The Machinist Blends Dostoevsky and Suspense

Brad Anderson's Session 9 is an underappreciated slice of psychological horror, something of a ghost story teething with thrilling ambiance and unsettling performances from all involved. It's only natural that The Machinist, his follow-up film, could be something of a success within the mystery genre, taking to heart the marks and fumbles learned from his time in the abandoned, asbestos-coated asylum. But this rattling tour de force more than satisfies expectations; Anderson finds this unfathomable balance between a mind-rattling premise and Christian Bale's now-infamous visage of an emaciated man haunted by an unknown secret, transforming it into a slow-burning mind job fiendishly successful at luring us into a web of psychological torment.

Easily the strongest work that penman Scott Kosar (screenwriter of the Texas Chainsaw and Amityville Horror remakes) has scribed to date, The Machinist tells Trevor's story, a man who hasn't significantly slept for prolonged periods of time in well over a year. He goes to work at a mechanics plant, writes himself oft-forgotten reminders to pay bills or go to the store for commonplace stuffs like cleaning supplies, and frequently patrons a good-natured call girl (Jennifer Jason Leigh) and an airport pie-and-coffee waitress (Aitana Sánchez-Gijón) for scant amounts of socialization. Sleeplessness is causing him to rapidly lose weight, watching the number value sink by way of Post-its above his scale down from the 130s to the 120s, and lower. It might be chalked up to unexplainable metabolic issues, if it weren't for a series of notes left on his fridge -- pictures, even, of a Hangman game that he can't remember drawing -- that seem to allude to an answer behind Trevor's insomnia.

Director Anderson uses a restrained yet overbearingly cold atmosphere in weaving together his complex mystery, giving The Machinist a density that you can almost cut through. As we begin the story with Trevor reading Dostoevsky's "The Idiot" with a hypnotically, heavy-eyed glaze over his eyes, it ignites those compelling puzzle-solving triggers in our minds. It also adds a precursor to its disparate demeanor. Bleakness is a major component to its success, operating on a heartless and mechanical level that taps into emotional stagnancy in a rather cold-blooded fashion. It's certainly not a pleasant cinematic experience, but it's damned compelling to say the least.

When Trevor begins his downward spiral into madness as he turns his life upside down -- in some ways positive, others excruciatingly negative -- to solve the riddle behind the random notes, The Machinist keeps a steady rhythm amid potentially tone-boggling chaos. Similar human conspiracy thrillers, like Roman Polanski's The Tenant or John Maybury's The Jacket, dart in maddening directions as the protagonist seeps deeper into his mystery. Brad Anderson, to the contrary, keeps a strangely low-key yet effective tone with his actors and the overall smoothness of the twisting reveals, crafting Reznik's revelatory scramble into a slow, painful descent. As he interweaves with the contorted tools in the unionized machine warehouse and through his sterile apartment, a sense of emptiness surrounds Trevor that seems strangely purposeful.

It's hard to critique Christian Bale's performance in The Machinist, largely because his dangerous weight loss and frail movement almost speak more than the words coming from his character's mouth. His work towards growing incredible thin likely added to Trevor's exhaustion as a character, making it easy for his frightening visage to seem drained and semi-lethargic. However, there's that unmistakable fire within Bale's eyes that gives us a taste of something extra, electricity that adds an additional layer to the character's complication. He's incredible effective, whether we're basing it on his visual appearance or his typically excellent dramatic stage presence, and overwhelmingly successful as the mysterious magnet wedged in the middle of The Machinist -- existing much more than merely a gimmick to sucker audiences into seeing the film.

Bale's interactions with the supporting cast, however, are what build the framework of The Machinist. His conversations with Jason Leigh's prostitute character mimic those to Sánchez-Gijón's waitress, even connecting similar phrases about his thinness that seem too similar to ignore. Similar vocal tones both conflict and interconnect with their opposing personalities, something that speaks to strong chemistry between Trevor and the dual relationships that he develops in his life. His frustration, enhanced by uneasy, disconnected relationships with his co-workers (including effective performances from Michael Ironside and Reg E. Cathey), becomes one of conspiracy-fueled mania as he ginger-foots around his new "pal", Ivan (John Sharian). The more complex Trevor's life gets, the deeper it dives into convolution -- and the more ambiguous all his acquaintances become.

As with Session 9, Brad Anderson makes it excruciatingly difficult to identify with any of the troubled, dark characters on a personal level in The Machinist, all the way until the culmination. He gives us all the clues that we might need to solve the riddle ourselves, placing them in plain sight for easy consumption. Even then, the tricks he has up his sleeve are devilish, primarily because they resonate on rather personal levels that end in, surprisingly, an uplifting and redeeming fashion. Don't get me wrong, The Machinist is as dark as thrilling mind-benders can get; however, there's something strangely rewarding and climactic about the conclusion that gives it an air of decency. Hitchcockian in construction with a garnish of philosophical "Twilight Zone" thought-ignition, Brad Anderson's grim cerebral meltdown relishes in parading all its tricks around Bale's unsettling presence -- then takes its audience down a gut-wrenching path towards its twist, one even more satisfying than Anderson's previous work.

Empire of Passion: Film Review

Though considered to be a complimentary film -- a pseudo-sequel of sorts -- to his controversial erotic drama In the Realm of the Senses, it's important to bear in mind that Nagisa Oshima's Empire of Passion (L'empire de la passion, or Ai no borea) stands alone as an outstanding "kaidan" film on its own terms. Those familiar with the likes of Kenji Mizoguchi's Ugetsu and Kaneto Shindo's Onibaba will have an easy time grasping this Japanese ghost story's structure, a framework that relies heavily on atmosphere, subtle physical drama between the living and the dead, and an abundance of allegory underneath seemingly simple and, oftentimes, passionate theatrics. Alongside these bullet points, Oshima also carries over familiar themes that revolve around passion's destructive power, transforming his spooky follow-up into a more thoroughly involving picture than its controversial inspiration.

Set in late 19th century Japan, Empire of Passion revolves around deceit and, ultimately, murder, with sexual gratification as a motivator. Seki (Kazuko Yoshiyuki), a simple wife to a rickshaw driver named Gisaburo (Takahiro Tamura) and servant to a house in her town, reluctantly begins an affair with an aggressive ex-soldier named Toyoji (Tatsuya Fuji, the male lead from In the Realm of the Senses). Their initial encounter leads to a series of sexual rendezvous -- toned down from those that Oshima photographed from In the Realm of the Senses -- that would ultimately cloud Seki's mind with delusions of happiness and satisfaction outside of her domestically-driven, mundane life. For her to spend her life with her aggressive courter, a charming man who brings her fruit dumplings and compliments in ways unlike her husband, the two of them arrange a happenstance murder to rid of Seki's husband.

When Gisaburo's ghost returns to haunt the city and, ultimately, her household, they fear that their secret will surface from underneath the leaves and sludge covering his body at the bottom of a nearby well. Oshima concentrates on the concept of ethereal figures being mere extensions of people instead of purely frightening apparitions, though all of the townsfolk would prefer that the rickshaw driver's ghost wouldn't continue to haunt their area. Instead, Seki's husband is more like an element of her conscience returning to make her life as restless as his conclusion. He's neither aggressive nor complacent in his state, but more of the sole piece of evidence that'll convict her and her lover in a time where bloody knives and fingerprints couldn't convict wrongdoers and simple gossip amid townsfolk could taint those without a formal conviction. The limited number of direct scare devices present in Empire of could deflect more casual horror fans, but the rickshaw driver's ghastly presence is certain to rustle up at least a few mild shivers.

Those familiar with the many levels of Japanese horror, from Masaki Kobayashi's Kwaidan itself to modern pieces like Ju-on (The Grudge) and Ringu (The Ring), will have an easy time grasping the notion that subtle ambient suspense and well-conceived photography are Oshima's primary tools at play in his stab at at campfire folklore. It's a traditional Japanese ghost story through and through, with regret and temerity as the essentials intermingled within the compartmentalized narrative. The plot is simple and streamlined with little development, instead relying on both traditional storytelling and Oshima's fervent connection with eroticism as its draws. It's not geared to surprise us as much as it's out to mildly thrill underneath a layer of compelling dramatics bouncing between the leads and a supple sense of aesthetic atmosphere. Though the drama within Seki's love triangle compels to a few mild degrees, the dynamics between them achieve much more once the supernatural elements sneak into the picture. Watching Seki fetch high-content alcohol for her ghostly husband in the middle of the night, along with hearing his voice during an reenacted situation with Toyoji to respark their relationship, transforms Oshima's tone into one of dark comedy and foreboding, swelling tension.

Yoshio Miyajima's cinematography work in Empire of Passion becomes a key element behind its memorable vibe, as it paints the story with equally beautiful and eerie mise-en-scene. With Oshima's eyes for visual motifs, the two blend several symbols together for dramatic effect, one of the most obvious metaphorical symbols is the usage of the circle to emphasize the cyclical nature of the film. Through rotating wheels and the opening at the top of a well in which we see the seasons changing, it conveys a sense of fluid movement throughout time in a striking fashion. It might not sound like much of a time dynamic to watch rickshaw spokes spin and a mixture of leaves and snowflakes fall into a watery grave, but they interact with the traditional "kaidan" elements in an immensely engaging fashion. Also, it's obvious that Oshima really made an effort to make his ghost story a more accessible film through the camera work, as it covers up the minimal sexual content with strategically-placed jettison planks of wood and pieces of fabric -- along with thoughtfully-arranged body parts and shadows.

Unlike In the Realm of the Senses, Empire of Passion takes on a more conventional form with the male-female dynamic. Where Sado Abe, the lead in Oshima's precursory film, takes on a dominant and violent disposition in her relationship, Seki takes very few strides to exercise any dominance in her relationships -- both with Toyoji and her husband. Instead, they only share a similar desperation in common, showcasing how Oshima focuses on the theme of feeling trapped underneath tradition and commonplace practices in different ways. Seki, as a character, doesn't stray far from gender archetypes put into motion with Japanese cinema's portrayal of 19th century women at the time, but she does show a few glimmers of breaking the mold within her murderous act -- though it was under the pressure of Toyoji. It's in their fleeting desperation, a glance at ensnaring something potent in a time of monotony, that their misguided relationship delivers a dose of potency revolving around the confusing, overwhelming and only partly gratifying nature of desire.

Empire of Passion communicates similar messages to In the Realm of the Senses regarding the consuming nature of sexual transgressions, but Oshima's decision to take it down a more convivial path as a ghost story wedged within tradition was a wise choice. In his decisions to tame that desire to create purely provocative cinema, he also allows some of his political concepts to be more readily accessible and discernible to the naked eye -- especially graspable once the film starts to crash towards its imminent conclusion. Through the eyes of Japanese horror fans and those whom appreciate classic ghost stories, it'll satisfy in all the same ways while adding dashes of Nagisa Oshima's erotically charged elucidations into its satisfying construction. Once you've seen the likes of the director's more aggressive neo-erotica, politically motivated experiment, it'll feel like a chill-inducing walk in the park -- and an immensely enjoyable one in the vein of other "kaidan" pictures of its ilk. As an avid fan of that particular genre, in both classic and contemporary concoctions, Empire of Passion left me gripped.

Oshima's Politico-Erotica Tough on 'Senses'

Photo from Cinema.com
The term "experimental film" can refer to many things. It can mean a collage of images thrown together to try and invoke a reaction, or it can be a filmmaker's stab at telling a story not often told. Few avant-garde pictures like these are as deeply unsettling and boundary-breaking as In the Realm of the Senses (also known as Empire of Senses, or L'empire des sens), a work of true water-testing from acclaimed Japanese filmmaker Nagisa Oshima. Containing lengthy expanses of graphic, real sexual intercourse and an overall sense of erotic obsession, it's a true test on the nerves that grows exponentially more difficult to absorb with the viewer's closed-mindedness. However, once you've become desensitized to its garishness, the dynamic power struggle between the two leads builds into a compelling exercise in sensory conditioning and gender etiquette deconstruction -- all engulfed in an erotic tone that lingers long afterwards.

Largely a visual work and light on plot, In the Realm of the Senses tells the true story of Sada Abe (Eiko Matsuda), a folk hero of sorts in Japan for her obsessive relationship with a married man. It starts as a casual affair between her, a servant, and her employer, an energetic and sex-driven man with near endless libido, which transforms as Sada Abe's true nature seeps into the picture. She's now taken on an iconic presence in Japan, hinged on the events that take place once the two start to dive deeper into their relationship. As Sada Abe explains her "acute sensitivity" to her lover and builds an obsession with his genitalia, the two begin to explore some of the darker recesses of sexuality -- namely violence and asphyxiation. This level of intensity has etched a place for it in cinematic history as one of the more controversial stories to be caught on film, proven by its French co-production title since Nagisa Oshima couldn't show it uncensored in his

From their first sexual encounter, Oshima makes it clear that he doesn't plan on turning heads away from their encounters. The exact opposite, actually; he carries firm belief in the concept of breaking taboos by forcing one's self to witness that which they fear, in a sense, which builds In the Realm of the Senses into a very difficult film to watch. He knows, without a doubt, that he's likely going to unsettle most people that watch the film, which happens to be his aim. The film is probably the most widely-known example of "experimental erotica", as it forces their incensed and obsessive sexuality into our line of sight in never-ending lengths of oral and full-blown sex. It remains, however, oddly intoxicating from start to finish -- not because of its capacity for arousal, but more for the way that it tinkers with the audience's mind and allows core emotionality to pour through while watching their torrid affair.

Eventually, the sights and sounds of their carnal relationship begin to contort into an oddly idyllic playground for their obsession. It's also the time that the couple has grown accustomed to the current state of their consuming relationship -- and takes their relationship a step further. Determined film-watchers will take that step with them, which flows right along with what Nagisa Oshima desires with In the Realm of the Senses. Every inch that we take further into their "realm" means another one that cannot be taken backwards, denting and construing the perception that we hold for their acts. It exemplifies the term: "what has been seen cannot be unseen". In most cases, that's used in a negative connotation. In Oshima's eyes, it's a way of evolving his audience's social perception by bombarding them with visually stunning images -- ones that remain, from start to finish, highly human in nature.

What separates In the Realm of the Senses from being strictly erotica, aside from the splendid cinematography, is the instinctive and fluid nature of the actors' performances. Let's not even address their non-simulated intercourse here, but their dramatic abilities. Both Eiko Matsuda and Tatsuya Fuji carry a surprisingly natural rhythm, one heightened by their experience and their roles in the relationship. Sada Abe is feral and dominant by nature, which could easily be overplayed by a seasoned actress. This happens to be Yoshiyuki Kazuko's first role, one of only a few that she'd participate in before disappearing into Europe. Her lack of theatrical "poise" giver Sada Abe a tangible presence, one that feels surprisingly real. Tatsuya Fuji plays off of her untamed nature exceedingly well as the recessive element in their relationship, containing his masculinity in a way that harnesses both temerity and surrender. Their interplay remains involving and, in some instances, humorous in an array of very dark manners.

Whether In the Realm of the Senses is obscene, artistic, or somewhere in between is all subjective, but it's undeniably both a challenge and a significant marker of defiance in the world of Japanese cinema at the time. Nagisa Oshima thrives on taking his audience a step further than they're comfortable in going, which makes it a literal eye-widening experience. After witnessing the conclusion of Sada Abe's dangerous obsession, it's near impossible to shake these images from the mind. Few films actually match with the statement "you've got to see it to believe it", but this is certainly one of those films. Whether you'll want to see it again, however, is another personal decision. To say the least, In the Realm of the Senses is a compelling and well-performed portrait of sexual fixation and relationship power structure -- and an important film for experimental filmmaking, as it truly tests the boundaries separating taboo from normalcy.