Cinematic Dregs: Super Mario Bros.

(1993) Directed by Annabel Jankel and Rocky Morton; Written by Parker Bennett, Terry Runte and Ed Solomon; Starring: Bob Hoskins, John Leguizamo, Dennis Hopper, Samantha Mathis and Fiona Shaw: Available on DVD.

Rating: * ½

Q: “What is the worst job you've done?”

A: “Super Mario Brothers.”

Q: “What has been your biggest disappointment?”

A: “Super Mario Brothers.”

Q: “If you could edit your past, what would you change?”
A: “I wouldn't do Super Mario Brothers."

(Excerpt from Bob Hoskins interview, by Rosanna Greenstreet, The Guardian)

Compared to many of my contemporaries, I wasn’t entirely captivated by the Super Mario Brothers video game franchise.  Sure, I owned a Nintendo Entertainment System, and had at least a passing familiarity with Mario and his pixelated world, but I never considered myself a rabid fan.  This is a circuitous way of stating that I didn’t have an unrealistic set of expectations, nor did I care to judge the dubious source material as canon.  Instead, I chose to assess Super Mario Bros. on its relative merits as a motion picture.  With this in mind, I asked myself: Was the movie really as bad as its reputation suggested?  In a word, yes.

By many accounts, Super Mario Bros. was a troubled production from start to finish. While three writers received credit for the ragged patchwork quilt of a screenplay, up to nine purportedly worked on it.  The frequent script changes became a source of frustration for the cast and crew, who seemed to have checked out long before the film was completed.  Add to this fetid brew the relatively inexperienced husband/wife directing duo of Rocky Morton and Annabel Jankel, who apparently had a much darker vision for the film, and you have a recipe for disaster (You can read more about the film’s myriad production woes here).

The cast of Super Mario Bros., with the exception, perhaps, of Dennis Hopper, appear to just go through the motions.  Hopper has the closest thing to a standout performance in Super Mario Bros. as the villainous King Koopa.  He takes ‘over the top’ to a new level, delivering phrases such as “muster the goombas,” with absurd conviction.  Bob Hoskins, as Mario, seems to be channeling his Eddie Valiant character from Who Framed Roger Rabbit,* with his faux Brooklyn accent.  He does the best he can with what he has to work with, resulting in a professional, if unspectacular performance.  Similarly, John Leguizamo, as Mario’s younger brother Luigi,** does little to distinguish himself.  Samantha Mathis, as Princess Daisy, and Luigi’s nominal love interest, is a bland heroine.  She’s introduced at the beginning of the film as a paleontologist, but this thread is dropped early on as she exists solely to be Koopa’s passive hostage.   

* Another tenuous link to Who Framed Roger Rabbit is Alan Silvestri’s score, which seems to borrow liberally from that 1988 film.

** Hoskins, more than 21 years Leguizamo’s senior, probably would have been better off playing his father.

The filmmakers made poor choices at every turn, starting with the appearance of the movie.  The alternate-universe world that King Koopa and his reptilian-evolved kin inhabit resembles a Blade Runner-esque dystopia, choking under its urban sprawl – a far cry from the cartoonish, kid friendly world depicted in the Nintendo game series.  Mario’s cute pal Yoshi is transformed into a semi-realistic dinosaur, appearing more ferocious than cuddly.  It’s always a bad sign when I’m watching the counter on my DVD player, wondering when the movie will end, instead of being engrossed by the action on the screen.  The action sequences are bewildering instead of exciting, with the lead characters running around pointlessly, seemingly without an objective in mind.   Much like Howard the Duck, Super Mario Bros. mistakes frenetic activity for comedy (when all else fails, add a confusing chase scene to the mix).  All of this left me wondering who the intended audience was.  It’s too lowbrow to interest adults looking for sophisticated entertainment, and too dark for families expecting light entertainment, while fans of the video game would be disappointed by the few concessions to the source material.  In the end, the film simply came off as a joyless and cynical cash grab, banking on the built-in audience from the Nintendo game.

With few exceptions, most filmmakers don’t deliberately set out to make a bad flick.  Everyone doesn’t aspire to be David Lean or Stanley Kubrick, but at the very least, he or she probably wants to leave the audience entertained.  Even by these modest goals, Super Mario Bros. fails miserably.  The film’s basic plot (something about Princess Daisy bridging the gap between two worlds) is needlessly muddled, and begs the question why the story couldn’t be grounded entirely in the fantasy universe.  We don’t care about the real life problems of cartoonish characters such as Mario and Luigi, and how they interact in New York City versus Koopaville (I didn’t make that up).  We just want to see them traipsing through a candy-colored fantasy world and have goofy adventures. 

While Super Mario Bros. didn’t singlehandedly establish the stigma of video game-inspired movies as an inherently inferior product, it helped reinforce the perception.  Are these films necessarily an artistic dead end?  Although the poor track record of video game movies seems to confirm this assertion, the law of averages suggests that a worthwhile product might eventually surface, with the right convergence of dedication and talented filmmakers (think a million monkeys on a million typewriters). When will it happen?  20 years after Super Mario Bros., we’re still waiting.

Blog Update: Looking Back, Moving Forward

 

Hot on the heels of Japan-uary II comes… a breather.  I never intended to take a break this month, but it’s been a little tougher getting motivated than I anticipated.  Rest assured, however, I’ll be back shortly with more reviews, rants and who knows what.   

Last year, my pageviews continued to increase substantially, and 2013 is shaping up to create some new personal milestones.  I look forward to introducing new theme months, while continuing my focus on neglected classics and hidden treasures (aka: The Once Over Twice).  This month also heralds the return of Cinematic Dregs, plunging into the abyss to find some of the most maligned films in movie history.  Thanks to everyone who’s supported me so far.  Keep those comments coming, and stay tuned.  To paraphrase All About Eve’s Margo, fasten your seatbelts and hang on, because it’s going to be a bumpy year.

The Place Promised in Our Early Days

(2004) Written and directed by Makoto Shinkai; Starring: Hidetaka Yoshioka, Masato Hagiwara and Yuka Nanri; Available on DVD.

Rating: ***

Does the universe dream?  Writer/director Makoto Shinkai raises this intriguing premise in the beautifully animated, but ultimately hollow exercise, The Place Promised in Our Early Days.  This tale of love, war and parallel universes is better summarized than executed – a near miss that left me on the fence. 

The Place Promised in Our Early Days is set in an alternate Japan divided into two factions: the Union in the north, and the United States-controlled south.  Just within the Union border, in the prefecture of Hokkaido, stands an impossibly tall tower.  The enigmatic structure, whose purpose remains unknown, could be the focal point of a war between both sides, but could also spell the destruction of reality as we know it.  The tower becomes an object of fascination for childhood pals Hiroki Fujisawa and Takuya Shirakawa (voiced by Hidetaka Yoshioka and Masato Hagiwara, respectively), who are building an aircraft with the hope of exploring it close up.  Their dynamic is changed forever when fellow classmate Sayuri Sawatari (voiced by Yuka Nanri) enters the mix.  Hiroki and Sayuri make a promise to visit the tower together – a promise that gets indefinitely sidetracked when she mysteriously disappears. The story shifts ahead three years, as we discover that Sayuri has been in a coma.

Sayuri and her comatose state are somehow linked to the rhythms of the tower, and her awakening could mean disaster for Japan.  The tower, which stretches endlessly to the sky, is the best part of the film.  It represents the great unknown; a vast enigmatic monolith that could be the key to new worlds or the path to our own demise.  We can only deduce that it’s some sort of experiment, weapon, or both, as it opens doors to multiple universes.  Its effects elicit a metaphysical quandary: are these other universes simply the “dreams” of our own universe?  If Shinkai had chosen to linger on this question rather than focus on the more prosaic dramatic elements of the story, we would have been left with an existential meditation on the nature of our existence instead of a film that retreats to familiar territory.

There’s a fine line between maintaining a deliberate pace and just being slow.  The relatively brief running time belies the perception that it’s a much longer film.  While I can appreciate that Shinkai probably wanted to establish a more leisurely pace, it’s hard to dispel the notion that we’re looking at a short film stretched to feature length.  The love story, which is supposed to be the center of the film, is the weakest link, with lead characters that seem somnambulistic. Contributing to this general impression of lifelessness is the virtual absence of humor.

Despite all of my misgivings about The Place Promised in Our Early Days, I didn’t dislike it.  However, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it could have been so much more.  On the surface, the film has all the classic elements that would make it a timeless masterpiece: haunting visuals, universal themes of adolescent love, and a unique science fiction premise.  Unfortunately, none of these pieces quite gel together (Compare to Hayao Miyazaki’s Nausica in the Valley of the Wind or Castle in the Sky, which cover similar ground, but are full of a sense of joie de vivre that’s conspicuously absent in this film).  Shinkai is clearly a talented filmmaker, and if this film is any indication, he has the potential to turn out a truly great film someday, rather than this somewhat underdone, overrated effort.  The Place Promised in Our Early Days is recommended for its stunning visuals and ambitious concept, if you can overlook the bland characterizations and languid pace.

Late Spring (aka: Banshun)

(1949) Directed by Yasujirô Ozu; Written by Yasujirô Ozu and Kôgo Noda;  Based on the novel Chichi to musume by Kazuo Hirotsu; Starring: Chishû Ryû, Setsuko Hara and Yumeji Tsukioka; 

Available on DVD and Blu-Ray

Rating: **** ½

How many choices are truly our own, and how many are contingent on the expectations (whether explicit or implied) of others?  This dilemma is at the heart of Late Spring, a film that feels at once universal and uniquely Japanese.  Director/co-writer Yasujirô Ozu set his poignant postwar family drama in Kamakura, a suburb of Tokyo.  While the setting and traditions might appear somewhat alien to western audiences, the themes of meddling friends and family are quite familiar.  

Setsuko Hara is captivating as the 27-year-old Noriko, who’s content to care for her aging, widowed father (Chishû Ryû), and views the institution of marriage with suspicion and disdain.  She’s in no hurry to change her living arrangement, which has been a great source of happiness for her.  But the other people in Noriko’s circle are concerned that life is passing her by, and are determined to upset the balance, confirming the age-old axiom that change is the only constant in life.  Hara displays enormous range in her character, as she progresses through a spectrum of emotions from childlike elation, to rage, and finally arriving at begrudging acceptance.  In one of the film’s key scenes, we observe her attending a noh play with her father, as she sneaks furtive glances at Mrs. Miwa (Kuniko Miyake) sitting in the audience, the woman she thinks will displace her as her father’s caretaker.  In this dialogue-free scene, accompanied only by the mournful song of the play, we can feel her inner turmoil as she warily regards the rival for her father’s affections.  Noriko is a portrait of quiet grace bursting under pressure, imposed by her well-intentioned family, friends and societal expectations.   

Noriko’s father, Shukichi Somiya, is the other key player in this family drama.  His calm exterior and soft-spoken, amiable nature masks his conflicted interior.  He outwardly dismisses the fact that Noriko has already found her happiness at home with him, but he’s ambivalent about letting her go.  He’s also aware that he won’t always be around for her, and cognizant that her finding a mate will inevitably break up their dyadic relationship.  One of Somiya’s challenges is convincing Noriko that marriage isn’t an end, but a beginning.  He observes, “Somehow she got the idea in her head that marriage is life’s graveyard.”  After observing her spending time with her male friend Hattori (Jun Usami), Somiya deduces (much to Noriko’s chagrin) that Hattori would be the perfect husband for her.  He’s surprised to learn that Hattori is already engaged to marry someone else, but this seems to be the catalyst that sets in motion Somiya’s determination to help Noriko in spite of herself.  At this point, he schemes with her aunt to find a suitable husband.

Apparently joining in this conspiracy is Noriko’s best friend, Aya (Yumeji Tsukioka) a modern woman in a rapidly changing Japan.  Divorced, and living alone as a stenographer, Aya reflects the changing roles of women in Japanese society.  She isn’t in a hurry to enter a relationship with another man, but paradoxically encourages Noriko to “…hurry up and get married.”

Late Spring reflects Ozu’s fascination with marriage, which was often a recurring theme in his films.  Ironically, in his own life, Ozu’s never married, and chose to live with his mother until her death.  Another recurring conceit is that Ozu never spells out the answers for us about Noriko’s inevitable decision to marry, nor are we privy to all the details and signposts other filmmakers normally include.  We never actually see her fiancé Satake, but his physical presence is irrelevant to the story, because the audience already senses his influence and what he represents for Noriko.  Late Spring’s story unfolds without obvious protagonists or antagonists.  The decisions made in the film are not clearly right or wrong.  They simply acknowledge that life is often messy, with no easy choices.

Fatalism is another theme, woven throughout the film.  By the time her wedding occurs (which never appears onscreen), the atmosphere seems more appropriate for a wake.  A death of another kind has occurred.  Noriko is resigned to her fate, rather than excited about her life transition.  When prompted by Somiya, her enthusiasm seems forced and disingenuous.  Their final trip together as father and daughter is bittersweet.  As they go to sleep, Ozu’s lens lingers on a large vase, apparently the source of much debate among film scholars.  If I had to venture a guess about its significance, perhaps the vase signifies she has made peace with her decision to marry Satake, and it exists as a symbolic vessel to isolate her misgivings.

The final scene suggests a zero-sum solution, in which no one really benefits.  Noriko has gained a husband but lost the special relationship with her father.  Somiya managed to marry off his only daughter, but at the price of his loneliness.  In the end, we’re left to wonder if she’s truly better off.   There are no simple answers.  Late Spring is an enduring classic because Ozu trusts the audience’s intelligence to cope with ambiguity and fill in the blanks.  Its themes of life transition, social obligations and compromising ideals at the service of others span geographic and cultural barriers.