The Eight Mountains
Co-directors Felix van Groeningen and Charlotte Vandermeersch bring Paolo Cognetti’s novel The Eight Mountains to life delicately and compassionately in this stunning adaptation based on his famous Italian novel. Written for the screen by van Groeningen and Vandermeersch, the film takes the literature’s words and transforms them into a visceral, heart-stirring nod to male friendship and the ties that bind us.
The Eight Mountains is a love story about friendship. Two boys from different walks of life, Pietro (Luca Marinelli) and Bruno (Alessandro Borghi) strike up an unusual relationship after first meeting as 12-year-olds. Pietro is a city boy, whose familial aspirations include a career-driven life beyond their modest hometown. Bruno, on the other hand, has grown up in a remote mountain village, the last child of the nearly-forgotten community, and has no desire to ever leave. Through the years (which turns into decades) we follow Pietro and Bruno as they grow up, navigate the complexities of young adulthood, and fall in and out of each other’s lives just as the tide washes to and from the shore.
Relationship reassignment is a normal part of life. Many of us have outgrown the childhood friendships that we swore would last forever; the BFF necklaces stuffed in the back of the dresser drawer instead of proudly displayed hanging from our necks. It’s a gradual mourning that sometimes we don’t realize has happened until the memories of our time together become more than the actual time spent. Then there are the people we seem to have a soul contract with, the people that will stay in our lives forever. This is the bond that Pietro and Bruno share. Throughout all of life’s inconsistencies and hardships, true friendship will always rise.
Another through-line in this coming-of-age story is the relationship dynamic between fathers and sons. Both boys had complicated family dynamics which they played out in their adult lives in different ways. Masculine trauma and the expectation to uphold a legacy, abandonment issues, grief, and loss are just some of the threads pulled throughout the film.
The world of The Eight Mountains is stunning, both visually and through the film’s use of music. Nature is a major theme in the film, and the directors do a wonderful job of contrasting its beauty and melancholy so elegantly. The snowy mountaintops, nighttime bonfires, and cattle farms evoke a sense of spiritual easiness, reminding us that people and the environment can co-exist peacefully.
Adding to this ethereal mood is the score by Daniel Norgren, who directors Felix van Groeningen and Charlotte Vandermeersch consider the Swedish version of Bruno. They have stated, “Like Bruno, he lives far away from the crowd, in the woods, on his own mountain, building his own house and his own music studio. He finds his inspiration wandering in the woods.” This expression of isolation is felt throughout the score, it’s vulnerable in all the right ways and hits all of the right notes, especially the angelic recurring piano theme.
The Eight Mountains offers many nuggets of wisdom, and at least one is bound to resonate with you personally. One moment in the film has stuck with me since first watching, and I’ve been contemplating this rhetorical question ever since: “At the center of the world is the tallest mountain, the Sumeru, which is surrounded by eight seas and eight mountains. The question is: who has learned the most, the one who has been to all eight mountains, or the one who has reached the top?” There is no wrong answer here, and our past may dictate what we value as more impressive. However, we should remember that progress isn't linear, accomplishments are relative, and life is more enjoyable with a good friend.
https://youtu.be/ak4yBWxJDj8
De Humani Corporis Fabrica
Let me start by saying De Humani Corporis Fabrica should be watched with caution. Preferably on an empty stomach. And definitely not while eating ground beef.
If you're familiar with the sensory sea-epic Leviathan, you'll know what to expect from directors Lucien Castaing-Taylor and Véréna Paravel. This includes intense, tedious, and often time uncomfortable moments from the natural world that force viewers to expand their horizons and thresholds. But instead of getting enveloped in the oceanic environment of an industrial shipping vessel, this time our attention is drawn to the smallest of minutiae in one of the highest-stress environments: the operating room.
De Humani Corporis Fabrica derives its name from the collection of books by anatomist André Vésale from the mid-1500s. The books thoroughly detail human anatomy based on Vésale's findings from dissecting human bodies for science. The film quite literally lives up to its name; human flesh is cut, punctured, probed, cracked, sliced, and sewn in this deeply affecting commentary on the fragility of life.
Playing up slice-of-life (pun intended) vignettes over a traditional storyline structure, the film is an intimate look at the goings on inside the walls of a hospital during incredibly heightened moments. Knowing that as a patient, one needs to place their trust in the hands of a stranger–albeit, an incredibly smart and capable stranger–is a crazy thing when you really think about it. These situations, no matter how routine, are always life and death. The subjects in the film clearly have good intentions and maliciousness isn't perceived once but the muttering of "I'm lost" by a surgeon as he's in the middle of a surgery is as horrifying to witness as the surgery itself.
Despite the film's graphic nature–which includes a Lasik-type eye surgery, an emergency C-section, and spinal surgery to combat severe scoliosis–perhaps the most somber moments come from the nursing facility that the filmmakers intermittently cut to between scenes. Here are senior citizens who are close to the brink of death, some of whom are aware the end is near. It's haunting and humbling all at once.
De Humani Corporis Fabrica marks Castaing-Taylor and Paravel's fourth feature film collaboration. The directing duo currently works out of the Sensory Ethnography Laboratory (SEL) at Harvard University. A quick Google search describes the center as an experimental laboratory that promotes innovative combinations of aesthetics and ethnography. Using various forms of expression–including analog and digital media, installation, and performance–the directing duo's work aims to explore the aesthetics and ontology of the natural and unnatural world.
118 minutes. Distributed by Grasshopper Film and Gratitude Films. Opening in LA at Laemmle Glendale on Friday, April 28, 2023.
32 Sounds
This review originally ran on March 14, 2022, during the SXSW Film Festival
32 Sounds is unlike any other documentary in the SXSW lineup. For one, headphones are strongly encouraged. This is a highly sensory film and to achieve the filmmaker's intended impact, audience members are to fully immerse themselves into the sonic landscape by wearing headphones. Also, this is the only film I've ever watched that encourages you to close your eyes.
Oscar-nominated filmmaker Sam Green (The Weather Underground) is the man in charge of leading us through this journey through sound. His voice is eerily similar to Owen Wilson's (since we're paying such close attention to detail, I couldn't help but notice this uncanny resemblance). He, along with JD Samson (Le Tigre, MEN)–who also provides original music for the film–provides an interactive cinematic experience to illustrate the importance of sound, its history, and how it can shape the world around us.
Sound is the first sense we develop. We unconsciously are attuned to what we hear when in the womb; we may be alone, but we are still connected to the world through the sounds we hear. To illustrate this point, the audience is asked multiple times throughout the film to close their eyes and just listen to the audio that's being pumped into our headphones. "Sound is an energy channel," Sam states, as we explore 32 distinct sounds throughout the course of the film.
Taking us back to Thomas Edison's invention of the phonograph in 1877, Sam explains that prior to this technology, once you died, your voice was gone forever. Since its creation and accessibility over time, we are able to "play sounds of the dead" by listening to music from record players, CD players, and streaming apps, with unlimited potential for the future.
Continuing our sonic journey through the senses, we're introduced to avant-garde composer Annea Lockwood who's most famous for her Piano Burning performance. At 81 years old at the time of filming, we see Lockwood is still just as fascinated with the sounds of the natural world, and her awe easily fills us with awe as well.
We round out the film with a visit to a foley artist's studio and watch her create cues for film and TV, manipulating various objects to sound like different objects. We're also given a slightly amateur yet still entertaining education on the difference between binaural sound vs surround sound (again, the headphones come in handy here).
32 Sounds is a unique watch that feels like it belongs in a museum rather than a traditional movie theatre. Its interactive nature is engaging from start to finish, and well worth a watch if you're interested in a meditative approach to understanding the auditory sense.
Distributed by Abramorama. Playing in select theaters this Friday, April 28, 2023.
Nam June Paik: Moon is the Oldest TV
Who was Nam June Paik, the inventor of video art? Director Amanda Kim turns this question about the enigmatic figure into a dazzling portrait of reverberating inspiration in the documentary Nam June Paik: Moon is the Oldest TV. Kim, a former creative director at Vice Media, offers a generous look into the fascinating life of this true thinker. One that bustles with sound, color, and electrifying discovery.
No words will be enough to describe the legendary impact this avant-garde Korean artist had on the video art community, but many have boiled it down to one word: Eccentric. Paik's unusual, bewildering performances left audiences in awe, and his relationship with how we embrace and utilize technology is still revered to this day as revolutionary. He had the uncanny ability to chart where technology was headed and his art reflected the potential damages, as well as possibilities, that would bring.
The film follows a traditionally linear path from Paik's childhood in South Korea, to his studies in Germany–where he received a Ph.D. in pre-Renissance Music and Philosophy–to his professional career as an artist in New York City. Paik's personal writings are read aloud throughout the film by Steven Yeun (Minari, Nope). The documentary does a thorough job of incorporating archival footage, as well as past and current interviews with his contemporaries (including composer John Cage and members of the Fluxus movement).
Nam June Paik has been called "The George Washington of Video Art," the "Citizen Zero of the Electronic Superhighway," and a "Cultural Terrorist." But those who knew him best describe him as a humble, reserved man who spoke 20 languages and was always fiddling with something. His art took priority in his life, up until the very end. In 2006, Paik passed away at the age of 74 due to complications from an earlier stroke. "It's the artist's job to think about the future," Paik so eloquently states at one point in the film. Not surprisingly, Paik's impact on the future goes beyond his physical work. He has even been credited as having come up with the phrase “electronic superhighway” (which later was ascribed to the Internet).
Of all of Nam June Paik's accomplishments, it's his expression of spirituality interconnected with technology that is the most profound (aka the "why" behind his installations and performances). His way of thinking has inspired countless artists, some of whom we see in the film. Paik continues to inspire future generations through his notable works, many of which are still on display through traveling exhibitions including his 1974 video sculpture "TV Buddha." Paik is credited with opening the door to the technological revolution, and it is our duty to make sure that door stays open.
https://youtu.be/nzhEUxmqGWs
Sick of Myself
From the producers of Joachim Trier's Academy Award-nominated film, The Worst Person in the World comes Sick of Myself (Syk Pike). Norwegian-born filmmaker Kristoffer Borgli takes twisted relationship dynamics to extreme lengths in this dark, demented comedy about the "actual" worst person in the world and their no-holds-barred addiction to sympathy. Nominated for the Un Certain Regard Award at the 2022 Cannes Film Festival, Sick of Myself is a 97-minute-long insanity spiral and a nihilist's delight.
Kristine Kujath Thorp plays Signe, a woman in her early twenties who has the emotional maturity of a toddler. Signe and her boyfriend Thomas (Eirik Sæther)–another stunted adult–have a rather unconventional relationship; despite presenting a compassionate and fun-loving facade, the duo vindictively takes any opportunity to outshine and undercut their partner. When the film begins, the stakes already seem high but turns out that stealing a $2,300 vintage bottle of wine is just the beginning.
Thomas is a contemporary artist whose star is on the rise. This upsets Signe, a barista, whose jealousy oozes through her pores. She wants the attention–the good, the bad, the ugly. It doesn't matter from who, as long as it's her name is in the mouths of their friends, and not Thomas'. Things take a nasty turn when Signe realizes that feigning an illness may be her golden ticket to notoriety.
Her desperation goes too far, even for her, when hair starts falling out in chunks, blood pours out of her mouth and head, and fainting spells become all too common. Signe–clearly spiraling from delusion, a bruised ego, and desperation– becomes a shell of herself, unrecognizable from the inside as well as the outside. Her "mystery illness" turns out not to be a medical condition but rather a sickly amount of narcissism.
From beginning to end, Sick of Myself is an unhinged black comedy fueled by gaslighting of the highest degree. Kristine Kujath Thorp’s performance is praiseworthy and her complex villain origin story is one we love to hate. The rest of the cast equally holds their own, including a short guest appearance by Norway’s finest, Anders Danielsen Lie.
With Sick of Myself, Kristoffer Borgli has solidified himself as a director to watch. Although, he's far from new on the scene with over 10 short film credits on his IMDb. Born in Oslo, his childhood revolved around skateboarding and making videos (not unlike our other favorite Norwegian filmmaker). It's this effortless confidence behind the lens and strong directorial point of view that makes Sick of Myself one of the most exciting films of the year thus far.
97 minutes. Distributed by Utopia. Opening in theaters this Friday, April 14, 2023.
How To Blow Up a Pipeline
Director Daniel Goldhaber does not shy away from controversial subject matter in his films. In 2018, he made his directorial debut with Cam, a psychological horror film set in the underbelly of webcam pornography. His sophomore feature, How To Blow Up a Pipeline, thrusts gonzo climate activists into the spotlight. A semi-thrilling adaptation of Andreas Malm’s book of the same name, this cinematic and political statement sees a group of underdogs fighting to reclaim their power, but falls a bit shy of making a hard-hitting impact.
Distributed by indie champion NEON, the film is a nonlinear look at how a group of activists from across the country come together to fight the oil industry. We first meet the collective, made up of eight young men and women from various backgrounds. They have convened in West Texas, with plans of destruction already in motion. The film moves quickly (almost too quickly). At first, the lack of context for the first 15 minutes feels insufficient and mildly confusing. However, the characters' backstories and how they all came to meet are eventually revealed. Patience is key here.
Once we're given more information on who these people are and why they're risking their freedom and lives to make a statement, their reasoning seems justified. Passion and anger fuel their actions, and their message, on the whole, is one worth supporting. There are enough twists in the script to make How To Blow Up a Pipeline an enjoyably unpredictable watch. Yet, I fear it lacks the staying power to make it a cinematic political statement of the highest degree.
The film's aesthetic is comforting in its warm and grainy look, similar to Power Ranger films of the mid-90s. The editing is also reminiscent of old-school superhero shows you'd find on TV after school. It gives the film an organic texture that feels rooted in the Earth, almost like we can feel the effects of global warming through the screen. Composer Gavin Brivik incorporates the sounds of the enemy – oil drums and pipes – into his score by recording samples with distorted and pulsing synth sounds.
There's no doubt that this story is one worth telling. How To Blow Up a Pipeline is a commendable effort to bring attention to this crisis. While it may not rank among my favorite ecological thrillers (Woman at War and Night Moves to name a couple), How To Blow Up a Pipeline's message alone is worth the watch.
100 minutes. Opening in theaters on Friday, April 7, 2023.
Ryuichi Sakamoto: Coda
This review was originally published on December 7, 2020.
One of the hardest adjustments I've had to make since lockdown started back in March is not being able to visit my favorite bar. No, not for the drinks, but for the hi-fi audio equipment and their vast collection of classic and rare records from all over the world. This Japanese-style "listening bar" is where I first discovered Ryuichi Sakamoto, and for that, I am ever grateful.
Thankfully, MUBI has cured my quarantine-induced hi-fi blues with the 2017 release of Ryuichi Sakamoto: Coda, a documentary about the daily life and creative process of one of the industry's most innovative and revelatory artists.
Ryuichi Sakamoto is a man who has dedicated his entire life to creating art. The documentary wonderfully sweeps through his musical career– highlighting his days as a member of the techno-pop band Yellow Magic Orchestra to his work on Alejandro Iñárritu's The Revenant. His accomplishments are many, and those familiar with his work consider him to be one of the greatest living artists of our time. Despite the accolades, awards, and notoriety, his humbleness remains untouched.
It's fascinating to watch how passionately Sakamoto respects sound and the concept of its use. How it's created, how it's used, and, semi-morbidly, how it will reflect on him when he's gone. Sakamoto lives with throat cancer, but he doesn't let that get in the way of consistently creating. Using field recordings of running water, forest air, and other natural sounds, he creates a purity that amazingly complements the delicateness of his piano keys. The result is a sound unlike any other, hauntingly beautiful and dynamically all-encompassing.
Thanks to MUBI, this special edition release, directed by Stephen Nomura Schible, also includes the full concert documentary Ryuichi Sakamoto: async At The Park Avenue Armory. And although my Sonos is no match compared to the "listening bar," Sakamoto's music transcends standard commercial speakers, making me feel like I'm back in my favorite place once again.
Distributed by MUBI, Ryuichi Sakamoto: Coda is available to stream on MUBI and for purchase via Kino Lorber.
Enys Men
Filmmaker Mark Jenkin takes us on a trip through the cerebral cortex in the art film-psychological horror hybrid, Enys Men. Acting as the film's director, writer, cinematographer, editor, and composer, Jenkin puts every fiber of his being into this visionary feat. The result is a genuinely singular point of view – albeit abstract – that touches on the idea of life and death and its meaning in the metaphysical and spiritual realm.
To put it simply, Enys Men tells the story of a wildlife volunteer (Mary Woodvine) who is in the middle of a residency on a remote island in Cornwall, UK. Her responsibilities center around a small patch of flowers, observing their growth and noting any inconsistencies in their development. Alone with her thoughts, day in and day out, she begins to crack at the seams, losing her grip on reality and fading into delusion.
Much like how Robert Eggers' film The Lighthouse is a slow spiral into madness, our protagonist encounters a similar fate. Being the only living person on the secluded British island (or is she?), the volunteer begins to lose herself among the earthly offerings and folkloric superstitions. Mark Jenkin's aesthetic throughout Enys Men is swoon-worthy, from the highly saturated colors to the score that weaves together field recordings with long drawn-out synths. Jenkin uses the same type of equipment and film stock as many low-budget horror films of the 70s, which is how he achieves this retro look.
Some people will get a thrill from the labyrinth that unfolds within the 90-minute runtime, giddy to get lost in the uncanniness of the script and the purposefully vague and nonsensical montages the film so devilishly derails into. Others may try to assign meaning to the madness, to which I say, good luck! I fell right in between these two sentiments. I found myself transfixed by the film's visual and sonic grip, yet I stumbled when I tried to understand the "why" of the plot.
Enys Men is a film that simultaneously feels both dated and timeless. It could have existed 50 years ago and its ingenuity would not have been lost to time. For those interested in checking out this transfixing work, be prepared for long stretches of nothingness. It may be a beautiful trip. but you've been warned that this isn't your stereotypical traditional horror film.
91 minutes. Opening this Friday in select theaters.
https://youtu.be/f7Pwf94_XLY