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List Candidates

APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: ZEBRAMAN (2004)

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DIRECTED BY: Takashi Miike

FEATURING: Shô Aikawa, Kyôka Suzuki, Naoki Yasukôchi, Kôen Kondô,

PLOT: An inept 3rd-grade teacher with heroic aspirations becomes Zebraman, a superhero from a cancelled 1978 television show.

Still from Zebraman (2004)

WHY IT MIGHT MAKE THE APOCRYPHA: Takashi Miike goes all in with Zebraman, pushing everything—buffoonery, low budget violence, conspiracy, and, erm, eye-catching costumery—to their extremes, while remaining family-friendly and building to an in-your-face zebraction climax which must be zeen to be zelieved.

COMMENTS: All told, Equus quagga is not an animal to take seriously. Its mane lacks the nobility found in fellow members of the genus; the striping confounds; and they spend their days nibbling grass, hoping not to get killed. These traits, however, lend themselves perfectly to Ichikawa (I’ll spare you his official “-san“), an ungainly overseer of third-graders with closet aspirations of middling superhero status. But before you look a gift-zebra in the mouth, consider the sources: director Takashi Miike, forger of god-level violence and oddities, and screenwriter Kankurô Kudô, whose flirtations with the absurd would culminate in the Mole Song shenanigans. Through their powers combined, we’ve got a lot of weird and wacky crammed into an ungainly combatant who’s out “Striping Evil!”

ZEBRA DOUBLE-KICK!

Recently attempting to explain the narrative to a pair of innocent bystanders, I quickly realized that the mounting ridiculousness mounted even more quickly than I had at first surmised. There is a secret Japanese government organization concerned about an alien infestation; its head agent is a suave ladykiller, suffering from a case of crabs. Speaking of crabs, there’s a serial killer on the loose, with crab headgear and brandishing a pair of 10-inch shears in each hand. Speaking of shears, there’s that third-grade teacher toiling away on a DIY Zebraman costume, working from his memory of a television show which was cancelled after seven episodes. Speaking of the television show, the new student at the school also knows about Zebraman, and kindles the would-be vigilante in his teacher. Speaking of vigilante, the school’s principal has formed a security group of school staff to guard against an unspecified danger which appears to be slowly overwhelming the city. (Spoiler Alert: it’s aliens! Little, green, bulbous, adorable aliens.)

ZEBRA CYCLONE!

The premise beggars belief, but Miike and Kudô go all in. Every player is on form, and Zebraman has almost a family drama or character study feel to it. The disillusioned super-agent wants a cause worth fighting for. The new kid, unable to walk after a mysterious incident, wants hope in the impossible. And the principal desperately seeks atonement for his sins. When Ichikawa emerges as Zebraman, he gets lost on his way to the new kid’s house, but hears a cry for help—and suddenly the powers he’s been mimicking (badly) become real. His hair springs up, unsolicited, and he leaves hoof-mark kicks in a dastardly crab-man. As he combats greater dangers, the government agents hone in on their extraterrestrial targets, eventually capturing one and bringing it back to their steam bath/observation lab.

ZEBRA BOMBER!

So much silliness, so much heart, so much drama, so many bad costumes, dumb songs, and gloopy aliens. Just when you expect your head to not explode, Miike pulls the trigger on the finale. The city is spared a neutron bomb drop, but at the cost of a magical display of bombastic action that will leave you shocked and moved. Zebraman somehow manages to achieve a silly charm greater even than its inspirational beast.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…Miike refuses to get real, but his gonzo, punch-drunk surrealism has never felt so arbitrary.”–Ed Gonzalez, Slant (contemporaneous)

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FANTASIA 2024: APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: CUCKOO (2024)

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DIRECTED BY:

FEATURING: Hunter Schafer, Dan Stevens, , Mila Lieu

PLOT: Her family’s relocation to an alpine resort induces Gretchen to boredom—then terror—as strange sights and sounds crescendo in the woods.

Still from Cuckoo (2024)

WHY IT MIGHT MAKE THE APOCRYPHA: “Well, that’s definitely an Apocrypha candidate, if I may say so!” — Nina Martin, festival-attendee and film scholar.

COMMENTS: Tilman Singer, mein guter Herr, it has been too long. Six years, in fact, since I had the pleasure of catching his feature debut Luz at Fantasia. For Cuckoo, Singer was upgraded to the big auditorium, and the film played for an enthusiastic crowd, without an empty seat in the house. His sophomore effort is an exciting work, but one with something uncomfortable hanging over it.

There is discomfort in the story, naturally. Young Gretchen (an amazing Hunter Schafer) places the viewer squarely in her corner: late-teenage years are bad enough without having to move to some 1970s alpine resort throw-back with your architect father, his new wife, and a new half-sister. Worse still, the hotel owner falls squarely (and immediately) into that creepy-civility found so often in the genre, shticking from the get-go with his archaic-Euro-hipster duds and closely cropped beard. Herr Koenig (Dan Stevens) hits all the right notes for a man that is obviously up to something sinister, but whose words and tone are taken at face value by easily-impressed adults.

This sinister is hinted at in the opening scene, even before the resort, and has much to do with sound. Sound was clearly important in Luz, and here Singer goes all-out with the foley design, bringing door slams into sharp prominence from silence, alternating music-slathered muffles in headphones with the stripped acoustics of the surroundings, and most impressively, accompanying the high shriek of the resort’s woodland entities with a deadly thump of bass, disorienting the listener to the point where time itself skips and loops. As a delightful bonus, Luz veteran Jan Bluthardt plays a detective in Cuckoo: the only character who knows what is going on who is not also a part of the conspiracy.

The “uncomfortable thing” must be addressed, though. As Cuckoo is a much larger production than Luz, it involved compromises with its financial backers. The film’s first half feels like untethered Singer, as disorientation and disquieting mystery are stacked high and unwieldy. (Delightfully so, I should clarify.) The second half, for better or worse, feels like an exercise in tying things together in something of a sensible manner. Various parties I’ve conferred with regret this anchoring, and I largely concede their point: as a general rule, I want a filmmaker to go as full-tilt as their imagination and ability can take them. But I consider Cuckoo‘s conclusion more than capable, and sufficiently saturated with Singer’s sorcery. Gretchen’s alpine ordeal is alive with the sound of mayhem.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…it’s Stevens, who’s often strongest when he turns weird, who is unforgettable… Between its inventive world building and a final invigorating freak out, the film’s few plot holes are papered over for a deafening ring worth repeating.”–Robert Daniels, RogerEbert.com (festival screening)

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FANTASIA 2024: APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: KIZUMONOGATARI: KOYOMI VAMP (2024)

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傷物語 こよみヴァンプ

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DIRECTED BY: Tatsuya Oishi

FEATURING: Voices of Hiroshi Kamiya, Maaya Sakamoto, Yui Horie,

PLOT: Mild-mannered Koyomi Araragi sticks his neck out for a dying vampiress and ends up tasked with fetching her missing limbs.

Still from Kizumonogatari: Koyomi Vamp (2024)

WHY IT MIGHT MAKE THE APOCRYPHA: With the recent death of Godard, I was saddened he wouldn’t be able to co-direct that neat-o vampire cartoon with Bill Plympton. Fortunately, Tatsuya Oishi has that covered.

COMMENTS: Kizumonogatari has three tiers of characters. The highest tier consists of the four protagonists: the deadly and dramatically named Kiss-Shot Acerola-Orion Heart-Under-Blade, a mighty vampiress; the senpei-styled Koyomi Araragi, a dork with “idiot hair”; the ebullient and unflappable Tsubasa Hanekawa, a brainy student; and the cigarette-twiddling (but never cigarette-smoking) Meme Oshino, a goateed sorcerer. The second tier are three oddly-named vampire hunters—Dramaturgy, Episode, and Guillotine Cutter—who provide Araragi with his questline. And in the third tier: the film itself.

Taking cues from mid-60s Godard, director Tatsuya Oishi plays around not only with his characters, but with the storytelling medium he’s working with. The cuts, mini-loops, and staggerings all scream Breathless. Araragi’s journey to become a powerful (albeit reluctant) vampire skitters around a throughline, maintaining the trajectory of plot and character development while twitching in its place along the path. With its many cuts to TV test-screen-styled intertitles—some explaining the impending action, some reacting to on-screen line delivery, and many simply flashing the notice “Noir”—Tatsuya makes his nod toward Weekend. This is an extremely violent picture, and something of a long one, but the director makes it clear that, as with life, it’s nothing to take too seriously.

In that vein, consider the animation. In many ways, Kizumonogatari is standard: well-designed characters in well-orchestrated motion. We see close-ups of Araragi’s face a great deal, which is a treat: the desperate fellow’s trial by fire is often reflected in his expressions of confusion and anguish. He is very much alive. And on the off chance our interest wanes, Tatsuya swaps styles during both moments of comedy—when young-form Kiss-shot has a hissy fit, image detail drops to grade-school level and the motion explodes—and violence. The latter is where the director’s mastery of line shines, particularly in a showdown sequence whose splat-stick noodlings would have Bill Plympton’s approval. (I recall, with a side smirk, Araragi’s brilliant use of his nearly severed hand as a grapple, swinging on to a catwalk along its thin connecting tendril.)

These eccentric characters, techniques, and artistry are put to the service of an interesting story, which itself is in service of exploring the nature of responsibility. In the first act, Araragi submits his body and life to a limbless Kiss-shot, because he cannot quell his pity (and, also, because really likes her boobs). This dubious act of selflessness comes back to bite him, for though he was expecting death, he returns to life as her minion—a highly powerful one, at that. Kiss-shot, too, is forced to face her past, particularly an early incident involving her first minion. After the zany blood-bath of a showdown, the sorcerer provides some consultation about their respective dilemmas. Ultimately, there is no good way for this to end for anyone involved, but there might be a solution which leaves them equally sharing the misery. A sober lesson, deliciously told.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“The action-fight sequences also become so outlandish that they are downright hilarious. However, rather than feeling cheap and cartoonish, these scenes fit perfectly into the mythical world of vampires, who can have limbs ripped off, only for them to regenerate moments later.” – Emma Vine, Loud and Clear (festival screening)

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FANTASIA 2024: APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: THE TENANTS (2023)

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세입자

Seibja

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DIRECTED BY: Eunkyoung Yoon

FEATURING: Kim Dae-gun, Heo Dong-won, Park So-hyun

PLOT: A looming eviction forces Shin-dong to sub-lease his bathroom to a pair of eccentric newlyweds.

WHY IT MIGHT MAKE THE APOCRYPHA: The Tenants is à la Korea, with a home invasion scenario playing out as a paperwork nightmare.

COMMENTS: Shin-dong is not very popular. He has a work acquaintance, who only chats with him because they’re desk neighbors. Outside the office, he talks with just two people. His landlord, labeled “Mr. Bastard” on his phone address book, is a too-cheery little kid eager for a better clientele. And his friend, labeled “Mr. Dork,” is as antisocial as Shin-dong. Our protagonist is trapped: cramped apartment, cramped job, all playing out on a cramped screen and with a claustrophobic sound design. So it is with more trepidation than relief that we meet a tall man with a double-feathered chapeau, and his short trad-clad wife, who are interested in renting out Shin-dong’s bathroom. Because the government’s “Wolwolse” program ties the hands of landlords, this sublease arrangement will help Shin-dong, while also helping these newlyweds with the space they need—as well as a sly opportunity they take advantage of after some months of tenancy.

The Tenants occupies a dreary space that makes Terry Gilliam‘s  Brazilian vibrancy appear sensible. Shin-dong’s day (and increasingly, night) job as a low-level office functionary is the epitome of a corporate grind. The wealthy CEO’s inspirational messages drive the point home: it is not passion, innovation, or ambition by which his artificial meat company succeeds, oh no, but work, work, work. And that’s just about all Shin-dong has time for, especially when the prospect of a company transfer to “Sphere 2” is on the cards: the newest, cleanest, bestest place. But his tiny dream grows increasingly precarious the longer his tenants tenant.

This pair: the tall, crisply suited, always gloved, and invariably be-hatted husband is a man out of place, and not just because his well-blocked fedora sports matching bird plumes on either side, giving him an antenna’d appearance. He crowds the frame’s vertical space, and is capable of strength. His reassuring use of the term “bro” whenever speaking with with Shin-dong is creepy from the start, and he has a tendency to speak with two meanings. A misunderstanding between he and Shin-dong—regarding the wife’s mysterious appearance in Shin-dong’s bedroom—is both amusing and troubling. The wife is nearly non-verbal, but always happy to offer a deeply cut, eye-shutting smile.

But this peculiar husband and wife duo are not nearly so troubling as the layered and growing paperwork and procedure which threatens to consume our hero. As Mr. Dork observes, cities are dying, and pursuing ever more drastic means to procedurally chain their citizens. Though the Wolwolse program starts as a blessing, its complications become a curse. From the start, director Eunkyoung Yoon shovels sheaves of postmodern evil on Shin-dong through her dark and darkly comic means; and when he learns why his Wolwolse tenants were so keen on the bathroom, their disclosure about a sub-tenant of their own might be just enough to break him.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“An unusually confident first film, stylishly shot in black and white, The Tenants may explore some familiar ideas but it is very much its own thing. Tight camerawork informed by a keen sense of the absurd gives it a lot of personality, and its bleakness is leavened by humour.”–Jennie Kermode, Eye For Film (festival screening)

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FANTASIA 2024: APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: INFINITE SUMMER (2024)

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DIRECTED BY: Miguel Llansó

FEATURING: Teele Kaljuvee-O’Brock, Johanna Rosin, Hannah Gross, Ciaron Davies

PLOT: Mia, an anthropology student partying with her friends for one last summer, finds her revels sabotaged by the mysterious and powerful mood app, “Eleusis.”

Still from Infinite Summer (2024)

WHY IT MIGHT MAKE THE APOCRYPHA: Though not as dingbat nutso as Jesus Shows You the Way to the Highway, Llansó’s latest film examines the promise and dangers of technology with plenty of pizzazz, paranormality, and purple gasses.

COMMENTS: Had someone like Ray Bradbury written this, its title could well have been The New Zoo Will Be Free from Suffering. Miguel Llansó, however, has more of a playful—and optimistic—streak than many science fiction writers. His new film is grounded in a realistic here and now, and indeed its opening act plays like a simple coming of age story about three young woman who have just graduated. But as the filmmaker says, “I am no psychologist,” and his deeply rooted bent toward the techno-fantastic quickly rears its head, sending his protagonists and the viewer on a strange and sinister ride through a purple cloud of menace.

This menace (or promise?) is dubbed “Eleusis.” As explained by its chirpy, casual AI guide, it claims to be a guided meditation app. Doctor Mindfulness, who probably isn’t an actual doctor, brings this questionable product—the program’s delivery system is a vapor-cartridge loaded in breathing mask—to Mia and her buddies, who are rightly hesitant about trusting some sketchy beardo they meet on the  “Extreme Dating” VR app. Doctor Mindfulness’ insistence overcomes Mia’s trepidation, and the next thing we know, Mia gives Eleusis a try, and begins exploring the possibilities of the purple dust vortex projected in the aether. Her friends overcome their hesitation, too, and under the guidance of the good “doctor,” push the tech to its meditative, orgasmic extremes. Then events take a turn for the worse.

Seeing as we’re watching a speculative science fiction film, it’s reasonable to guess that the changes and effects from a nebulous nebula aren’t going to be good; but seeing as we’re watching a Llansó film, it’s also reasonable to guess that things are going to get a bit wild. Having emphasized the color scheme, I won’t be giving too much away when I say this movie makes mention of the pineal gland, which is stimulated to both summon Eleusis from beyond, and suck in the app users when they reach a certain level of “transcendence.” Eleusis is disarming, with a bubbly feminine voice, often ending its sentences with a reassuring “yo!” to emphasize how hip and harmless it is. It’s a fascinating creature, with a mesmerizing interface—and also a deep cave of lightning and purple that may hold the answers Mia seeks after her friends begin changing.

A compelling character roster fleshes out Llansó’s probe into this theoretical. Mia’s father is an easy-going artist, with his authority tempered by his insecurities. Doctor Mindfulness hits all the notes for a techno-optimist, following the instructions of Eleusis without question. And a pair of Interpol agents add an eccentric buddy-cop element: one of them is both always late, and always eating the other’s food. Infinite Summer has much to offer, much of it in a purple haze. In Mia, Llansó captures our obsession with the past; in the hungry Interpol agent, he captures our enchainment to the present; and in Eleusis, he imagines a future gathering place, between reality and the void: a new zoo, which will be free from some suffering.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“Infinite Summer distinguishes itself with a mesmerizing soundtrack and meticulously crafted visual effects that heighten the surreal atmosphere of the narrative.” – Chris Jones, Overly Honest Reviews (festival screening)