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.
No comments:
Post a Comment