Mong-hong Chung's A Sun begins with unexpected violence: a shot of a severed hand, marinating in soup. It then morphs into a strangely uplifting, if a little melodramatic, family drama about parental responsibility.
It's clear that the two children of the central lower middle-class family are complete opposites: one is an aspiring medical student, the other is a juvenile delinquent who finally overstepped the line. When another large shock ripples through the family dynamic, the family surprisingly finds itself adjusting for the better.
The sun itself plays into the fortunes of this family, acting as a symbol of parents themselves and the light they shine on the children they raise. The sun shines equally on everyone, one character states, though for the first part of the film, this is hardly the case. One stays in darkness, while one is blinded by light, unable to rest in shadow.
Though a bit overlong in parts, the film does tackle a lot in its 150-minute timeframe: the loss of social mobility (and a sense of resignation) among the lower classes, ennui and disillusionment among the youth, unfeeling educational systems. There's a strange tonal clash at the end when things veer more into crime drama, then back into sentimentality that only feels partially earned. A Sun is certainly a mixed bag, but interesting nonetheless.
Nunzia De Stefano spent a number of years working in the circus, and that fascination finds echoes in her film Nevia. A social realist drama that evokes the works of some of her contemporaries, the film charts the life of a teenage girl (Virginia Apicella) as she tries to eke out a living for her younger sister. She isn't exactly living in the best of conditions: the region was irrevocably changed by an earthquake, its residents made to live in cheap housing. Nevia's own home is at times used for the black market and even prostitution. Police raids are a constant fear. There's talk of having Nevia marry one of her grandmother's shady associates. She often finds herself the recipient of unwanted advances by said shady associates, and some interactions even feel like grooming.
Nevia is Apicella's first film, but she manages to carry the film on her shoulders. A circus gymnast herself, she's familiar with the ins and outs of the circus environment.
The circus in this case represents freedom, a nomadic life free of any societal constraints, whether through class or gender. It's a dirty job, but it's a job the young girl finds honorable. And for people like her, that is more than enough.
There is an inherent hierarchy to many religions; of course, any belief system with a god or gods automatically has at least one tier. Usually, there are more for entities less divine: preachers, pastors, clergymen, all above the layman. With hierarchies come power, and with power comes abuse and oppression. Jorunn Myklebust Syversen's Disco is a quietly disturbing, at times languid examination of these systems.
Its protagonist, Mirjam (Josephine Frida Pettersen, perhaps best known in the Norwegian drama series Skam) drifts from one belief system to the other. One is a youth oriented church similar to Hillsong, another is a more orthodox style of church, and the other is a charismatic summer camp, whose activities grow increasingly disturbing. In fact, secular Japanese audiences likened the proceedings to a horror film, a notion that I tend to agree with.
The film meanders a bit and struggles to connect its disco dancing part with its religious part, but I feel it has a special sort of specificity that will perhaps resonate with audiences who struggle with faith from Christian-majority countries.
Beware false prophets, one preacher proclaims. Only those who accept Jesus in their hearts are saved. But the film offers a question: what if none of these prophets are true? It's seen in the bookends of the films first and last frames, lost in sea or land, different landscapes but lost all the same.
Based on an online manga that found immense popularity on Twitter, He Won't Kill, She Won't Die follows three narrative threads. The first one, where the title is based on, follows an odd girl and a listless guy forming a peculiar friendship; the second follows a girl who plays around, but genuinely wants a relationship, and the third follows a guy and the girl who confesses her love to him almost every day.
As all high school youth dramas go, the proceedings are lighthearted, a bit melodramatic, but ultimately life-affirming. It's also surprisingly tender and deals with attitudes towards friendship, love and death. At the same time, the proceedings are neither wacky nor overly unrealistic; the film almost reads like a mumblecore romance, full of dialogue and musings about life in general.
It manages to pull things together at the end, even making some surprising turns as it tries to connect everything together. It manages to reach a place that feels genuinely affecting, even managing to elicit more than a few sniffles from a normally stoic Japanese crowd.
Paul Soriano tries his hand with slow cinema in his latest film, Mañanita. It's obvious that this attempt is partly also thanks to the hand of Lav Diaz, who wrote the film's script. His hands are invisibly seen throughout the film. Mañanita is based on a peculiar, real life tale where the local police have decided on a more peaceful take on our government's murderous war on drugs: they serenade local suspects in the hopes that they will surrender. It's a very Filipino way to win over your enemies by the power of music, and it shows in the film itself.
The film follows a former government solider (Bela Padilla) who is still reeling from a major traumatic event from her past. She spends her days drinking beer, getting wasted and playing pool. But when the source of her trauma becomes palpable, she has the chance to react.
Mañanita, like the true story it is based on, is full of songs from the golden days of Filipino music in the seventies and eighties, from singers like Asin or Freddie Aguilar. They are protest songs, and songs that seek to elicit change. As the film goes on, it becomes clear that the songs serve as serenades themselves: both to the protagonist and to the Filipino people, to change and end the culture of impunity that surrounds us, and perhaps as a wider call for revolutionary change through peaceful means.
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