Drum Media reviews, September: SUBMARINE + 13 ASSASSINS

I should be up-front about my biases: I have an aversion to the Wes Anderson-esque. Which is to say, I’m more than OK with Anderson’s own filmography, but the world only needs one of him. Little Miss Sunshine, Juno, Napoleon Dynamite, et al… all pedal a brand of conveyor-belt quirk that grates my nerves rather than endears. They’re the cinematic equivalent of being choked to death by a friendship bracelet, despite the odd exception to the rule (esp. The Brothers Bloom, and Boy by Taika Waititi; whose Eagle vs. Shark ironically remains the most hideous of Anderson’s progeny).

Submarine, the hyper-self-referential directorial debut of It Crowd star Richard Ayoade, fortunately proves another exception – if only mildly. Carrying over his knowledge of comic timing to feature film direction, Ayoade lends it a sense of humour that comes from as much from the writing and acting as his obvious cinematic vocabulary. It tells of the coming-of-age (what else?) of 15-year-old Oliver Tate (Craig Roberts) growing up in a small town in mid-80’s Wales, who throughout narrates his budding romance with classmate Jordana (Yasmin Paige) in concurrence with his parents’ marital crisis.

Submarine endlessly cribs from Anderson and especially Rushmore; from Oliver’s Max Fisher-style attire, the lateral tracking shots and immaculate framing, the revolt-via-pranks, to the one-liners about handjobs. To be fair, Ayoade also borrows from Anderson’s own influences, including the playful 60’s mod-era comedies of Richard Lester and the entire French New Wave (particularly Truffaut’s The 400 Blows). It’s mostly pretty enjoyable and expert homage, and there’s some emotional gravity amidst the twee preciousness; Noah Taylor, in particular, brings a heartrending quiet dignity to his role as Oliver’s milquetoast dad. But the stylistic tics end up feeling like distractions for very well-trodden coming-of-age territory.

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There’s nothing else in recent cinema like the epic action set-piece that comprises the final 45-ish minutes of 13 Assassins; the latest old-school samurai saga from insanely prolific Japanese maverick Takashi Miike (who’s probably finished another three films by the time you finish reading this sentence). Miike is perhaps best know for 1999’s Audition, about a lonely Tokyo widower who holds an audition for women to be his new wife. That film began as low-key domestic drama in the vein of Yasujiro Ozu, only to switch gears for a climax that should traumatise any viewer who stumbles upon it on SBS unprepared.

Likewise, 13 Assassins is a coiled snake of a movie for the most part, with its first two acts concerning the recruitment of the titular posse to embark on a suicide mission to kill a power-mad warlord. These scenes consist mainly of discussions of samurai codes and formalities, but Miike’s idiosyncratic touches occasionally creep through the stern surface whenever things risk becoming too stately. For instance, the grotesque sight of a nakedly writhing, limbless female casualty of the evil lord is obviously something Kurosawa would never have shown in his heyday – and only Miike would foreshadow the climax’s ‘total massacre’ through the sight of a naked toddler peeing on the road in the village where the showdown occurs.

This finale is what the film has been cagily building toward, Jenga-style – an absurdly entertaining spectacle that’ll have you grinning and gawping at in astonishment. It’s frenetic, funny, very bloody, and always a hair away from being exhausting, but never crossing the line; there’s always something at stake, even if it’s the group rather than the individual that’s given definition.