights a spark of criticism of how famous men in the art scene before—and even now—invite women into their world and extremely feed off of their personhood for the sake of expression.

The economy of art, and looking at art as an escape from involuntary solitude comes in at such great, immersive, curatorial conclusions: that if we were to dissect all these famous artists’ works, it comes at the expense of exploiting the loneliness and struggles of their female counterparts (sometimes their wives). 

Reading this masterpiece while experiencing this surreal entrapment inside four walls for months etches something in one’s soul: the human condition brings out some self-aggravating tensions that are uncomfortable unnecessary to unpack in order for you to feel safe in your own triumphs of loneliness.

2. Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng

The (toxic, convoluted) picture of the American dream across the globe leans itself on the idea that social, systemic and class oppression will retain its power unless little acts of rebellion are done.

In this tale of a pristine family living in a gated, sparkly neighborhood, we are shown how upper class white families live their white-collar lives in a bubble, bordering on grandiose yet gritty in the sense that they have that “I can have what I want” aura. 

Ng laboriously extricates so much of how transracial oppression defeats skill and talent among immigrants in majorly white countries—this time in Trump’s America. She also perfectly presented the narrative that no matter how much you participate in teaching yourself of the rhetoric of suffering among your non-white counterparts, you’ll still end up knowing nothing. You’ll just be a machinized God-complex Karen who thinks the earth kneels at her labor of love.

But apart from the systemic racism Ng narrativized in the plot, class grandstanding is also very much present in all social standings, when two different worlds collide—the rich and poor, the middle and the lower class. And unless you try to stand aside and view something from a state of privilege, you are not doing enough for communities that are still unseen, still unheard, and still suffering from unequal and abhorrent situations that are, unironically, just passing shrugs for those who belong in the high tier of class.

The unforgiving monologue where the white mother hastily categorized the Asian, jobless mother as careless and undeserving of a happy, fruitful life in their country was what lit the novel’s way to introspection self-awareness: was she thinking the right thoughts towards a person, in this economic and political turmoil we are in? Is she coming from a motherly selflessness or a normalized racist selfishness?

3. Such a Fun Age by Kiley Reid 

Reading this in the middle of a tumultuous political moment in the US, and maybe, across the globe, makes it feel more necessary than ever to talk about issues that are too hard to sit on. The novel starts with the main character, a young black woman, who was accused of kidnapping a white child while babysitting her. Of course it felt angering and riveting at the same time, especially when you know that it happens in real life, and in so much worse circumstances.

The author mentioned she wrote the novel during the period of the deaths of Freddie Gray and Philando Castile under the custody of white policemen. One could only imagine the daily terror black people experience just by walking down the streets. 

I think what fueled the story most was the main character’s boss, the (white) mother of the child she’s babysitting, and her constant efforts to be a hard-hitting figure in a young black woman’s life. Somehow an influencer by account, she’s expected to offer only superficial value to the story, one that centralizes on her whiteness—but Reid carefully mixes in her most of us have: an dark, unnerving past, and a keen eye for correcting it. But as the story progressed it somehow turned in to a noteworthy on how not to correct the past, the white way.

In the age of post-racist and performative white feminism, Reid requires the readers to separate the black and white characters with such care but stern reminders: that white people are mere spectators to the suffering of people of color brought about by centuries of oppression and multilayered history ingrained in the face of racism that cannot be solved with the guilt and non-apology of white people.

4. Normal People by Sally Rooney

Rebellious in its nature of telling, Normal People lives its droll narrative and matter-of-fact storytelling as it explores modern relationships and how young people cope with the heartbreak of growing up and, separately, growing old. 

The politics of love in this novel, for Sally Rooney, is not of nursing it to make it better; rather, it is revived and resurrected every time the two characters, Marianne and Connell, find themselves at a crossroads. Perhaps that’s how pursuing should be done between two people: you don’t coddle and engage, you simply just live with abandon and watch everything fall into place. And in the age of the internet and polyamory, it is in these moments the two find a most wonderful thing, which is friendship, companionship and acceptance. 

Intimacy between the two is another thing; they are constantly drawn to physical touch and affection, and yet you find that it’s pure, spiritual and necessary. After all they are young, so sex is and will be, of utter need. But beyond physical affection and the seemingly electric tug Marianne and Connell has for each other is the dynamics of how they were raised as children by mothers with polarizing roles in their lives. 

Connell, raised by a single mother in a humble home, somehow strikes him as soft figure who knows how to navigate the ever so strange world of high school. Marianne, on the other hand, was raised by an emotionally absent, stern mother in a big mansion overlooking a vast expanse of green fields. Here, we find that Marianne’s resentful yet timid attitude comes from the quiet abuse she experiences in her home life. 

From here we can glean that even though raised in homes that are polar opposites, they find that one complements each other, in both the aspects of friendly and romantic. I don’t think a more honest representation of the reality of relationships has ever been this honest to the readers—the ugliness, the hindrances, the being and nothingness. There were no moments of grand gestures of love, for these are hidden in the words and actions between the two characters, which makes it even more thrilling. 

5. How to Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy by Jenny Odell

As far as general nonfiction of the late 2010s have shown, they are of collapsing language, bordering on personal and political. And yet it escapes me what this book really is trying to say, strangely, judging from the lifestyle of the author: an avid fan of bird-watching who can afford to  live in Oakland without a full-time job. And she’s a writer. What about rent, Jenny?

My takeaway from finishing this “self-help” is that not everyone can afford to just sit down and resist the urge of being sucked away by productivity, not in this economy. Slick in language and and well-researched, it escapes me how one can disconnect in this day and age of post-capitalist economy. Although written with the intention to re-shift one’s psyche from the productive to the idle, I think it’s lacking the foresight that we are consistently grinding to live because after all, we are complete machines ran by our everyday choices. Even reading this book is doing something. 

I liked this book, really, but there are still some salient points I find boorish. Maybe because my job description requires me to be on the loop 24/7, I don’t know.

6. Men Explain Things to Me by Rebecca Solnit

Many think that Solnit’s attempt at presenting a manifesto on how men should just shut the fuck up lacks the depth and subconscious reflex, but I think it did enough for me to adore more of my angry deadpan side whenever a man dislocates my position on some issues I know extensively of.

In a few chapters, Solnit weaponised her words to bring the surface what used to be so hidden, so minor. These little things we deem to be topical are now just as scathingly important to be considered when one finds themselves talking to women. How men interact with women, and how women interact with other women used to be this black and white scenario of conversations, but it’s so much more than that; there will always be the innate (and unconscious) ostracism and belittling of women, no matter th circumstance, and although Solnit failed to avoid this, she of course acknowledged it—and it’s enough, for women, like me.

Women are culturally gaslighted and brainwashed into thinking and feeling that they are of lesser standing, of needed patronization constantly. I had, before reading this, some prior beliefs about being a woman. But reading through this provided me the logical armor to guard myself from what used to tear my selfhood and womanhood down, what used to be so normalized in my radar of what is wrong and what is right.

I rarely remember nor take with me some highlights whenever I read nonfiction, but I would specifically run back to this book for some self-grounding. 

7. A Field Guide to Getting Lost by Rebecca Solnit

From soil erosion, to irrigation to examining how mountains look from the different sides of a country, I found myself drawn to how this semi-autobiography comes across as a delineative self-introspection and pinning little points to the maps of oneself. How Solnit chooses the words to employ and evoke emotions on the concept of distance marks how connections are formed through both the strangeness and familiarity of landscapes and hometowns.

In those ‘Blue’ chapters, which are personally my favorite, the normal and profound lose itself to one another as Solnit doesn’t restrain from describing things in an act of the whimsy and imaginative—everything is personal, and it’s not the same for everybody, which is the thematic key of this “guide.” 

Reading this while in isolation due to the (harrowing) pandemic, it sets in some comfort that we are all completely lost in our own little landscapes, no matter what we are doing and how we are doing it. The multi-dimensional themes and experiences the author shares reminds us that while we are grieving the loss of connection and physical indulgences we used to enjoy pre-COVID, we are still offering something, but this time within ourselves. And that’s what constitutes, for me, a meaningful moment of getting lost.

8. The Uninhabitable Earth: Life After Warming by David Wallace-Wells

I plan to keep this review short because I know my words (and emotions) won’t do so much as re-hashing what the author wrote all throughout, because we are all running out of time and unless global (and political) action is done, we are all doomed to experience the biggest, deadliest change there is, and it is happening already. Scratch that; we are all dead and dying.

The consequences are manifold and at this moment, no matter how much we try, it will come to pass, and we are at the cusp of the earth falling apart and throwing up what we’ve been feeding it during the last century. Not even using reusable utensils could save our asses. 

Growing up I saw a lot of apocalyptic movies and no matter how dismissive I am of these taking place in the future, sorry to tell you, but it will. And it’s starting. Holy shit, we’re all fucking dying! And I’m not even the least bit upset; I guess growing up really ingrained in me the shrug-your-shoulder attitude towards humans. 

But I do hope beluga whales and dolphins outlive us. I truly do.