The night sky is cobalt blue. I lay beneath a paper birch tree, smoking my seventh cigarette of the day. I take turns covering one eye and tracing the tree’s muscular albino bows with my other. I like the simplicity of viewing with a single eye. It flattens the world into one depthless frame—something easy to approach. Observed without the risk of falling into Mistress Detail’s cruel thorn bush.
I wish I could flatten her in my mind. I wish I could catch her twirling figure between an empty coffee cup and a piece of paper. I’d drop her between one of the creases of my head, pressing firmly on either side of my thinking flesh. The lively memory of her is reduced to a flower of the second dimension. Retrieved from the pages of a pink book, admired—maybe then I might finally see her as I should: a pretty fragment of my past. It is far easier to admire a picture of an angel than to confront one before your eyes.
It is also far easier to watch four silly-ass movies than grieve the end of a relationship! This week’s theme is: Everything is Fine! I looooooove movies. They can’t hurt me. Especially none of these.
Shaolin Soccer (2001) dir. Stephen Chow
If you’re trying to shake the morbid fist of longing from closing its bloated fingers over your pink windpipe, then Shaolin Soccer is your first line of defence (there is a soccer joke in there somewhere, but I’m too busy sifting through the ash-frozen remnants of my coronary atriums.) Maybe I should do something drastic, like start reselling Lego? I think that makes sense.
Stephen Chow is a master of the surreal Hong Kong comedy genre and has been fuelling sleepovers with S-tier early 2000s chaos for over a decade. Ever watch Kung Fu Hustle (2005)? Same guy. Here’s the quick sell: imagine Twilight (2008) baseball, but it’s stretched over a two-hour run time and packed with non sequitur dialogue and slapstick bits.
Oh, here we go, moment of truth, can Dylan write a concise summary? Shaolin Soccer follows the jaded ol’ football legend, Fung (Man-tat Ng), who yearns to coach the next big team so he can finally step out in da Chrome Hearts. Fung discovers an impish Kung Fu master named Sing (Stephen Chow), who is fixated on spreading the practical benefits of Kung Fu by any means necessary. Turns out Sing has a “Mighty Steel Leg,” and connects Fung with his cohort of monks, including Iron Head (self-explanatory), Hooking Leg (this guy can break dance), Iron Shirt (this guy can hold stuff on his belly, I guess), Light Weight (can fly), and Lightning Hands ( is a real nasty keeper).
Normally, I’d tell you about Sing and his lover, Mui’s (Wei Zhao), romantic underpinning, but I’m in a vulnerable state. I can’t stand to examine something so…so… Kung Fu! Just know that it involves Tai Chi, facial boils, steaming buns, a shaved head, and custom sneakers. I recommend shaving your head with four of your closest pals, watching Shaolin Soccer, and setting off on a decade-long journey of semen retention. Kung Fu is the mastery of one’s life force, so make sure to order a couple of bottles of Zinc.
The Saddest Music in The World (2003) dir. Guy Maddin
Nothing soothes the broken heart like a good six-stringed lament. A triste spell that you can pin your organs to like a close line. Stretch out your empty husk, while the damp sweat of grief evaporates from the corners of your gut and soul. It’s been a big month for The Microphones and The Wrens.
Guy Maddin is a legendary Canadian surrealist; I’d let him pin my organs to his clothes line any day. Out of the countless avant-garde filmmakers I’ve enjoyed, Guy Maddin never fails to find the goldilocks zippering of structure and absurdity. He relishes outdated silent-era film techniques and writes with grounded delirium. The first two films I watched by Maddin were My Winnipeg (2007) and Tales From The Gimli Hospital (1988). I was convinced that I had discovered two 1950s gems, and was shocked when I checked their release dates.
No, The Saddest Music In The World is not an Elliot Smith documentary. This film takes place in Winnipeg during the great depression, which is like setting a love story in Paris. Lady Helen Port Huntley, played by the infallible Isabella Rossellini, is a wicked beer baroness who, to capitalize on sombre alcoholism, hosts a contest to name who has the saddest music in the world. Each country puts forward a performer to deliver their most lugubrious dirge—the winner walks home with a quarter mill.
The premise is easy to get on board with, and the film ends up reading like a Chaplin-era version of Scott Pilgrim Versus the World. Contained in this playful structure, The Saddest Music in the World comes alive with countless characters, quotable dialogue, and experimental cinematography. I’m particularly fond of Narcissa (Maria de Medeiros), the protagonist’s amnesia-ridden nymphomaniac girlfriend, who makes her decisions based on her tape worm. Awesome line alert: “I’m not American. I’m a nymphomaniac.” There is a quintessential subplot where the protagonist’s father is building beer-laden glass legs for his son’s ex-girlfriend (who he loves), because he drunkenly hit her with his car; he went to amputate the afflicted leg and cut the wrong one off, Happy Tree Friends-style.
I recommend watching The Saddest Music In The World with a French-Canadian guy who won’t shut up about Molson Canadian. Also, neither of you are wearing pants, and you are stricken with jealousy at the sight of his dense leg hair.
The Animatrix (2003) dir. (So many people. Let’s just say The Wachowski Sisters)
Nobody likes this movie more than I do. It is my ultimate comfort film. It combines the animation melange of Love, Death, and Robots (2022) with my favourite simulation theory IP. Just in case you forgot I was a sweaty nerd, please prepare yourself for this next paragraph—possibly skip it altogether…
Interestingly enough, *pushes glasses up nose and sniffles* The Animatrix was never intended to be a film at all, it was originally released as a TV series, aired in 20-minute episodes. The film is a compilation of these episodes. There are two versions of The Animatrix that arrange the shorts differently. One begins with the Final Flight of the Osiris, and the other leaps right into The Second Renaissance. I personally think the Final Flight version provides more engaging pacing, as it splits up Part I and II of The Second Renaissance. By breaking up the most macro storyline into two segments, it lets the grounded creative shorts, which explore individual perspectives, breathe—while simultaneously creating anticipation for the bigger picture.
The Animatrix honours the original Matrix DNA, or dare I say code, while continuing to expand the universe and the viewer’s perception of said virtual prison. Several of the original Matrix cast members reprise their roles, including Keanu Reeves, Laurence Fishburne, Carrie-Anne Moss, and more. Each anthology entry also takes confident artistic liberties, turning this film from boyish sci-fi into something more psychedelic and artistic. The soundtrack is another work of mastery, arranged by Don Davis,who worked on movies like Toy Story and Cars. The compilation album tethers your focus to the screen with break-beat early 2000s electronica, and is the perfect backing for rushing to work late.
I will forever love this film. I recommend watching The Animatrix on an iPad, balancing on a thin metal window sill fifty stories up.
Wings of Desire (1987) Dir. Wim Wenders
This is not a film to steer the clouds from your mind. On the contrary, I picked this movie as it has one of the most engaging depictions of suicide I have ever seen.
The scene is black and white. A man with unmade hair sits at the edge of a structure, an enormous Mercedes insignia twirling in the background. His thoughts flow like sun-dried paint. Funny, I’m so calm. Why red socks with black shoes? I put a pullover on; afraid to be cold?
As the man reflects on his jacket, a suited angel appears behind him, his hand resting on the man’s shoulder. She gave it to me. The man pushes himself from the structure, and the camera follows. He lands against: pebbles on the roof; I wonder why? So it doesn’t fly away? The man’s thoughts syncopate with your own.
He is on a skyscraper. He has headphones on—placed in a world of his choosing. His thoughts churn, sentences bending around every second. The plane circles over Berlin. One day it will crash… my hands were warm… Hasteless, he begins moving—hands outstretched to balance him as he doddles across a vent. There is a fence behind him. There are people behind him. Just out of focus. Voices just out of earshot. The gravel crackles underfoot.
The man reflects on the skyline. Tracing the horizon to find his home. He considers how he liked to take the train. The sun in my back. On the left the star. That’s really good. The sun and the star. Her little feet. He reaches the edge, and the skyline looms like a bad dream. She hopped from one foot to the other. She danced so sweetly. We were all alone. Has she already got my letter? He moves to sit. His legs dangling over a one-hundred-story drop.
His hands—previously outstretched for balance—now fall limp against his perch. I don’t want her to have to read it. Berlin means nothing to me. Havel, is it a river or a lake? The angel approaches from behind and lays his head against the man’s shoulder. Eyes closed, and face towards the camera. It looks like the posture you would assume if you wanted to be close to a sleeping loved one. Listening to their heart.
The man is watching the world. The East? It’s really everywhere. Strange people, they’re shouting. All these thoughts. The camera cuts, and you see the stranger’s hands pressed through the fence, beckoning and begging for the man to be closer. I’d really rather not think anymore. He looks West and then down. I am going. He slips from the edge. Why? The angel’s terrible scream calls out into the greyscale horizon, as the shouting from those fenced turns red.
Well, that went longer than expected. Hopefully, my intentions are obvious—I find that scene to be quite potent, and I wanted to share. Suicide is not to be fetishised. I do find angels to be one of the most mysterious mythical creatures, as their vague occupation as servants to the divine generally begs a whole slew of knotted questions. Wings of Desire, originally titled Der Himmel über Berlin (Heaven Over Berlin), explores the headspace of angels as they navigate eternity: consoling the doomed, cataloguing Earth’s history, and listening to our thoughts. The two leading angels, Damiel (Bruno Ganz) and Cassiel (Otto Sander), consider their purgatory: watching existence without partaking. It’s quite beautiful—one of Wim Wenders’ most touching and patient films.
I recommend watching Wings of Desire, submerged in the bath on a winter day, windows open, candles licking the night’s breath.
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Well, that concludes the sad-sap edition of Who Put That On? I do think that we spend so few moments learning about ourselves. Sorrow is one of the few experiences that begs self-reflection. Like right now, I’m reflecting on whether siphoning all my heartbreak into a witless and generally light-hearted movie column is a healthy cope. Too late! Anyway, it’s honestly kind of a funny bit now that I think about it. Might work better with a visual component. A morose guy reviews The Lego Batman Movie with limp shoulders and swollen eyes.
