Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ category

Tom of Finland

October 15, 2017

tomoffinlandTouko Laaksonen, better known as the fetish artist Tom of Finland, liked to draw what aroused him: beefy men in uniform, or leather, or leather uniform. A veteran of World War II, Touko seemed to draw his aesthetic partly from the Nazis, with whom the Finnish army fought against the Soviet Union in an example of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend — kind of.” (Finland stayed independent and never formally allied with Nazi Germany; near the end of the war the two countries got into it with each other anyway.) I don’t think the new Finnish biopic Tom of Finland gets into the Nazi thing, which is probably for the best; by his own admission, Touko was never particularly political at heart, though his work ended up being plenty political.

Touko (Pekka Strang) cuts an artsy figure — with his porkpie hat and mustache, he resembles a Eurotrash R. Crumb (whose bizarrely sexual comics, like Touko’s art, are as notorious as they are renowned). He slouches around Finland, furtively pursuing men in parks or at “poker parties” and risking arrest. (Homosexuality wasn’t decriminalized in Finland until 1971.) He has a job in advertising, and on the side he draws painstaking pictures of men posing alone or in twos or threes, sometimes busy, sometimes just bulging. What made Touko’s drawings so magnetic to gay men in later years, and what gives them a spark that transcends the usual porn, is that they come from such an obvious, desperate place of, well, concupiscence. It was his inner orgy life given form, though in technique it was, as one critic said, illustrative but not expressive. The men’s expressions are sullen or glazed over with lust (there are some exceptions). The blankness of their faces is a good screen on which the viewer can project his fantasies.

The movie’s Touko seems to follow suit, eventually shopping for leather-daddy gear and becoming one of his own stolid cartoons. Touku never seems especially cheerful or even happy. The frequent same-sex encounters are filmed rather neutrally by straight director Dome Karukoski. The heart of the movie is in the relationships between Touku and those who love him, such as his disapproving sister (Jessica Grabowsky), or his younger lover who succumbs to AIDS, or the Californian gays who invite him out to see the impact he had on American rough-trade culture (in the West Coast ‘70s as well as the Helsinki ‘40s, it’s all about butch hair and mustaches and shared cigarettes and sexuality so aggressively lunging it seems almost like Kabuki at times). What we don’t know is whether he loves them back — or can. The film cites Touko’s wartime stabbing to death of a Russian paratrooper as the event that froze his soul, took him out of the human race and sidelined him as a watcher, an artist.

Once the movie gets to California and the snarky twinks and amiable bears who revere Tom of Finland’s work, its outlook improves and it shakes off, at least temporarily, the Helsinki blues. It does spend a lot of our time beforehand being dreary (though, as lighted by cinematographer Lasse Frank, gorgeously dreary — not drearily dreary as in the recent England Is Mine). I found myself wanting a whole movie documenting Touko’s bright years in the ‘70s, before AIDS decimated the community and before Touko himself fell to emphysema in 1991. But in order to appreciate Touko’s liberation and vindication in his later years we need to see the repression/oppression of his youth. In the ‘40s, Touko passes one of his naughtier drawings under a toilet stall as a come-on; he gets a fat lip for his troubles. Fast-forward to the ‘70s, and dudes are dueling with giant inflatable phalluses at pool parties where wayward police, rather than being feared, are catcalled.

That juicy round of hooting at embarrassed cops who, in another time and place, would have been arresting the whole party is gratifying and about as close as Tom of Finland comes to pure comedy — except when it shows us Touko’s work. The drawing has the fizz of an artist mesmerized by his own onanistic images, like all those so-aroused-it-hurts drawings by R. Crumb of fat-bottomed girls, or S. Clay Wilson’s seething panoramas of filth. It has wit, and a refreshing lack of sentiment. Would that the same were true of the film, which goes a little soft (flaccid, if you will) near the end, with a bunny brought into a dying man’s hospital room — the scene is, I think, a mistake. But most of the handsomely assembled film pays tribute not to the man’s pornography but to the way it pointed gay men away from shame towards pride, like an arrow, or like something similarly shaped.

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Inhumanwich!

October 1, 2017

inhumanwich“In Soviet Russia, sandwich eats you!” is not a joke featured in the retro sci-fi/horror tribute Inhumanwich! (pronounced IN-hyoo-MAN-wich), but there are plenty of other jokes. The movie, shot in golden-oldie black and white, concerns an astronaut whose sloppy joe sandwich combines with radiation to turn him into a rapidly growing monster made of meat. This is the kind of knowingly daffy premise that can go south — and sour — but writer/director David Cornelius strikes a light tone early on and delivers, as I said, a tribute to schlock of the ‘50s, not a callow put-down. If you’re too hip for ridiculous big-monster movies, why put in the years of work to make one? To show the world you’re better than the movie you just made? Cornelius, in contrast, is not too hip for those movies or for his own movie. He loves them as I do, and his affection is infectious.

I don’t know for sure (but he’ll probably tell me) exactly which creature-double-features Cornelius is referencing, but I’ll take a stab and say Inhumanwich! is The Blob by way of The Incredible Melting Man (or, if you want to be fancy, First Man into Space), with elements and tropes from however many hours of snowy TV young Cornelius sat in front of. (There also seem to be fun nudges in the ribs of John Carpenter’s The Thing and the infamous Arch Oboler radio play “Chicken Heart.”) Astronaut Joe Neumann (amiably played by Jacque “Jake” Ransom before he turns into a blob of beef) terrorizes the Cincinnati countryside after his rocket crash-lands, and it’s up to the usual team of soldiers and scientists to stop it before it engulfs the planet.

Cornelius and editor Matt Gray keep Inhumanwich! sprinting (and short — the film crosses the finish line at an hour thirteen, including credits). As the old-timers who made stuff like Them! and Tarantula knew, you don’t want to give the audience a lot of time to think during your movie about killer turnips or whatever, and Cornelius also knows what the soul of wit is. (Look for his uncredited cameo as a Jordy Verrill-type gentleman who encounters the monster in the woods.) The scenes are clipped to punch up the punchlines; this good-hearted comedy boasts a good deal of technical savvy, of the sort that’s invisible when it’s working. There’s a bit about a character who repeats everything she hears during a phone chat, which would make a goofy sort of sense if we were just hearing her side of the conversation and we were getting exposition from it; but we also see the other side of the talk via split screen, so the redundancy becomes a surreal joke. It’s one of several gags in Inhumanwich! that you just know started with Cornelius watching some forlorn excuse for a movie with buddies and saying “Wouldn’t it be funny if…”

The performers are mostly encouraged to mimic the unhip flatness of ‘50s sci-fi actors. The movie doesn’t confine itself to any one era, though; some of the signifiers announce themselves as from the ‘50s, some from modern times. To that end, Jake Robinson’s stogie-chewing, growling General Graham seems to channel John Belushi’s Wild Bill Kelso and the uncouth soldiers of Day of the Dead, moreso than the rigid military men you’d find in antique schlock. He seems to be of the ‘70s and ‘80s, whereas a later character (Brad Nicholas), whose competitive abilities might be of some use against the monster, seems of more recent vintage. Cornelius mashes up the decades as if to say that some things in the universe remain constant, such as humanity’s response to a killer pile of ground beef. Inhumanwich! is just the brand of inspired nonsense we need at the moment.

Leatherface

September 17, 2017

leatherface-teaser-750Fans of Mary Harron’s 1996 biopic I Shot Andy Warhol might want to know about Leatherface, the umpty-umpth chapter in the seemingly deathless Texas Chainsaw Massacre series. In the earlier film, Lili Taylor played Valerie Solanas, the disturbed woman who committed the titular act, and Stephen Dorff played Candy Darling, a transgender Warhol “superstar” who took Valerie under her wing for a while. I imagined Taylor and Dorff — once possibly the queen and king of ‘90s indie cinema — laughing it up together between takes on Leatherface, in which they reunite as two people on severely opposite sides of the law. Here, Taylor is Verna, matriarch of the cannibalistic Sawyer family, and Dorff is Hartman, a Texas Ranger driven around the bend when his daughter suffers a cruel death at the hands of the Sawyer boys.

The thought of Taylor ribbing Dorff on set about how good his ass looked in a dress twenty years ago is funnier, and more entertaining, than anything in Leatherface. Which is a shame, because for the first time, possibly, since Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, there are actual accomplished directors at the wheel and not schlock non-entities. The French duo Julien Maury and Alexandre Bustillo are known to international horror fans for their debut, the gore-drenched thriller Inside. Their next two features played at a couple festivals over here but didn’t otherwise make much of an impact, and they contributed a segment to The ABCs of Death 2. Oddly, all of those projects featured the fearsome actress Béatrice Dalle, but alas, the diastematic diva doesn’t figure in Leatherface, perhaps because the movie would then have to explain what a French woman is doing in Texas backwoods. (Or actually Bulgaria standing in for Texas.)

Inside had a relentlessness, a hungry gaze into the abyss, that made me hopeful for Leatherface. But the Gallic duo are strictured by the movie’s R rating; the body count is high, and blood becomes buoyant, but the movie cuts away from a clear look at the carnage almost spitefully, as if the directors resented having to stay within MPAA bounds. Instead of going goreless, like Tobe Hooper’s original masterpiece, Leatherface teases us with how bloody it could be but isn’t allowed to be. Still, these filmmakers have an eye, and much of the movie looks like some foul dark fairy tale with flesh-eating goblins and homicidal woodsmen. Set mostly in 1965, the film plays with 20th-century archetypes — the killer romantic pair, the kindly nurse, the sensitive boy in a dysfunctional family. The young man who will become the inarticulate, flesh-mask-wearing chainsaw killer Leatherface escapes from a corrupt mental institution along with aforementioned nurse (Vanessa Grasse) and sicko lovebirds (James Bloor, Jessica Madsen).

The psychos-in-love are so far out there they work a rotting corpse into their carnal routine. The nurse is as pure and blameless as you could ask for. That leaves the relatively good-hearted (though violent if necessary) inmates Jackson and Bud, the former stoic and smart, the latter hulking and inarticulate. I think which one ends up becoming Leatherface is supposed to be a surprise, so I won’t spoil it. At times, mostly in the dynamic between these damaged boys and the nurse, there is the slightest whiff of George and Lennie from Of Mice and Men, but just the stale aroma of a blown opportunity. Why not — Leatherface pays homage to everything else, never becoming its own movie.

The recently excused Tobe Hooper is credited as an executive producer on Leatherface, a probably-honorary credit. Hooper’s Chainsaw is often imitated, never duplicated (or bested, say I), a sui generis sweatbox odyssey that seems to owe nothing to any other film before it. Leatherface feels properly respectful, made by filmmakers who idolize the original, and that’s also its weakness: it’s a jumped-up fan film, and because it’s meant to be a prequel to Hooper’s movie it’s locked into whatever happens in that movie. It can’t deviate from what we know, and can’t truly surprise us, though I will say that Drayton Sawyer sure ages a hell of a lot between 1965 and 1974, and that we’ve now seen a Mama Sawyer but still haven’t seen a Papa. And two decades after co-starring in one of the defining mid-‘90s indie films, Lili Taylor and Stephen Dorff ended up in Bulgaria yelling at each other and getting covered in sticky Karo syrup and having more fun, I hope, than I did.

Beatriz at Dinner

September 10, 2017

beatrizatdinnerI’m not sure whether Beatriz at Dinner is, as advertised, “the first great film of the Trump era” (Get Out might beg to differ), but that’s a reductive tag anyway. Its concerns go deeper (and it was finished months before Election Day 2016), so don’t let that description scare you away or foster unrealistic expectations. The movie is not the savage jugular-punch to the current administration that some will want and others will wearily and warily expect. It’s accidentally topical — it could just as easily have been made in the mid-2000s, on the heels of the two other films by Beatriz’ makers, Chuck & Buck (2000) and The Good Girl (2002). But director Miguel Arteta and screenwriter Mike White speak to today’s preoccupations precisely by not tying themselves to the present.

The movie is archetypal, not satirically specific. Beatriz (Salma Hayek) is a massage therapist and general holistic healer, and also an immigrant. Her opposite number here is Doug Strutt (John Lithgow), a real-estate magnate who seems to represent the values that validate Trump without actually being much like Trump. Mike White allows Doug some wit and self-awareness (he’s way too well-spoken to be a Trump parody), and Lithgow makes him quick and shrewd, but with an understanding that Doug’s self-opinion is deeply divided. Doug is reflective, even existentially aware of his place in the world. In his way, Doug is the most honest person in the movie. He’s joshingly cruel but he never pretends to be anything other than what he is.

Beatriz is brought into Doug’s sphere when she’s stuck at a client’s house by car trouble. Her client is Kathy (Connie Britton), the sort of conscientious rich white woman, blind to her own privilege, who thinks of her massage therapist Beatriz as a friend because having a woman like Beatriz as a friend makes a woman like Kathy feel warm and gracious. (She commiserates tastefully when a saddened Beatriz says her neighbor killed her goat.) Beatriz knows they’re not really friends, though she once treated and helped Kathy’s (offscreen) daughter through her chemotherapy. She knows how easily a rich white person’s affection is given, and withdrawn. Beatriz doesn’t say much until some wine loosens her tongue, but the great actress Hayek writes an entire novel wordlessly, with stares of despair or outrage.

Beatriz at Dinner has also been described as a comedy, but it isn’t really — the level of camp is awfully low (it spikes a bit in some of Beatriz’ flights of fantasy), and the few laughs are uncomfortable. There is one top-notch twisted joke: these rich people love passing grotesque photos around on their phones; it happens twice, and both times Beatriz is horrified, and finally livid. Beatriz is more or less marooned at the California mansion of Kathy and her husband Grant (David Warshofsky) as an important business dinner, involving Doug Strutt, looms later in the evening. Amusingly, except for Doug, the men seem indistinct; the women come off snappy and precise. They’re intelligent and know the right things to say to continue presenting as compassionate people, but some part of their soul is gone, scabbed over. They enable their men to kill the world.

Sometimes Hayek’s Beatriz is powerful Earth Mother, other times just a slumped, small-statured woman trying to get through the day. She is the conscience of the earth, but hardly its consciousness. She feels others’ pain, even a dying octopus, and may be too intense an empath to function in a harsh world created by the rich and white. She seems to understand Doug, or would like to think so (she keeps saying she knows him from somewhere), but Doug has her number the moment he lays eyes on her. His final words to her reverberate far past the end credits. Beatriz at Dinner is being sold as some sort of Greenaway-esque satire of manners, but it’s a good deal more troubling than that. It bothers us long after it’s over, bringing us back to Beatriz’ death-haunted eyes, looking for the man who killed her goat.

Jerry Lewis 1926-2017

August 20, 2017

jerrylewisOne of the last has fallen. Jerome Levitch, known to the world as Jerry Lewis, died today at age 91. Since he started performing (along with his show-biz parents) when he was five, Lewis takes with him 86 years of entertainment memories. Such a man, if he remains mentally sharp (and it seems Lewis did), can function as an invaluable living record of the whos and whats of show biz for most of the twentieth century and some of the twenty-first (for instance, in 2003 he did a guest voice on The Simpsons). Unfortunately, age did not improve his prickly (at best) demeanor, and the last interview he gave, to the Hollywood Reporter, was notable for Lewis’ lengthy, surly silences.

Lewis was a man of the mid-twentieth century, for better or worse. That was his peak — his ten-year partnership with Dean Martin, and then his solo career as a performer/director who popularized the video-assist system, a process in which a video camera simultaneously records what the film camera is shooting. The movies Lewis directed — the most acclaimed being The Nutty Professor — have their fans, particularly (and notoriously) in France, where he is lauded as a genius. Dean Martin didn’t think so, informing Lewis near the end of their collaboration, “You can talk about love all you want. To me, you’re nothing but a fucking dollar sign.” This was reported in Nick Tosches’ seminal Dino and corroborated in Lewis’ own Dean and Me: A Love Story.

Those who seek a fair but honest assessment of Lewis the artist and Lewis the man could do no better than Shawn Levy’s biography King of Comedy. Named after the 1983 film in which Lewis gave, arguably, his finest performance, the book allows the star his dignity as a comedian with surprising longevity in an ever-changing entertainment landscape (his last movie, The Trust, was shot in 2015, 66 years after his film debut) while contending with his often difficult personality. Some of that personality flashed like a shiv whenever disability activists criticized him for his yearly muscular dystrophy telethons. In trying to raise money for a cure, Lewis threw political correctness to the wind, infantilizing the disabled and sometimes downright insulting them. Many disabled people don’t have much patience for such “othering,” well-meant or not, and they shouldn’t.

I’m not really a fan (you could tell, yes?), but I respect Lewis’ legacy as a creative, and despite my non-fanhood I find I own the only four books you need concerning Jerry Lewis: the aforementioned two books, plus Lewis’ Jerry Lewis In Person and The Total Film-Maker. The latter book, which I’ve been saying for years needs to be reprinted (the hardcover edition I own is currently fetching $245 and up on Amazon, though that might be a short-lived spike due to his death), is one of the best volumes about filmmaking ever written — or spoken, since the book is drawn from 480 taped hours of Lewis’ lectures at USC. It’s a terrific read, full of common-sense advice that’s still valid 46 years later, as well as a prophetic passage in which he praises some unknown kid named Steven Spielberg on the basis of Spielberg’s 1968 short film Amblin’.

Lewis clearly knew his stuff, the stuff of entertainment. The problem with those who know all about entertaining is that they don’t know how to be when there’s no audience — the cliché of the sad-faced clown. Speaking of which, one of the more infamous Lewis projects was The Day the Clown Cried, a 1972 film in which Lewis played a clown during the Holocaust, forced to entertain children on their way to the gas chamber. You haven’t seen it. Few have. It is perhaps the most famous suppressed film, held from release by complicated rights issues, though Lewis insisted he was the one withholding it from public view. Whatever the case, it seems likely nobody will see it unless the rights issues are squared away. Some film geeks, who may have welcomed Lewis’ death because they thought the movie would now be shown, will have to look elsewhere for their rare-film needs.

In the meantime, I can muster a salute to a man who swung so hard for the fence while having so little self-awareness in his life, in his philanthropy, and in his art. Levy’s King of Comedy theorizes convincingly that the obnoxious alter ego Buddy Love in Nutty Professor was not a parody of Dean Martin, as many assumed at the time, but an unwitting revelation of the real Jerry Lewis — the one beseeching us belligerently for cash all those Labor Days, the one whose anger in the film The King of Comedy feels all too genuine. Rage, I think, is what fueled Lewis, kept him alive for 91 years, and in a lot of ways kept him alone.

The Dark Tower

August 7, 2017

darktowerThe Dark Tower is a mediocre, overshort movie, but it has done what nothing else has done — it has made me want to read the books that inspired it. Stephen King’s eight-volume series is about the ultimate hero against the ultimate villain in a struggle over the titular Tower, which holds all worlds together. It’s all very archetypal, informed as much by Sergio Leone as by Tolkien. The movie is an abbreviated riff on several of the books; we’re informed that it’s not an adaptation of King’s work so much as a sequel — another “turn of the wheel,” since the entire saga was conceived as a narrative ouroboros (or became one, anyway). “The man in black fled across the desert,” begins the first book, “and the gunslinger followed” — and apparently the two men will go on fleeing and following until the end of time.

The gunslinger is Roland Deschain (Idris Elba), who in this iteration seeks revenge on the man in black, or Walter o’Dim (Matthew McConaughey), for killing Roland’s father. Walter goes by different names; he has turned up in various guises in King’s fiction, most prominently as Randall Flagg in The Stand. As McConaughey plays him, Walter is a saturnine Erl-King in rock-star cosplay, swaggering around and getting people to kill each other or to stop breathing with a bland command. Truth to tell, McConaughey was more sinister in those moody Lincoln commercials (the ads actually convinced me he could play the Stephen King version of Satan), and the director, Nikolaj Arcel, doesn’t even give him a juicy intro — Walter is just suddenly there, looking on as his big death machine saps psychic children of their energy and channels it into a big death ray pointed at the Tower.

When the Tower takes a big death hit, our Earth rumbles, and a boy, Jake Chambers (Tom Taylor), feels it in his mother’s Big Apple apartment. Jake has been having visions of Roland and Walter, and it turns out he packs enough psychic oomph to shame Danny Torrance from The Shining. The movie seems awfully front-loaded to favor Jake, creating the unhappy sense that Roland, whose casting with a non-white actor caused some consternation among those pained by such things, has been relegated to a supporting character in his own epic story because, well, he’s black. After a while the balance evens out a little, Taylor’s performance gets better as Jake becomes more useful, and Idris Elba maintains his stoic sangfroid whether reciting Roland’s Mid-World doggerel (“He who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father” and so on) or performing, as Pauline Kael put it in another context, “kinetic self-realization with a gun.”¹

This Dark Tower is practically guaranteed to vex the books’ fans, who will be painfully aware of what’s missing and what a wasted opportunity it all is. Judged on its own shaky merits, the movie skims the surface of the iconic saga, and the occasional bit of strangeness — like Walter’s minions the Low Men, looking, accidentally I’m sure, like members of the Trump administration — stands out in relief against much of the conceptual dullness. But McConaughey and especially Elba have given me intriguing men to picture when I return to the books. I read the first two, in college, several thousand years ago and remember little except the lobstrosities, which sadly stay home from work here. Much is appealing about King’s good-vs.-evil superstory, and the movie, by virtue of containing at least a swallow of King’s potion, is weird and borderline acid-western enough to hold one’s interest on a slow Tuesday. I imagine, though, that it won’t be the version of The Dark Tower that endures.

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¹This was in reference to Andy Garcia’s Vincent Mancini in The Godfather Part III.

Colossal

July 30, 2017

colossal-2016-anne-hathawayColossal mashes up two such madly divergent genres — the kaiju movie and the sincere romcom — that it shouldn’t work as demonically well as it does. Partly its success owes to the willingness of its writer/director, Nacho Vigalondo, to make the characters stubbornly imperfect and idiosyncratic. The movie’s human drama has a slow, steady launch, but by the time it enters the realm of science fiction, or fantasy, or horror, or whatever you choose to call it, we are invested in these people, and we respond to the metaphors more organically and freely than we might otherwise.

Vigalondo, a sci-fi/horror man from the beginning, gives us a tenuous explanation for the premise. Gloria (Anne Hathaway), a drunken wreck of a woman, somehow inadvertently summons and controls the movements of a giant monster in South Korea. She lifts her arms, it lifts its arms. This apparently only happens when she enters a park in her hometown at 8:05 in the morning. These are the rules we need to accept in order to enter into the imaginative contract; once we sign it, Vigalondo honors our desire for an unpredictable good time. The movie eventually settles into stark drama, evoking such real-world monsters as violent jealousy and self-hatred lashing outward at friends and strangers.

For a while, Colossal is rumpled good company. Gloria, played by Hathaway as a slightly more affable gloss on her human wreckage from Rachel Getting Married, is booted from the New York apartment she shares with her boyfriend Tim (Dan Stevens). Tim is tired of dealing with Gloria through the haze of alcohol or post-alcohol. (Without being preachy, the movie is pretty strongly against booze and drugs, if only because they enable the creation of alternate realities in which people can get lost.) Dejected, she returns to her late parents’ empty house in Mainland and squats there. She encounters a childhood friend, Oscar (Jason Sudeikis), now a bartender at the place formerly owned by his late dad. He offers Gloria a job; she accepts. She hangs out at the bar after hours, mumbling late-night talk with barflies like Garth (Tim Blake Nelson), a closet cokehead, and Joel (Austin Stowell), who has a crush on her. A good portion of the movie explores what happens to orphans in their thirties, what they make of themselves (Gloria once had a writing gig in New York but blew it).

But then the monster rises in South Korea, causing chaos and sometimes death (and then, later, a kind of fascination). Gloria recognizes her connection to the creature, and partly the movie is a joke on self-absorbed people who feel their actions are more impactful and reverberant than they are. But it’s also a vindication: Gloria really is causing havoc, both here in Mainland and abroad in South Korea. As I say, the origin of all this is explained piecemeal, eventually taking in Oscar, the movie’s acidic take on Nice Guys. Hathaway’s performance is terrific, but terrific in a known-quantity way — we’ve seen her go here before — whereas Jason Sudeikis weighs in with finely shaded work that crosses over, from time to time, into pathos and even threat. I never expected to find this amiable funnyman frightening, but the movie is full of surprises.

Because Colossal follows the emotions of its characters rather than an airtight plot, it’s impossible to pin down; we never know where it’s going, and it will not please literal-minded viewers who want to hear the click of a logical explanation. Gloria’s life swamps everyone else’s with drama and problems; she’s a bit of a monster herself, stomping through the skyscrapers of other people’s lives. (At times I was reminded of a Julie Doucet self-portrait of her as a giant, heavily menstruating all over a terrified city.) The movie doesn’t linger on the South Korean kaiju scenes — they’re mostly seen in TV clips or on the internet. It all resolves in a climax of tragic, hard-won triumph. I don’t know what genre Colossal finally lands in; like Being John Malkovich, it’s so bent it fashions its own shelf to sit on.