COLUMBUS A
USA (104
mi) 2017 d: Kogonada
This is the film Jim Jarmusch was trying to make in Paterson (2016),
as it’s infinitely more meditative, using conversations to explore things that
matter to people, including starkly poetic imagery based entirely on the local
architecture of the region, yet the biggest surprise is the complexity of the
subject matter, dramatically spare, interjecting a strange combination of moods
and personal thoughts that continually broaden to become universally recognized
themes, where there’s more love in this one film than any ten films combined
seen earlier this year. It’s an ever-expanding work that operates on
so many different levels, not the least of which is a stunning visual design,
making this among the more eye-appealing films seen in years. Who
knew all these tiny secrets were kept hidden in the heartland of Columbus,
Indiana, (birthplace of sitting Vice-President Mike Pence), a small Midwest
town that is showcased like never before. THE BRIDGES OF MADISON
COUNTY (1995) gave rise to massive tourist interest where a curious public
wanted to see those historical bridges in their original settings, driving
through various country roads to get there, while this may have a similar
effect to the tourist business of Columbus, as this film gives it a unique
appeal that is nothing less than eye-opening. Envisioned by a
first-time director, Korean-born Kogonada, who was writing a Ph.D. dissertation
on Ozu when he realized he wanted to be a filmmaker himself, better known for
conceiving online video essays, which includes the infamous Kubrick One-Point
Perspective, many of which can be seen on Vimeo here: https://vimeo.com/kogonada. In
a strange twist, much of the dialogue is actually spoken too quietly, barely
above a whisper, where bits and pieces may be inaudible, but viewers won’t miss
anything and can easily follow the path of the storyline, which is brilliantly
written, enhanced by the performances of its two stars, John Cho, more familiar
as Sulu in the Star Trek (2009)
movies, and Hayley Lu Richardson, a welcome surprise who resembles Jennifer
Grey in DIRTY DANCING (1987), an All-American girl whose warmth and sweetness
overrides her obvious talent and intellectual insight, yet her moral integrity
is impeccable. The two come together almost by accident, as Cho
plays Jin, the son of a famous Korean architect who is in town to give a speech
on architecture, but suffers a heart attack, leaving him in a coma, with his
son flying in from Seoul to be at his side, met in the hospital by his wife,
none other than Parker Posey, who is something of a scholar in her own
right. Richardson, on the other hand, plays Casey, a home town
resident working in the library while voluntarily leading architectural tours,
who was planning to attend the speech before it was abruptly cancelled, and
overhears Jin in the hospital speaking about his father.
It’s surprising to discover an old-fashioned town of 46,000
is home to a staggering number of public works projects, more than 60 civic
buildings designed by some of the famous names of 20th century architecture,
with seven currently designated as national historic landmarks (Seven national
historic landmarks in one small ... - Columbus, Indiana). First
and foremost, in terms of the film, is The Inn at Irwin Gardens (irwingardens.com), a beautiful stone
structure set amongst trees and gardens overlooking a vast expanse of freshly
mowed green grass leading to a wall of imposing trees that can feel mesmerizing,
while the ornate interior, as Jin confesses, moving into the room reserved by
his father, feels like living inside a museum, where he’s afraid he’ll break
something. The opulence on display greets viewers with a sign of
what’s to come, as every shot is perfectly framed, where the exact precision is
like a moving art exhibit, with the director integrating the neo-futuristic
architectural works of Eero and Eliel Saarinen, Myron Goldsmith, Kevin Roche,
Harry Weese, Cesar Pelli, Richard Meier, Deborah Berke, Robert Venturi, Michael
Van Valkenburgh, Eliot Noyes, I.M. Pei, and Pei’s protégé James Polshek, among
others (All of the
architects of Columbus – a list) throughout his film, leading 20th-century
figures whose works are infused with the imaginations of other masterminds,
like sculptor Henry Moore, but also including interior designers and landscape
architects, where the post office, newspaper offices, banks, churches,
libraries, fire stations, ice-cream shop (with marble counters and a
self-playing organ), city hall, courthouses, even the prison, along with other
brilliantly designed structures become the strongest component of the film,
where lives exist within the shadow of public art installations, whose daunting
influence imposes its will over all, where few can fail to be moved by the
harmonious beauty of these designs. In this way, the present meets
the past with an everpresent look toward the future, exploring something fundamental
about what it is to be human. Shot in just 18 days, using drawings
ahead of time from Japanese illustrator Mihoko Takata who designed six of the
film’s scenes, all without ever visiting Columbus, the film examines the
complicated relationship each lead character has with their parents, as Jin was
basically estranged from his father, never really trusting the influence of
architecture, while Casey’s mother is a recovering meth addict now working in a
packaging plant, believing she needs to stay at home to take care of her, as
she may fall into relapse without her, even if that means foregoing her own
future. Despite these differences, the two embark on a friendship,
with Casey overhearing him speaking Korean on the phone, surprised to learn he
speaks English. Both are intelligent and well-educated, with Casey
having a longstanding interest in architecture, studying the influence it has
in her home town, where its immediate effect is more personal with her, while
Jin views it from afar, believing it was crammed down his throat by his father,
so he’s familiar with the artists and their theories, but the emotional abyss
that stands between himself and his father clouds any and all interest, so
instead he’s fascinated by what draws Casey to it, as there’s an understated,
near invisible force driving her passion. Throughout the film they
visit various sites, commenting on what they think, offering personal
revelations, where the candid conversational style resembles the spontaneity of
Richard Linklater’s BEFORE TRILOGY, though it never rises to a level of
romanticism or sexual interest, just a budding friendship, exploring the impact
they have on each other, which seems to shift and change as they go
along.
Many may think the roots of this film may be Roberto
Rossellini’s divorce among the ruins film, Journey
to Italy (1954), where the visualization of the camera integrates
character, in particular the psychological mindset of Ingrid Bergman, with the
remnants of decaying artworks scattered around Naples, mirroring her
deteriorating relationship, suggesting an impermanence in human relationships,
a film that may have opened the door to modernism. But a closer inspection
suggests it may actually be closer to Antonioni, who specialized in creating a
sense of space between characters in order to heighten the emotional distance,
framing his films with an almost mathematical precision, shooting through
doorways, windows, or hallways, always acutely aware of architectural lines, as
if the camera was peering at the characters through the prism of history and
Western civilization. Antonioni was cinema’s premiere modernist, creating
profound meditations on emptiness, with isolated characters searching for
meaning in the boredom of their rich and comfortable bourgeois lives, finding
themselves disoriented by the changing landscape, where the weight of
classicism has been replaced by sleek modernist structures with glassy
exteriors, using electronic-infused sound designs to enhance
alienation. This sounds like what Kogonada has in mind, also writing
and editing the film, bringing to light the blind spots in his characters,
exploring what’s holding them back, especially when surrounded by such
massively expressive architectural works that seem to be speaking out to them,
beckoning them, radically breaking from the past, exploring new ideas in
design, making conceptual use of space, at times therapeutically integrated
with the surrounding natural world, which impacts viewers in a symbiotic
manner, calling out to and challenging their basic instincts, impacting how they feel, if only they can
learn to read the signals. In this sense, Kogonada is actually
building on the Antonioni legacy of existentialism, as these buildings have a
fixed position, a place of permanency, offering a restorative energy, even a
consoling power of healing, like spirits that speak in the night, or ghosts of
the past, unnoticed, largely forgotten, like submerged memories that only come
to life when we choose to think of them, as the film literally asks what it
means to live in a modern world. While reaching for the profound,
much of the film, rather humorously, takes place during smoking breaks,
momentary pauses where people fill empty space, where near the end of the film
Rory Culkin, Casey’s coworker at the library, finally confesses that he doesn’t
even smoke, but just wanted to spend some time with her. It’s a
heartfelt confession with underlying overtones, but it also speaks to her human
value and worth, something she questions throughout the film, wondering if
there is more that she could do. There is no mistaking, however, the
closeness of her relationship to her mother, the polar opposite of Jin and his
father, though both of their thoughts evolve over time, aided by their
companionship. Jin explains what he would be expected to do if he
was living in Korea, which is stand by his father’s side to the bitter end, as
a son should not allow his father to die alone. But he simply
doesn’t feel that way, as he can’t manufacture a closeness that doesn’t
exist. Now that his father is in a coma, it doesn’t close the
distance or change how he feels about him. Casey finds that view appalling
and crude, almost prehistoric, where there is certainly room for
growth. Shot by cinematographer Elisha Christian, this is no
ordinary indie film, but is a small gem that reaches for exalted heights, a
coming-of-age story that defies the typical sexual exploration and
instead involves an intellectual awakening, where a sense of urgency
accompanies each character’s curiosity, literally celebrating the purpose of
the people and places that surround us. Accentuated by a heightened
sensory experience, Kogonada’s own sound design along with atmospheric music
from an original score by the two-man Nashville band Hammock, the film challenges how art
can effect human behavior, becoming a meditative study of human interaction,
exploring a friendship that arises out of troubled circumstances, where
emotions resonate among some of the most extraordinary fixtures of modern
architecture.
