Film of the Week: Brick

 

In high school, everything feels like the most important thing in the world. No matter the stakes in the greater scheme of things, every fight feels monumental, every breakup an agonizing heartbreak, and social circle navigation feels like life and death. In a way, this is absurd, of course, a natural consequence of a hormone-addled mind grappling with the awkward middle ground of childhood and adulthood, but Brick, the directorial debut of Rian Johnson, uses this idea as a staging ground for a brutally effective neo-noir story of loss and pain that closely walks the line between serious and absurd without ever giving up the game. The melodrama blends beautifully with the noir tone, making the violent escalation of the story feel like a devastating punch to the gut. 

For some, the selling point of Brick is it's heavily noir-inspired presentation, owing more to the works of Raymond Chandler and Lynch's Blue Velvet than any traditional high school drama. Protagonist Brendan Frye (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) talks like a 40s gumshoe, fast-witted and bitter, while femme fatales attempt to work their wiles on him, the vice principal functions as a "Da Chief" style figure, and a shadowy criminal conspiracy lurks from the shadows. What makes Brick work so well is the blending of traditional noir storytelling with it's high school setting. The drug ring that makes up the film's antagonists is comprised entirely of high schoolers, and in one deeply amusing scene, kingpin "the Pin" (Lukas Haas) attempts to make a deal with Brendan over milk and cookies served by his mother. 

While there is undoubtably a sense of stakes, dealing with Brendan's attempt to solve the murder of his ex-girlfriend, the cast and their manner of speaking gives the film something of a tongue-in-cheek presentation. It's clever, disarming the audiences so when the real violence and drama hits you feel every piece of the impact. These are kids acting as adults, and you're often jarringly reminded of that. Brendan's breakdown after days of both physical and mental abuse in the name of revenge is heartbreaking, and when gang enforcer Tug (Noah Fleiss) suddenly pulls a gun to execute an apparent rat, it's shocking. As soon as the gunshot fades, the characters are left to look at the very real consequences of the action, and you actively feel the film ramp up as any sense of normalcy is destroyed. 

Johnson's talents as a director are already blooming here, and he and cinematographer Steven Yedlin frame the rundown suburbia of the film's setting as something strangely beautiful and dreamlike, playing with light and shadow. It plays well to the surreal setting, and some of the film's most effective moments are just the characters framed by their surroundings. Brendan looking down the hallway of the Pin's basement, staring into the shadows in anxious paranoia as the silence exaggerates every creak of the old house, is a wonderfully tense moment, as is a very clever tracking shot showing the immediate escalation of a gang war a floor above Brendan, Tug, and the Pin. His talents as a writer, similarly, are very apparent, as he applies his now trademark subversive eye to the film's story by peeling away at the emotional layers of the characters. Brendan's relationship with Emily is revealed as a deeply toxic one, a controlling person so unable to let go of the only thing that made him feel normal that he ends up practically suffocating her, while a quiet conversation about Tolkien between him and the Pin exposes the formerly intimidating mob boss as a quietly lonely person just looking for some sense of connection. These are kids, trying so hard to figure out their way in the world that they fall headfirst into deadly consequences. 

Brick is one of my favorite directorial debuts of all time, resembling it's femme fatale Laura (Nora Zehtetner, so criminally good in this that it's a shame she didn't hit Levitt's level of mainstream success) in that it's a tragedy masquerading as something sillier to trick you into letting your guard down. Immensely creative and an ambitious start to a very strong body of work. 

Film of the Week: Banned from Broadcast: Saiko! The Large Family/The Cursed Large Family

The true trick with experimental filmmaking is committing to the bit. In order for your gimmick to work, you have to really be willing to go all the way on it, trusting the audience to "get it" rather than dumbing down the work or overexplaining it. If some don't get it, oh well. Banned From Broadcast's Large Family duology is a very good example of this ethos at place. On the surface, these are somewhat dry family drama mockumentaries, a peek into a slice of life of a troubled family unit doing their best to stay together. They're sweet, a bit dry, and at times a tad troubling. But those willing to scratch beyond the surface will find something a lot darker and compelling. They're films that reward patience, and those willing to approach with an open mind will find something worth discussing. 

Anyone familiar with the endless glut of TLC family content may find some initial familiarity in the premise of these. A documentary crew spends some time with an unusually large Japanese family, documenting their lives and discussing the upbringings of the various children against the backdrop of an apparent "curse". The "curse" torments the family in a variety of accidents, from an injury that prevents the original patriarch from working to claiming the lives of one of the family's children in a tragic drowning. All of it seemingly owes to a cursed photograph, obtained by the father, that curses anyone who looks upon it. From a j-horror perspective, it's certainly plausible, no different from the cursed tape from The Ring or the home of Kayako from The Grudge, and the film to some degree banks on that familiarity. It works in layers, a seemingly mundane family drama with elements of supernatural horror underneath it, but for the eagle-eyed viewer, the layers keep going. 

When I say the films commit to the bit, I really do mean it, with the often quiet, relaxed nature of the day to day activities of the family contrasted by harsh, jarring moments of tension. Ringo (Sayaka Fukita) is viciously dragged to another room and beaten for the crime of sleeping in, while in the sequel, matriarch Sumio cryptically barks at her smaller children that she doesn't care if they go missing, an oddly specific threat for a woman supposedly mourning her lost husband to say. The family's stepfather, a kind man seemingly largely out of the loop, is similarly beaten by teenager Riei, whose out of nowhere explosions of rage come off as deeply surprising, suggesting some sort of mistrust or abuse that we aren't privy to. It, along with the idea of the curse, effectively functions as a sleight of hand trick, drawing your eye (and thus, your mind) so heavily to these moments that you miss the smaller clues that paint a greater picture. The strange drawings of the youngest children, the quiet glances between the teenagers when they think the adults aren't watching, the way mother quietly looms in the background at crucial moments of the second film, all clues towards the real goings on. It expects the viewer to ask questions, but it very smartly also leaves us to puzzle out the answers. 

The focus on day to day life does make for somewhat dry viewing, very much relying on your investment in speculating the greater mystery, but there is a quiet, undeniable heart to the film's proceedings. The siblings dote on one another, and in the second film's most affecting moment, the stepfather stands up for Ringo when she is caught in the crossfire of one of Riei's outbursts, then tracks down the younger girl when she flees from home. "Why are you so kind to us?" asks Riei, a lifetime of abuse and fear pouring out of her as she's confronted with someone finally willing to treat her as a person even as she attempts to drive him from her home. This moment, unsurprisingly, proves to be a crucial one, a vital key to the film's apparently abrupt ending and an example of the duology's general philosophy. On the one hand, it's a sweet moment between family, but on the other, it reveals the quiet pain underneath all of the proceedings. 

Saiko! isn't going to be viewing for everyone. It's dry, understated storytelling that raises more questions than answers, but, strangely, it reminds of Kyle Edward Ball's Skinamarink. If you can meet the film at it's wavelength, it gives you something to chew on and think over, reaching your own conclusion and actively encouraging revisiting. It's an experiment, sure, but it's a damn fascinating one.