Through a Glass Darkly: Exploration through Animation’s Lens

For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. Holy Bible; 1 Corinthians 13: 12

It’s a known cinematic fact that those things that would be considered boundaries in life are all but limitless in animation. Starting as early as the 30’s, animation has had the distinct honour of transcending the scope of filmmaking and giving light to truly astonishing feats of cinematic genius.

As regards animation, it’s my contention that some of the best storytelling comes from Japan and France; however, in American film culture, there are a few animators who’ve taken thematic content about sex, drugs, religion, and the ubiquitous Big Brother, and forced the have viewers into a sort of transcendental meditation.

It’s no surprise that one of the most powerful films to come out of America was based on a science fiction graphic novel by the ever introspective Phillip K. Dick. 2006’s A Scanner Darkly took the notion that we are nothing more than slaves to our own paranoia (therefore thrusting ourselves into a police state whenever the acid trip of life becomes too close to the skin) and painted a landscape that was equal parts psychedelic and uncompromisingly cerebral. The street drug “Substance D” (“D for death”) distorts the reality of the mind, blanketing it in a multi-faceted array of colours and shapes that spring forth right in front of our eyes. With the magic marker of Richard Linklater, the audience is crashed into, and forcibly invaded through every sensory organ until we’re unable to tell whether our reality is really there or if we’ve been completely trapped in a cyclic daydream.

Linklater tapped into something very primal in our human parade: the fear of a complete abdication of autonomy over one’s self and his actions, and then, in turn, being punished for this inherent lack of control. The animation is boundless – no lines to speak of, no singular colour palette, and no real sense of depth perception. This brand of animation, most commonly known as “cell shading”, comes in many different forms, the ultimate result being detailed facial features. When used to a certain extent it allows for cartoon characters to be more expressive; however, when coupled with a live-action base, it renders the images hyper-active – facial feature atop facial feature until the line between what the mind perceives as normal responses to stimuli becomes frighteningly distorted.

Of course, with the advent of CGI, illustrators and animators have become the new puppet masters. For my part, I think a great deal of CGI is overblown, pretentious, and soulless. However, there are those big-budget studios that’ve become more than just catalysts for box office success. Pixar, for instance, has created some of the most successful animated films of all time. But, if you actually dig deeper, you find that their brand of animation only further heightens the abstract notions of love, loyalty, betrayal, and heartbreak. They’re a studio that, no matter how much you want to hate them, you simply must be in awe of their artistic approach to capitalising on the children’s animation genre. Films like Ratatouille were able to take a very real problem – prejudices based on upbringing, culture, and ethnicity – and make it very children friendly, using a rat as the universal symbol for the proverbial “judging a book by its cover”.

In France, there’s been a very long history of augmenting the naturally outrageous through animation. Films like Les Triplettes de Belleville and Renaissance take a very interesting look into “mob-related” activities and give them depth and perspective. Triplettes was an acute look at the disparities between French and American culture (while the former is obsessed with the Tour de France, the latter is obsessed with Vaudeville and hamburgers), sensationalising the physical attributions of its characters with a very traditional ink and paper technique that saw a great deal of maturation in the form of Sylvain Chomet. Renaissance took the cell-shading technique and painted it on top of the physical expressions of its actors. Director Christian Volckman (along with writers Alexandre de La Patellière and Mathieu Delaporte) created the perfect landscape to portray an abundance of human trafficking (in order to, essentially, harvest youth and beauty) in Paris in the year 2054. A classic black and white noir with a twist, Renaissance took much the same approach as many Japanese animators and let the story dictate the animation rather than the animation being the leading force of the story.

Animation has that multi-dimensional aspect that makes it so intriguing to children and adults alike. You’re transported between time and space and given a massive playground in which to express yourself. In the instance of 2004’s Ryan, you’ve got James Joyce’s Portrait of an Artist with a bit of Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Grey in the form of Canadian animator Ryan Larkin --who saw fame come and go with his eccentric style of storytelling, a style that garnered him an Oscar for best animated short film with his 1969 film Walking. The story is both compelling and visually spellbinding, allowing the viewer to literally look past the shell of a man that Larkin has become and see the genius for the sinner. The intricacy with which the film’s director, Chris Landreth, tells Larkin’s story is notable. He manages to take the abstract ideas of hopelessness, genius lost, and emotional damage very visceral to the point where the audience is able to reach out and touch Larkin’s hollowed visage.

Animation has been and will remain one of the most honest renderings of the human experience ever put on celluloid. Going back to Fantastic Planet – in which we explore the segregation of races based on caste system and supposed mental superiority – to Heavy Metal – in which we’re taken on a journey of sexual and pharmaceutical exploration-- to A Scanner Darkly, the audience is able to see more and more of itself through the animated glass.

The line of scripture preceding Paul’s declaration of seeing through a mirror blindly, is the infamous “When I was a child, I spake as a child.” Animation is this glass through which the audience sees themselves darkly. As we grow, we’re able to capture a glimpse of who we were and what we’ve become. It’s a way in which we are forced to become aware of ourselves and our imperfections and embrace them. Animation takes the boundary off of such fallacies and forces us to ponder those darker things within us that have shaped our understanding of the world in which we live.

I have a keen interest in all things that shed light and colour in this dark and, at times, uninspiring world. I love film, all film --ranging from Japanese and Korean horror, to nonsensical action films. The one qualification is that it must, must entertain me. As much as I love watching film, I love even more to write about it. Right now, I get my jabberjaw jollies writing for Star costumes. If you want to give me a buzz, I can be reached at cmlewhite at gmail [dot] com.

Animation Miracles: The Works of Studio Ghibli

(Cinemascope thanks guest contributor Ms. Camiele White for her latest contribution. This insightful article is on Studio Ghibli, renowned for making one acclaimed animation film after another. More details on Ms. White may be found below the post)



In an industry where everything is predetermined for success depending on the amount viewers are willing to pay for a movie, it’s a rarity to find a studio that wishes to bend the preconceived ideology of what makes a good film in order to produce something that’s not only engaging, but also waxes philosophical. There are few directors, let alone entire studios, that spend their existences crafting work that’s both challenging and entertaining. However, those select few who’ve pushed beyond the barrier of typical filmmaking to produce something that forces viewers to bend their minds around something that perhaps they would’ve never even considered have taken film back to its most native form of being art that simply transports the viewer from one world to another.

Imagine if you will, sitting in a darkened room surrounded by a rabble of chattering pre-teens, yawning college students, and overextended parents. In the middle row of a crowded and padded black box, you’re expecting to be in for an average cinema-going experience. Sure, it’s a hell of a lot of sacrifice to get away from the drudgery of everyday life (not to mention expensive). But you’re willing to spend your hard earned cash and your right to be left alone in order to unwind. Suddenly, the speakers burst, the screen twists in on itself. You’re no longer sitting in the middle of a crowd of rowdy cinema-goers. You’re flying at the speed of forever towards the sky! You’re falling in love with a warlock prince with the powers to control an entire castle with his heart! You’re being chased by an evil witch who’s after your freedom!

Welcome to the shape-shifting world of Studio Ghibli.

Founded in 1985 by Hayao Miyazaki, Isao Takahata, and Toshio Suzuki, Studio Ghibli was the culmination of ideas about film that amounted to the creation of some of the most awe-inspiring works of art to ever emerge from the well of Japanese animation. Though anime wasn’t a new concept in the film industry in Japan and few European countries, it hadn’t quite reached a mass audience in much of the western world. What Studio Ghibli managed to do was take the foundations of film making and mould it to fit the endless potential that animation provides producers and directors.

The company’s first successful film, Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, ushered in a new way of storytelling that most studios hadn’t quite figured out. Indeed, the film answered the question how does one create an animated film that’s character and plot driven as opposed to driven by action and, in most cases, over the top comedy suitable for a child’s sense of reality? In truth, much of the miracle of anime lay in the fact that most films are more focused on the adaptation of historic and real-life drama unfolding before the eyes of an observing audience --including children.

So much of Japan’s turbulent past infiltrates each film --of course, borrowing from the post-apocalyptic state of the country following World War II-- that it’s impossible to liken them to anything that the States can drub up. Even the most cerebral animation birthed from North American minds is a re-imagining of films that come from Japanese, French, or even Brasilian stories.

Most of Studio Ghibli’s creations take place in an era of extreme conflict. In Howl’s Moving Castle, the audience is thrust in the middle of an endless war between the monarchy and its people. With the army being overextended, the king’s right hand man (a woman named Solomon) has enlisted the help of sorcerers and wizards who have sworn allegiance to the crown. However, a wizard’s powers are intended for the sole purpose of enriching the lives of others, not satisfying the bloodlust of a ubiquitous government. It’s this struggle between the forces of evil and the inherent goodness in those who are sworn to help the monarchy establish some sort of unity between the people and its reigning power that creates the overarching conflict. There’s no greater test of the human (and supernatural) will to survive than living in a time of civil unrest. With this in mind, the producers of Howl’s Moving Castle set out to create a timeless love story.

There’s no doubt that Studio Ghibli makes films that are meant to give a sense of warped reality. Indeed, films like Princess Mononke, Spirited Away, and Kiki’s Delivery Service bend and fold around the boundaries that even animation tends to adhere to. There’s a real feeling of the spectacular in even the most mundane activities. Princess Mononke centres on the life of the last prince of an empire, Ashitaka, who loves his home. Spirited Away follows the adventures and trials of Chihiro Ogino, a girl who constantly does chores at the behest of a vindictive elderly woman. Kiki is a young woman who runs --what else-- a delivery service. However, these three characters have two distinct characteristics in common: 1) they’re all younger children, and 2) they’re all struggling with supernatural powers, a struggle that culminates in an event of sensational proportions.

Along with the historical and traumatic subtext entrenched in each film, this magical element of spiritual awareness makes way for fantastical miracles that only a filmmaker would be able to dream up.

Studio Ghibli allows the viewers to dream in real time, to carry a miracle with them in their hands as they walk away from their seats, the rabble of teenagers, busy parents, and humdrum existences. It gives the mundane eccentricity, allowing even the most frivolous of fantasies to come to fruition if for only a few hours. It has expanded the frame of thought for film and given audiences the chance to experience a hidden corner of their minds never before explored. It’s this need to give birth to absolute fantasy that spawned Studio Ghibli. With an overwhelming desire to entertain and enlighten, Miyazaki, Takahata, and Suzuki have created a landscape that gives the mind flight and the eyes the ability to think as clearly as the images in front of them.

There is pure beauty in everything.

I have a keen interest in all things that shed light and colour in this dark and, at times, uninspiring world. I love film, all film --ranging from Japanese and Korean horror, to nonsensical action films. The one qualification is that it must, must entertain me. As much as I love watching film, I love even more to write about it. Right now, I get my jabberjaw jollies writing for Star Costumes. If you want to give me a buzz, I can be reached at cmlewhite at gmail [dot] com

The Tragic Brilliance of Sylvain Chomet

(Cinemascope thanks guest contributor Ms. Camiele White for her latest contribution. This wonderful article is on iconoclastic French filmmaker & artist Sylvain Chomet and his irreverent body of work. More details on Ms. White may be found below the post)

Once upon a time in the mind of a poet, there was a small, dimly lit cottage. In this cottage lived a brain, two narrow eyes, a grinning mouth, and two crooked hands. The brain, the two narrow eyes, the grinning mouth, and the two crooked hands were sitting around the table for tea. While the tea was being prepared, there came a knock at the door. The crooked hands opened the door. At the opening stood a figure draped in a silk, black cloak and wearing silk, black gloves. Without saying a word, the cloaked figure walked into the room and made itself comfortable at the small wooden table. The brain began to shudder; the two narrow eyes became even narrower; the grinning mouth grimaced. The crooked hands, however, rested on the table, fingers interlaced, and waited. The cloaked figure pushed forward a small gilded chest, encrusted with ruby rose petals. On the top of the chest was inscribed the words: Offer me your most prized possession and I shall give you a special treasure.

Sylvain Chomet has created some of the most tragic, elegant, twisted stories in film history. Though his career has tumultuous, it would be irresponsible for any animator worth his salt to deny the sheer potency of the man’s genius. The above story seems to me a fable of talents. Is it the mind, the eyes, the mouth, or the hands that makes a man truly a master of his craft?

As far as artists go, Sylvain Chomet wasn’t any different than most students who want to make their mark on the world. He started in ordinary fashion – raised in Maisons-Laffitte, Yvelines, near Paris, he attended a high school for the arts and published his first comic in 1986, four years after his graduation from high school. As many up-and-coming artists with an eye for the extraordinary (despite their surroundings), he moved to London to fulfil his destiny as an animator at the Richard Purdum studio.

The brain gave up its home in order to receive inspiration. In 1996, Chomet completed work on his first short film, La Vieille Dame et les pigeons. This is the tragic tale of a starving beat cop in Paris. He spends the day trudging through parks until he comes across a parade of corpulent pigeons. He finds out that these obese birds are being fed the most delectable delights that a French patisserie has to offer. While he goes home to a half nibbled sardine, these dirty birds are happier than pigs in shit, eating foods he can only imagine. He concocts a plan to infiltrate the woman’s home and eat like a king. He fashions himself an oversized pigeon costume, head complete with a trapdoor mouth, and follows the woman to her flat – full of doilies, heirlooms, and albums full of pictures of...pigeons? Never mind, he’s only interested in her refrigerator. And what a feast he encounters: sweets, meats, and all the luscious treats his heart desires. Soon he begins to show signs of his overindulgence. On Christmas Eve, our robust copper finds himself in a drunken stupor at la vieille dame’s flat. He sputters and wobbles about until he stumbles upon a room leading out from her kitchen. He finds her sharpening oversized gardening clippers and also discovers he isn’t the first to try this stunt of dressing up as an animal --as a fat man dressed in a cat costume also partakes in the butter and chocolate la vieille dame offers. Once discovered, the old woman is after the officer with her sharpened hedge clippers and traps him atop a cabinet next to her top floor window. In an attempt to escape, he wobbles, topples, and plummets five stories to the concrete below. Fade to black...

The two narrow eyes gave up friendship in order to receive vision. In 2003, Chomet released his first full length feature, Les Triplettes de Belleville. As a true masterpiece of subtle grotesqueness, the film is a marvel. We’re transported to the fictional American city of Belleville – a pisstake on New York City. We’re first introduced to the svelte Triplets singing in front of a packed house of oversized Americans. The story then fast forwards to the future where a grandmother and her grandson are watching this old black and white clip. Grandma notices her grandson is unhappy and soon discovers his love of cycling --perhaps a lingering memory from parents he never really knew. She buys him a used tricycle, thus beginning his obsession with Le Tour de France. When the grandson is all grown up and competing in the race, he becomes the victim of a betting scam in which bikers are kidnapped and forced to race non-stop on a makeshift bike track in front of mobsters betting on who will win the endless marathon. The film takes us through Grandma’s search for her grandson where she, and her corpulent puppy, Bruno, meet the illustrious Triplets one night in an alley. They devise a plan to rescue her grandson, infiltrating the mob headquarters and taking her grandson back. Along the way, the audience experiences twisted animation, surprising sound effects, and Chomet’s warped sense of humour. However, his notoriety came at a cost. Upon release of this cinematic masterpiece, his long time collaborator, Nicolas de Crécy accused Chomet of plagiarising his graphic novel Le Bibendum Celeste. At this turn of events, Chomet’s credibility was tarnished.

The grinning mouth gave up laughter in order to produce silence. It’s around the controversy surrounding Les Triplettes de Belleville that Chomet’s relationship with the film industry became complicated (to put it mildly). Three films that were intended to be released three years ago had been either stalled or scrapped entirely. In 2005, he was set to release a film tentatively titled Barbacoa. Production was halted because of lack of funding. Chomet had the desire to produce animating talent from his school of artistic philosophy, as he found most animators from the British ideology underwhelming. The Django Films studio was set up in Edinburgh, Scotland with the intention of employing 250 artists and producing incredible animation. Beset with early funding problems (the problems cited as holding back production of the first animated film to come from the studio, Barbacoa), and lacking the funding necessary to create what was to be dubbed “the Scottish Simpsons”, the studio was shut down. To top of a very turbulent seven years following his greatest cinematic success, Les Triplettes, his image was further smeared in 2008 by very public attacks on his character when he was fired as director of The Tale of Despereaux by the film’s producer, Gary Ross. Chomet was later cited as saying he “hated the creative environment”.

The two crooked hands gave up the company of the cloaked figure for the traits the others already possessed. In 2010, Chomet released L’Illusioniste, a film based on a script by Jacques Tati. The film is a love note from a father to his estranged daughter and is more traditionally animated than Chomet’s previous endeavours. Though its release was stalled for three years, the film is still heralded as a masterpiece, on par with some of the cinematic brilliance of his previous work. This was the Sylvain Chomet that everyone had come to adore and fear --a mind as brilliant as it was twisted and disturbed.

Our fable ends with the cloaked figure leaving the small cottage, all the gifts handed out. The brain, who could never return to his home, found his thoughts cluttered. The narrow eyes, lonely and depressed, saw muddled visions dance before them. The grinning mouth never laughed again, only being able to stay silent. The two crooked hands, patient and crafting, discovered that everyone else had given up their happiness in order to be given gifts they’d already possessed. The hands took these, his new gifts of wit, sight, and laughter, and created what amounted to the most marvellous masterpieces birthed from a poet and a con artist: two professions that tend to go hand in gnarled hand.

The moral: be wise enough to know your own inspiration; be shrewd enough to see your own vision; laugh as though the world is full of silence; and let your hands be patient enough to create.

There is pure beauty and raw sex in everything.

I have a keen interest in all things that shed light and colour in this dark and, at times, uninspiring world. I love film, all film --ranging from Japanese and Korean horror, to nonsensical action films. The one qualification is that it must, must entertain me. As much as I love watching film, I love even more to write about it. Right now, I get my jabberjaw jollies writing about Halloween costumes. If you want to give me a buzz, I can be reached at cmlewhite at gmail [dot] com.

Rudo y Cursi: The Sexual and Socio-Political Relationship of the Mexican New Wave

(Cinemascope thanks guest contributor Ms. Camiele White for this brilliant article - this time on a particular facet and dimension of the Mexican New Wave that she finds immensely fascinating)

At the turn of the new millennium, there arose a new wave of Mexican filmmaking that was part sexual exploration, part socio-political commentary. From this social revolution came the likes of some Mexico’s most vocal and most successful directors, screenwriters, and actors, none more popular than Diego Luna, Gael García Bernal, and Selma Hayek.

First, a look at the dynamic bonds that bring Diego Luna and Gael García Bernal together onscreen. Within the confines of exploring the ravaging of one’s homeland with conflict, each film that the twosome stars in carries a very distinct message: growth through exploration. It’s this desire to explore, to branch out of a life clouded with the sterility of monotony, which has highlighted some of the most beautiful films of the Mexican New Wave --an artistic Renaissance -- and, indeed, all film of the early 2000s. Together they have managed to bring a very mature and holistic understanding to film. Taking a page from Walt Whitman --“the poet is political”-- the Mexican New Wave ushered in an era in which the poet, and indeed the artist, is political, sexual, and outspoken.

Though both Luna and Bernal found themselves taking separate paths to their cinematic greatness, it’s what they managed to produce together that captured my heart. From the moment I saw the both of them onscreen I was entranced by the organic way in which they managed to bring each other up. Y Tu Mamá También is a film that highlights as much of the political as the sexual as the homoerotic. It was a film predicated on the idea of discovery and exploration. Indeed, many of the films that would follow in either actor’s catalogue seemed to emphasise the natural maturity of mind and body through the trial and error of exploration. Y Tu Mamá También, however, was more than a film that followed the lives of two very innocently devious boys to their sexual manhood. The film managed to explore the richness and complexity of a country that before had been seen as something of an “other” by those conveniently located across the Rio Grande.

In the midst of economic and political turmoil developing in the rural countryside of Mexico, Luna’s and Bernal’s characters --Tenoch and Julio, respectively-- are engaged in a summer road trip masquerading as nothing more than a way the two best friends can spend the summer while their girlfriends are away in Europe. The opening sequence, in which Tenoch and his girlfriend are having what can only be described as amazing sex, expels any suggestions that the film is the stereotypical commentary on the life of an average Mexican kid. After the first climax, Tenoch entreats his lover to promise that she won’t sleep with any Italians while she’s in Europe. They make a solemn pact to not have sex with anyone else while she’s away before they embrace for a second round of teen ecstasy. In the first 10 minutes of the film, the audience is put head first and hands on into the relationships of the two boys --first with their girlfriends then with an older woman, who is masterfully played by Spanish actress Maribel Verdú-- as well as the intimacy shared by the two boys.

The first inclination of their inherent homoerotic relationship stems from a scene in which they’re self-pleasuring on the diving boards of a country club and reach ecstasy at the same time whilst regaling themselves of the fantastic women that parade around in their fantasies while their girlfriends are away. The film continues to bring new meaning to intimacy as one scene after the next you’re confronted with unbridled bouts of sexual exploration. First round: Tenoch, as he walks in on Verdú’s character, Luisa, crying to herself. She propositions him to drop the towel around his waist after he’s taken a shower and further provokes him with her mature purr: “Comerme.” For the sake of the piece, I’ll let you find out what the means. Next, Julio has his moment with Luisa as Tenoch is driving the car. Luisa wastes no time closing the degrees of separation between the boys even more as she crawls into the backseat and onto Julio’s lap. It’s a game of temptation, commitment, and trust. At each road stop, the trio are forced closer and closer together until the climactic ending scene that sees a culmination of their summer of growth. After engaging in a sensual three-way dance, they go back to their room. There’s no music, the lighting is foul, but somehow incredibly soft, and the tentativeness of each participant is felt so palpably through the camera that you can reach out and swear you were touching erotica. First Tenoch begins with a kiss, and then Luisa engages the scene even further. While Luisa is pleasuring Tenoch, she also manages to involve Julio, who is standing eye to eye with his dearest friend. The two share their intimacy unabashedly and without holding back. Their kisses are slow, deep, and as natural as breathing.

While the film itself is a revelation of sexual self-expression, it’s a testament to the relationship shared by Luna and Bernal. Even more so, it speaks to the maturity and gritty beauty inherent in films stemming from the Mexican New Wave. Films like Y Tu Mamá También, Frida, and Rudo y Cursi touch on very taboo themes that still seem to make the very fabric of Hollywood shake. Frida takes the life and times of provocative surrealist artist, Frida Kahlo, and explores her own understanding of human touch and folly. Kahlo, portrayed with style and grace by Selma Hayek, is a creature of unbridled sexual and political passion. She’s a lily among so many red roses; a woman among the blushing school girls that deigned to walk in her laboured footsteps. Also staring Diego Luna, Frida was a marvel of its time and remains one of the most incredible biographical films released in the past 20 years. As a woman of outspoken passion, Kahlo created art that was ripped completely from the walking corpse of humanity and painted with the very blood that coursed with vitriol through her veins. Never apologetic, never shy, Kahlo stood up to the deliberate nature of mortality and continued to fight with fists clenched and mouth open, giving colour to the darkness, darkness to the naively optimistic. The film was painted in as many layers as Kahlo’s Lo Que el Agua Me Dio, often referencing (and using) many of the paintings for which Kahlo is so lauded. The language was frank (though, in English); the images were severe; the nature of Kahlo’s life was both violently turbulent and as beautiful and delicate as butterfly wings.

More than anything else, Frida was magnificent in its ability to paint the layers that run rampant through Mexico. It’s a film that was shot with exceptional care and attention to detail --from the cracks of every ancient building, to the smell and life of the flora and fauna, to the texture of the walls. The film manages to encapsulate the very turbulent times of the 30s and 40s and interweave a complex human narrative devoid of any political inclinations. Actively part of the Communist party, Kahlo was never shy about her understanding of government; however, her insight into the human experience is what warranted the film to be heralded as one of pure landscape --beautiful, natural, raw, erotic, and twisted as the crooked spine of snake.

It’s beauty, plain and simple, that drives the Mexican New Wave. It’s biggest proponents, and indeed, most active members, Diego Luna, Gael García Bernal, Selma Hayek, (and let’s not forget to mention Guillermo del Toro and Alfonso Cuarón), brought a perspective that while at times being rudo were never as easily thought of as cursi. Rudo (“rude”) because these films dare to push back on a society that ignores the grossly complex and dirty. It curses, bites, kicks, and makes love to every aspect of the human experience. Cursi (meaning , roughly, “tacky”), perhaps because there is so much beauty. But there’s nothing more natural than exploring the amalgamation of pain and triumph. With these paragons of human life at the forefront of the Mexican New Wave, it’s no wonder in my mind that so much of the film industry in its neighbouring country has been left standing still.

I have a keen interest in all things that shed light and colour in this dark and, at times, uninspiring world. I love film, all film --ranging from Japanese and Korean horror, to nonsensical action films. The one qualification is that it must, must entertain me. As much as I love watching film, I love even more to write about it. Right now, I get my jabberjaw jollies writing about Halloween Costumes. If you want to give me a buzz, I can be reached at cmlewhite at gmail [dot] com.