Napoleon, 2023
Ridley Scott decides he’s going to make a movie about Napoleon. So far so good. After all, previously he managed to turn ancient Rome into a blockbuster playground with “Gladiator” and made us all believe that space trucks and xenomorphs are a normal part of interstellar travel in “Alien.” The man’s got chops; we know this. But then, somewhere along the line, things get… let’s just say, interesting. Instead of the brooding, strategic military genius history books ramble on about, Scott gives us Napoleon: The Lovestruck Teenager Edition. And the result is pure, unintentional comedy gold.
Napoleon, the guy who basically rewrote European borders with the same ease some of us rewrite grocery lists, is now mooning over Joséphine like a high schooler with his first crush. This Joséphine is not just any historical figure; she's the embodiment of every stormy romance novel protagonist, ever. Their relationship is less "till death do us part" and more "until one of us throws a tantrum worthy of a reality TV show."
Scott’s version of Napoleon’s life is painted in the hues of those overly dramatic, golden-lit historical paintings, except it feels like someone spiked the punch bowl. The battles, which should be the meat and potatoes of any Napoleon story, feel like they’re just the commercial breaks in between the real saga: Napoleon and Joséphine’s love story. It’s as if Scott watched every teenage drama available and thought, “Yes, this is the emotional depth I want for the man who almost conquered Europe.”
It’s so pretty you almost don’t care. And amidst this beautifully shallow spectacle, Rupert Everett and Joaquin Phoenix are just killing it. Phoenix, in particular, gives us this version of Napoleon that’s part brooding emo kid, part awkward nerd, making for some seriously funny moments.
In all seriousness, the film is a mess of contradictions — part historical epic, part comedy of errors. It doesn’t quite know what it wants to be, and neither does Napoleon. But that’s what makes it so entertaining. It’s as if Scott set out to make a film that’s as complex and conflicted as Napoleon himself, but ended up with something that feels more like a parody of a historical drama. It’s not every day you get to see a film that’s as aware of its own absurdity as this one is, blissfully straddling the line between genius and madness.
Return to Seoul (Retour à Séoul), 2022
“Return to Seoul” tosses us into the whirlwind life of Freddie Benoît, a young woman with a complex identity puzzle to solve. Born in South Korea but raised in France by adoptive parents, Freddie embarks on a journey back to Seoul in a quest to find her biological parents. This could have been a narrative ripe with poignant moments and deep, introspective epiphanies. Instead, what we get is a rollercoaster through eight years of Freddie’s life, filled with erratic twists that defy any sense of conventional storytelling for no apparent reason.
Freddie’s adventures — or misadventures, more accurately — include an unexpected entanglement with a sleazy older Frenchman and a bizarre stint in arms dealing. These episodes in her life are portrayed with such randomness, it feels like the movie is constantly trying to throw us off its scent. And throughout this chaotic narrative, Freddie makes attempts, albeit half-heartedly, to connect with her birth mother, adding an extra layer of confusion to her already absurd journey.
Her reunion with her biological parents, instead of offering closure or warmth, is steeped in an air of awkward sullenness. Freddie’s demeanor suggests not just resentment for their absence in her life but a deeper disconnect, hinting at a disdain for the very roots she seeks to understand. This complex relationship is symbolized through a pair of pink shoes — a desperate gift from her father meant to bridge years of separation. Freddie’s choice to abandon them under a park bench is an emblem of the chasm between them as well as a super trite trope, similar to the overused metaphor of a lone shoe to signify loss or abandonment found everywhere from Hemingway’s famous short story to the deeply symbolic images associated with the Holocaust. In literature and cinema, shoes have been employed to represent everything from a character’s journey, their personal loss, or a shift in their life’s path — much like Dorothy’s ruby slippers in “The Wizard of Oz”. While the intent behind the pink shoes in “Return to Seoul” might aim for this level of symbolic depth, its execution feels more like reaching into a bag of clichés, pulling out a familiar narrative device in hopes of evoking a cheap emotional reaction rather than engaging with the more challenging task of original storytelling.
Throughout “Return to Seoul,” Freddie’s character remains undeveloped. Her motivations and inner turmoil are hinted at but never fully explored, leaving us as viewers on the outskirts of her emotional landscape, never quite invited in. The film, ambitious in its scope to tackle themes of identity, belonging, and the search for connection, ends up meandering through a labyrinth of plot points that challenge the viewer’s ability to sympathize or even understand Freddie’s journey fully.
And then there’s a nightclub scene, lifted straight from the Liquid Sky, a bizarre 1982 sci-fi movie, that stands out as a particularly jarring detour. It’s a scene so disconnected from reality, it makes you question if anyone involved has ever been to a club, or if they’ve all just collectively decided to redefine awkwardness. It’s like a fever dream set to what can only be described as the most grating soundtrack imaginable.
Speaking of soundtracks, this one is a relentless assault on the senses, matching the film’s visual and narrative chaos beat for beat. It’s as if Chou and his team were on a mission to redefine cinematic discomfort, not just visually but acoustically.
Jean-Luc Godard once said that a movie needs only a girl and a gun. The gun, alas, is a distant fantasy here, unless you count “the missiles” our heroine is pawning somewhere to someone, and there’s no girl either but a cartoonish figure embodying the chasm between Asia and Europe, tradition and modernity, rudeness and politeness, all while the director’s lofty ambitions clash with the finite patience of viewers, leaving a rift as wide as the one Freddie fails to bridge between her two worlds.
Monster (Kaibutsu), 2023
In “Monster,” we’re introduced to Saori (Sakura Ando), a single mom who’s suddenly thrust into the world’s most unglamorous detective role when her son, Minato (Soya Kurokawa), comes home looking like he’s lost a fight with a lawnmower and one of his shoes decided to seek a life elsewhere. It’s like the universe’s way of saying, “And you thought parenting was just about packing those cute Japanese lunch boxes!”
Her investigation leads her straight to the school, where she suspects Mr. Hori (Eita Nagayama) of being the villain in this mystery. Mr. Hori, with the guilt-ridden demeanor of someone who’s accidentally seen your embarrassing karaoke videos, becomes the focal point of Saori’s maternal fury.
But of course, there’s a twist! It turns out Minato isn’t the angel she thought he was; he’s been bullying another student, Yori (Hinata Hiiragi). This revelation turns the story into a veritable comedy of errors, minus the laugh track and with a much higher emotional stakes.
Enter the school principal, a figure so steeped in kindness and politeness, she could probably apologize for the weather and make you believe she meant it. Imagine the most benevolent grandmother, but with the added responsibility of running a school and moonlighting as a cleaning lady. It’s like everyone in this story is competing for the “Nicest Person of the Year” award in a town where being rude is considered a mortal sin.
“Monster” unfolds like a gentle echo of “The Hunt,” with its web of misunderstandings and misplaced blame, yet swaps out the raw intensity for a uniquely Japanese blend of politeness and confusion: there aren’t really any monsters, just a bunch of very confused, very kind people trying their best to navigate a world that doesn’t come with instructions. It’s a heartwarming mess — a reminder that sometimes, the story doesn’t need a villain to be compelling, just a cast of characters earnestly stumbling their way towards understanding each other (rather than insisting as in Return to Seoul on its absolute impossibility).
The Promised Land (Bastarden), 2023
This film takes us back to Denmark’s Jutland heath in the mid-eighteenth century, with Mikkelsen playing Ludvig Kahlen, an ex-soldier turned unlikely agricultural pioneer, who harbors a surprisingly deep affection for growing potatoes.
In a plot that sounds like the brainchild of a history buff and a lonely botanist, Kahlen battles not just the harsh elements of Jutland but also the scorn of a pseudo-noble land tyrant, Frederich De Schinkel (Simon Bennebjerg), who probably never knew the emotional depth one could have for root vegetables. The storyline mirrors a classic Hollywood Western, complete with land disputes and a high body count, except here, the climactic showdown might as well be over the best way to cultivate potatoes.
As the drama unfolds, every human emotion is put through the wringer, traversing the seven stages of grief, but in the end, it’s not just about survival or vengeance — it’s about love. Not the kind that writes sonnets or inspires grand gestures, but a steadfast, earthy love. A love for a potato that symbolizes freedom, happiness, and perhaps a touch of carbohydrate-induced madness.
By the film’s conclusion, what started as a stately period piece devolves into a gothic, graphic, and frankly, rather silly melodrama. It’s a bloody tale of adversity, heartbreak, and tuberous passion, proving once and for all that in the world of cinema, anything is possible — even a profound connection between a man and his potato field. “The Promised Land” then is not just a story about conquering the land; it’s an ode to the spud, making you wonder whether it’s time to reevaluate your own relationships with them freedom fries.
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