Reviving “Shaun of the Dead”

As we all know from movies as varied as Dracula and Twilight, vampires can be sexy. Zombies, though, not so much. A zombie apocalypse means a large (and growing) contingent of slobbering undead humanoids staggering through the streets, on the trail of human victims who are fated (once bitten) to turn into zombies themselves. Yuck! 

 I’ve learned that the concept of a zombie developed out of Haitian folklore, involving the resurrection of dead souls. The word “zombie,” adapted from African languages, entered English in 1819, via poet Robert Southey’s history of Brazil. But our current obsession with zombies can be credited mostly to filmmaker George A. Romero, whose spooky 1954 low-budget horror flick, Night of the Living Dead, was followed by two equally popular sequels. Michael Jackson helped too: in his 1983 music video, “Thriller,” ghoulish creatures rise from their graves and foot-drag down the sidewalk in pursuit of potential victims.

 Clearly, zombies are not a lot of fun. Except when it comes to an unlikely zombie comedy that borrows the title of Romero’s second film, Dawn of the Dead. In that 1978 drama, zombies take over an all-American suburban shopping mall, with bloody results. In 2004, director Zack Snyder came up with a Dawn of the Dead remake: he assembled an all-star cast (Sarah Polley, Ving Rhames, Ty Burrell) as mall clerks and shoppers fending off the inevitable carnage. That same year brought a British film that gave “stiff upper lip” a new meaning. Comic writer/performers Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg set their story in the Crouch End section of London. In their telling, vividly directed by Wight, the zombie apocalypse challenges the laid-back lifestyle of two slackers (vividly played by Pegg and comedian Nick Frost) who are mostly oblivious to the world around them. Belatedly getting their cues from a newsreader on their big-screen TV, they try staving off the marauders by flinging disks from their record collection (like, for instance, the Batman soundtrack), but discover that a cricket bat works better. Still, while Shaun discovers in himself some unexpected leadership qualities, the easily distracted Ed keeps ducking out to eat ice cream and play video games. Eventually a cluster of survivors ends up inside Shaun and Ed’s favorite pub, with zombies trying to break down the windows.

 Though it’s impossible to take any of the above too seriously, there’s still some real pathos in Shaun’s valiant attempts to protect his ex-girlfriend (who eventually finds new respect for this doofus) and his mother (who does her best to accept some dramatic changes in her comfortable life). I’ve read that none other than Helen Mirren was offered the mother’s rather surprisingly poignant role, though she turned it down; veteran actress Penelope Wilton (of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel) is a fine substitute. But perhaps the single most vivid performance is turned in by the always memorable Bill Nighy, who plays Shaun’s stepdad. At first he’s a grouchy middle-class type, proud of his Jaguar and carpingly critical of his stepson. But as the supernatural invaders close in, his deeply-felt apology to Shaun is touching . . . and then, well, Nighy is singularly creepy when he’s undead.

  I won’t spoil any more of the plot. But it’s worth noting that George Romero—Mr. Zombie himself—was delighted by Shaun of the Dead, to the point that he offered Wright and Pegg roles in his 2005 Land of the Dead. Both turned down the parts he had reserved for them and insisted on appearing as zombies, among hordes of others. They wanted, I’m guessing, to know how the other half “lives.”  

 

The Colorful Drama of Purple Noon

The recent passing of French leading man Alain Delon called my attention to the fact that, at the start of a long career, he first hit it big in René Clément’s 1960 thriller, Plein Soleil, known to American moviegoers as Purple Noon. I never saw this film until recently, but its title instantly had meaning for me. Back when I was in high school, my French teacher handed out extra credit for various experiences involving the French language. If you dined at a local French restaurant and swore that you’d spoke en français to the waiter, you got points. (This proved very popular with my family, all of whom loved the opportunity to further my scholastic career by dining out.) You also got points for attending a French-language film and trying hard not to read the subtitles. Most of us kids, thoroughly brainwashed by Hollywood, had no interested in checking out a film in French. And our teacher, in recommending Purple Noon (then playing at a local art house), said nothing to convince us that we’d actually find this film entertaining. As a consequence, I missed out on more extra credit, as well as a chance to see a really fascinating cinematic game of cat-and-mouse.

 Purple Noon (certainly a garish title) turns out to be the first screen adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s famous 1955 thriller, The Talented Mr. Ripley. Forty-four years later, Anthony Minghella wrote and directed a much more complicated English-language version. It starred a young Matt Damon and featured such rising talents as Gwyneth Paltrow, Jude Law, Cate Blanchett, and Philip Seymour Hoffman in a tale of a young man who’ll go to any lengths (including bloody ones) to achieve the lifestyle he feels he deserves. Highsmith herself strongly preferred Delon’s take on Tom Ripley, which relies less on pathos and more on the audience’s ability to identify with a young man whose creative improvisations help him get what he wants out of life.

 It's been pointed out that Ripley’s story goes well into film noir territory, but shifts the formula by being shot in brilliant color in some of the world’s most beautifully sunlit places. Much of the action of Purple Noon takes place on a gorgeous yacht off the coast of Italy. That’s where a feckless, and very wealthy, young San Franciscan named Philippe Greenleaf sets out on a cruise along with his fiancée, Marge, and his amusing new buddy, Tom Ripley. Philippe is not a very gracious host, especially after he discovers Tom trying on his clothes. What happens between them sets the stage for a series of deceptions in which Tom, back on shore, creatively pretends (with the help of a portable typewriter and some glue) that Philippe is alive and well, happily ensconced at a local hostelry. His on-and-off masquerade as Philippe leads to additional mayhem, as well as to his passionate wooing of Marge, for reasons that eventually become all too plain.

 It's curious (and perhaps disturbing) that British author Highsmith imagined Tom Ripley as a born-and-bred American. Her multiple follow-up novels to The Talented Mr. Ripley have led to several additional films as well as a 2024 Netflix miniseries. Obviously, this is a young man whose exploits we love to follow, even if we don’t consider him a model of wholesome behavior. The French version, Purple Noon, largely sidesteps the novel’s obvious homoerotic subtext: what else would you expect in 1960? Still, this is a marvelous intro to a sinister but fascinating world. Too bad it’s too late for me to get extra credit.

 

 

Dishonor Among Thieves: Big Deal on Madonna Street

I’m not quite sure why we all gravitate toward movies about crime rings. Maybe they spice up our humdrum lives by allowing us to enjoy vicariously the thought of operating outside the law. In any case, moviedom is full of memorable crime caper films. Sometimes the crooks get away with murder, so to speak; sometimes they are foiled by their own hubris. In any case, these caper films give us viewers a great deal of enjoyment, as we watch characters doing things we’d never personally dare try.

 One of my absolute favorites in this genre is 1964’s Topkapi, in which a ring of thieves finds a daring way to break into an Istanbul palace to steal a jewel-encrusted dagger. It boasts fabulous location work, an Oscar-winning comic performance by the great Peter Ustinov, and genuine suspense leading up to a twist we don’t see coming. Topkapi was directed by American expatriate Jules Dassin, who of course folded his delightful wife Melina Mercouri into the ensemble cast. Nine years earlier, Dassin had won acclaim for a much darker heist film, the Paris-set Rififi. As anyone who’s seen it will tell you, the heart of this low-budget flick is a deeply suspenseful 30-minute segment in which the central characters, operating in almost total silence, crack open the safe of a high-end Parisian jewelry store. The heist is a smashing success, but from then on things don’t go so well.

 It was partly as a spoof of neo-realist crime films like Rififi that Italian filmmaker Mario Monicelli launched I soliti ignoti, known in Britain as Persons Unknown and in the U.S. by a far more colorful title, Big Deal on Madonna Street. Shot in black & white on the streets of Rome, it captures a milieu where pretty much everybody is up to no good. Here’s one of my favorite early exchanges, one that nicely sets the tone for what’s to come:

 Capannelle: Tell me, do you know a guy called Mario who lives around here?

 Boy playing soccer: There are a thousand Marios around here.

 Capannelle: Yes, but this one is a thief.

 Boy playing soccer: There are still a thousand.

 At the heart of the film is a motley crew made up of ex-cons who are not exactly the sharpest tools in the shed. One is a clumsy thief who keeps getting himself arrested; one is fanatically trying to keep his pretty and unmarried sister (a very young Claudia Cardinale) under lock and key; one wizened old guy can’t resist stealing anything (a loud alarm clock, for instance) that comes his way. Vittorio Gassman, mostly known for dramatic roles, plays a glass-jawed boxer for whom smart thinking only happens with great difficulty. Marcello Mastroianni is a frazzled husband stuck with the care and feeding (not to mention the diaper-changing) of his baby son. Against all odds, they manage to break into an empty apartment that’s supposed to lead them into the lucrative pawnshop next door. So they’re drilling holes in walls, but not exactly the right walls. Which leads to a comic scene in which they pretty much give up their criminal ambitions to enjoy a can of beans in their victims’ kitchen.

 In 1986, director/choreographer Bob Fosse tried staging a Broadway musical version, called Big Deal.  Set in 1930s Chicago, it featured a largely African-American cast and popular songs of the era (like “Just a Gigolo” and “Ain’t We Got Fun?”). Big Deal ran for 69 performances in 1986. It received five Tony Award nominations, with Fosse winning for his choreography. No one has seemed inclined to revive it.

 

 

 

 

 

Good Guys and Bad Guys: Roger Corman’s People

As director Joe Dante once told me about our mutual former boss, Roger Corman,  “The thing about Roger is that you meet him on your way up, and if you’re not lucky you meet him again on your way down.” Joe was talking specifically about Peter Bogdanovich, who got his start with Roger, then later revived his flagging career by co-writing and directing a 1979 Corman release, Saint Jack.

 Though Joe’s comment referenced filmmakers, I think it applies to actors as well. At least, it’s true that name performers who were on a downward slide could often find a juicy role in a cheapie Corman flick.  F. Murray Abraham, who had won an Best Actor Oscar for playing Salieri in  1984’s Amadeus, showed up—to my surprise—as the second lead in Corman’s 1995 gangster thriller, Dillinger and Capone. When we were casting something called Hellfire, a lurid period drama to be shot in Russia, I was astounded that the casting choices for the role of a powerful but fading beauty included an award-winning stage actress known for her serious roles and a once-charming ingenue who had starred in a popular Broadway musical. (Ultimately the role went to a former Corman regular, Beverly Garland, who dated back to his early days.) And for the leading man in a Vietnam War drama, we cast a once-popular TV actor whose career had been derailed by his alcoholism. I  heard that in one key scene, he had to be barefoot, because his feet were so swollen from a recent binge that his military boots no longer fit.

 Yes, Corman’s movies often featured stars whose careers had stalled. But he also, at least in the beginning, had a loyal stock company of aspiring thespians who would do just about any job and play just about any role. The group included Beverly Garland, Mel Welles, and a very young Jack Nicholson, who is still deeply grateful to Roger for giving him a start.  But I have a special affection for Dick Miller, whom I came to know in my New World Pictures days. Dick, a pugnacious little guy who started out aiming to be a writer, played just about any role given to him: an Indian, an astronaut, a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman. His crowning performance was as a would-be sculptor who accidentally becomes a murderer (and a celebrity) in 1959’s A Bucket of Blood.  Dick’s brilliant work as a nebbish who just wants recognition led to Roger wanting to cast him the following year as Seymour, the hapless flower shop assistant who nurtures a man-eating plant, in 1960’s The Little Shop of Horrors. But Dick, always stubborn, felt the part would be a repeat of his previous performance. That’s why he took the far smaller role of the petal-munching Burson Fouch, and Jonathan Haze finally got his big break.

 When I wrote my Corman biography, I never formally interviewed Haze, and I didn’t meet him until years later. To be honest, I was intimidated by the thought of approaching the star of Little Shop of Horrors. The pathos in Jonathan’s performance was hilarious. But unlike Dick Miller, he never became a favorite of Corman alumni directors like Joe Dante and Martin Scorsese. And there was certainly  no documentary made about his career. (Cf 2014’s That Guy, Dick Miller.) Yet Jonathan, much committed to physical fitness and a healthy lifestyle, outlived Roger and the rest of the gang. He died November 5, at age 95. Rest in peace, Jackie Haze! 

 Farewell, too, to Michael Villella, the blood-thirsty Driller-Killer in the original Corman Slumber Party Massacre. 

 

Feeling a Real Pain at the Multiplex

I had looked forward for weeks to seeing the new film written and directed by Jesse Eisenberg, of The Social Network fame. A Real Pain is a serious but at times very funny indie about two first cousins traveling to today’s Poland as part of a Jewish Heritage tour. Their Polish grandmother was a Holocaust survivor, and of course the memories of that 20^th century tragedy inform the film, which includes a genuinely solemn visit to the actual Majdanek death camp near Lublin. But the focus is on the two young men whose more comfortable lives in America have not saved them from a deeply internalized sort of pain.

 The two are played by Eisenberg himself and by Kieran Culkin, who recently scored big with the TV miniseries, Succession. As per usual, Eisenberg plays a neurotic type, outwardly living a wholesome life with a wife, a kid, and a high-tech job, but inwardly a bundle of nerves. Culkin, who has received major attention for his role, is the apparent free spirit, still smoking weed in his mother’s basement while deciding what he wants to do when he grows up. His Benji Kaplan is, though, much more complicated than that. Yes, he knows how to have fun, and he lives by the mantra that rules are meant to be broken, but at times he dissolves into a profound grief from which he cannot easily be rescued.

 Naturally, these two interact, with varying degrees of success, with the others on the tour: an older couple, a deeply spiritual Rwandan convert to Judaism, and a middle-aged woman (Jennifer Grey) dealing with relationship problems of her own. There’s also an earnest British tour guide who is not Jewish but is somehow caught up in the tragedy of the European Jewish story. What’s instructive—and highly believable—is how hard all of these fellow travelers are trying to show their best selves on a journey so fraught with emotion.

 So, yes, I really liked the film. In its modest, concise way, it has a great deal to say about pain and its manifestations, large and small. There was only one problem. We all know that when movies are coming into theatres, exhibitors show “coming attractions” trailers designed to arose the curiosity of the moviegoing public. These trailers are meant to be enticing, but at times they try a little too hard. It so happens that I saw A Real Pain at the Santa Monica branch of the Laemmle theatre chain. The Laemmles, related to the long-ago honcho of Universal Studios, have been for decades a family dedicated to screening great independent films. (Their motto: “Not Afraid of Subtitles.”) Before every screening at a Laemmle theatre there’s a black & white intro, meant to look old-fashioned, comically warning about trailers, because they may contain violence, sex, bad language, the whole plot of the movie, etc. etc. etc. One of the many things you’re warned about is trailers that contain all the film’s best lines.

 That, I’m afraid, is what struck me after I finally saw A Real Pain. As a frequent moviegoer, I’d watched that trailer several times in various theatres,  And so when I sat down to watch the film, I knew about a few plot twists, and had already heard—several times over—Eisenberg’s very best speech, the one that puts David’s entire relationship with cousin Benjy into perspective. So although my movie companions were thrilled by this film, I pretty much felt I’d seen it before . . . because I had. What a shame that this painful story no longer felt fresh. 

 

When a Body Meets a Body: “The Substance”

 When an actress’s performance is described as brave, the implication is that she takes all her clothes off. This being so, Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley are two of the bravest actresses in Hollywood. In The Substance, both Qualley (age 30) and Moore (now 62) spend a great deal of time in the altogether. In terms of face and figure, they’re both genuinely gorgeous. But this film about body shaming draws sharp distinctions between the way the world treats young women and those, however toned and chiseled, who are old enough to be their mothers.

 Moore plays an award-winning actress, Elisabeth Sparkle, who’s been reduced to hosting a perky TV exercise show. Though she has legions of fans, management (a thoroughly obnoxious Dennis Quaid) decrees that a younger, hipper personality is now required to front the show. So she’s sent off into retirement with only a gift cookbook to keep her company. But wait! She suddenly discovers there’s a mysterious new under-the-counter anti-ageing regime that will return her to past glories by re-arranging her DNA and spitting out a younger version of herself.  The catch is that she must alternate with her new persona: one week on; one week off. When the young and adorable Sue (Qualley) is ascendant, Elisabeth lies comatose on the floor of her swanky apartment, nude and discarded. Needless to say, the arrangement is not ideal, especially when Sue—living her best life—turns out not to be great at keeping her end of the bargain.

 The Substance is the work of a Frenchwoman named Coralie Fargeat, who wrote, produced, directed, and edited this, her second film. Remarkably, it won her the Best Screenplay award at this year’s Cannes Film Festival. Certainly, The Substance has a terrific premise, and a satirical film about the public and private reactions to women’s bodies certainly fits in with today’s big issues. But for me what stands out about The Substance is its gloriously askew cinematography. A fish-eye lens makes Dennis Quaid’s odious honcho look as grotesque as he is. Elisabeth, cringing from the age-lines she sees in her own face, is reflected in everything from mirrors to her apartment’s brass doorknob. The taut boobs and buns of Sue and her youthful hangers-on are given their own close-ups. SoCal’s ubiquitous palm trees loom over the piece like lethal weapons.

 Special kudos to whoever dreamed up the film’s opening sequence, in which (using time-lapse photography) Elisabeth Sparkle’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame is created, buffed, admired, ignored, and finally splattered with the spilled lunch of an indifferent passer-by.

 But for me the film’s 141-minute length hints at a major problem. This is ultimately a horror film, and horror films tend to run out of steam after a while. Fargeat, having neatly set up a darkly ironic situation, feels the need to descend into blood and gore. Lots and lots of gore. By the midpoint, I was wondering where this film was going. By the end, following what seemed like an interminable bloodfest, I was relieved it was over. The two actresses certainly proved to be game, and I foresee an Oscar nomination for makeup design, but, for me at least, whatever point the film was making had wholly gotten lost in the shuffle.

 Certainly, the idea of holding onto one’s beauty by any means necessary is a poignant one. Demi Moore, in particular, would know something about that struggle from her own life. My mentor, Roger Corman, explored the idea back in 1959 with The Wasp Woman. It’s a great little horror flick, and it’s only 69 minutes long.

 

 

The Many Masks of Anora

 When first seen, Anora (who likes to be called Ani) is plying her wares at a tawdry “gentlemen’s club” in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. Sidling up to potential customers, she comes off as cute, friendly, and ready for anything. A lap dance? An upside-down whirl on the stripper pole? A cozy visit to a private room? Sure! It’s all part of her repertoire.

 Sean Baker, the American indie director who won this year’s prestigious Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival for Anora, has profound love for those on the underside of society.  In the case of Anora, what’s not to love?  Especially when we learn that her dream is to go on a honeymoon trip to Walt Disney World. Her Cinderella fantasies almost come true when an adorably curly-headed young Russian (drawn to her first because she can understand—if not really speak—his language) falls for her in a big way. After a whirlwind trip to Las Vegas,  they return home as man and wife. The pampered son of a Russian oligarch, one who’s enjoying living alone in a fabulous seaside mansion, Ivan can give her everything—love, fun, drugs, a three-carat diamond ring. Not bad for a young woman who up to this point has had to scrupulously keep an eye on her finances.

 But like all good things, the honeymoon quickly comes to an end.  When his parents’ local fixer—who doubles as an Armenian priest—discovers the marriage, all hell breaks loose. The parents are quickly on a plane from Mosco, determined to scuttle the marriage and pursue a quick annulment. In their eyes, Anora is a gold-digger preying on their innocent boy. The situation develops into a riotous brouhaha, in which Ivan flees into the night and Anora is kept at bay by two rather inept thugs who’ll do just about anything to calm her down.

 This is the point at which Ani’s combative spirit really comes into focus. She wants what she sees as hers, and nothing—not violence, not bribes, not sweet talk—is going to stop her. Her  transformation from sexy wench to woman in love to warrior princess is both startling and fascinating. This is someone who is fearless, both with her hands and with her mouth, in demanding what she deserves. And, especially when she’s faced with Ivan’s obnoxious mother, we see what drives her: a desperate need to stick up for herself in a world where she has no other champion. Which leads, finally, to an at-first-perplexing moment in which we come to understand how hard she’s struggled to build a life for herself, and how much she’s lost along the way.

 Mikey Madison, who plays Anora, has a short Hollywood resumé (she played one of the Manson girls in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood)  but I agree with all the pundits who insist this film will launch a major career. A SoCal girl who grew up (she insists) quite shy, she has adopted for Anora a bold, exuberant personality that doesn’t quit. What’s special about her is that she isn’t simply loud and sexy: there are layers in her portrayal that hint at the complexity of her life. Credit Sean Baker with bringing out the various facets of Anora’s approach to living: as his work in indie flicks like Tangerine shows, he loves actors who are fearless.

 This evening, while tooling down the Sunset Strip, I saw a huge billboard for Anora: Madison looks totally seductive, with a bare shoulder peeking out from a fur coat. No question: a star is born. 

Surviving a Velvet Morning

In playwright Neil LaBute’s film, Some Velvet Morning, Stanley Tucci is hardly thinking about becoming the next pope. Instead, in this chamber piece from 2013, Tucci’s hot on the trail of an enigmatic young woman who may or may not be named Velvet. LaBute himself personally suggested that I watch this flick, based on my appreciation for an earlier LaBute cinematic work, The Shape of Things. Now that I’ve seen Some Velvet Morning, I can understand why it has divided critics and audiences, even those of the film-festival-going variety. Yes, the writer/director displays in this film his usual mastery of dialogue and his gift for ambiguous characterizations, but I can understand how some moviegoers have come away from it annoyed and even offended. Still, I found it, when all was said and done, genuinely bracing.

 Part of the challenge of Some Velvet Morning comes from the audience’s need to figure out just what is going on. We start with a languid young woman in a bright red minidress stretched out on a sofa in an oh-so-pristine townhouse. Then a well-dressed older gentleman carrying quite a lot of luggage rings her doorbell, and the film kicks into action. These two apparently know each other, though there’s been a long absence, and the viewer is tasked with figuring out exactly what exists between them.

 Perhaps the most instructive moment occurs at the end of the credit sequence, when five words appear on the screen: For August Strindberg, with Love. LaBute, a serious student of classic drama, was clearly influenced on this project by the 19^th century Swedish author of intimate plays like Miss Julie, in which the battle of the sexes plays out with dramatic ferocity. As always, LaBute’s screenwork here feels much like a stage play, with sharply articulated dialogue briskly moving the action forward. But there’s also the vividly cinematic use of the full townhouse set, including steep staircases and well-decorated nooks and crannies to add some visual reality to the story’s twists and turns. 

 Watching the plot unfold, I was struck anew by Tucci’s talent for naturalistic performance. Whatever his mood at any given moment, he’s totally credible, even when lashing out with lightning speed. In both his character’s neediness and his anger, he seems completely real. His opposite number, Alice Eve, was unknown to me. As she changed moods and approaches to the man at the door, I sensed there was something histrionic about her, in contrast to Tucci’s more internalized performance. In time, though, I questioned my own earlier judgment. That’s what this film does to you.

 I won’t go into where it all leads. But at the end of this relatively short film (all of 82 minutes), the viewer should acknowledge having been on quite a journey, one whose conclusion he or she had not quite anticipated. (It’s hardly surprising to me that not everyone is pleased with this outcome.)

 I should add that the film’s curious title was apparently borrowed from a Lee Hazlewood song from 1967, best known from a recording in which he duets with Nancy Sinatra on her “Movin’ with Nancy” album. One critic said at the time, “’Some Velvet Morning’ sounds like two songs spliced together by a madman, or an avant-garde short film in song form.” Its lyrics are famously enigmatic, having puzzled critics and fans for generations. Hazelwood has confirmed that in writing the song he was thinking about classical Greek mythology, and particularly with the beautiful but dangerous Phaedra, whose love life was certainly complicated. Does the song help explain LaBute’s story? Well, maybe, or maybe not.

 

 

Capitalist Pigs: “Okja “

When I sat down to watch Okja, I knew only that this was a recent Korean film, highlighting the warm relationship between a young girl and a supersized CGI pig. My guess was that the film would have something of an ET vibe, featuring tenderness, innocence, and a certain amount of whimsy. And, to be honest, these elements can all be found in Okja. But it didn’t at first occur to me that any film written and directed by Bong Joon-ho—who followed up Okja with 2019’s lacerating Oscar-winner, Parasite—would doubtless be well laced with black humor.

 I also didn’t realize at first that Okja is a true East-meets-West collaboration between Bong and Hollywood, with Netflix and Brad Pitt’s adventuresome Plan B Entertainment much involved. A good part of the story takes place in New York City, and key roles are played by box-office favorites Tilda Swinton, Paul Dano, and Jake Gyllenhaal. Gyllenhaal’s role as the sell-out host of a TV animal show is hilarious, though I found him absolutely unrecognizable, even after I saw his name in the end-credits. As for Swinton, she takes her usual perverse delight in playing a character who’s obnoxious in the extreme. Her role is that of a corporation head who has nothing good to say about her father (an investor in Napalm) and her sister (under whose company leadership a lake exploded). She coos to her team about her own development of adorable super-pigs, whose meat will be (among other good things) inexpensive and environmentally friendly. Of course she’s lying through her teeth, and Giancarlo Esposito (of Breaking Bad fame) is on hand to help take things from bad to worse.

 But these aren’t the only questionable characters in Okja. When the super-pig she’s helped to raise in the mountains of Korea is summoned to New York (supposedly to be crowned as top pig in a competition arranged by Swinton’s company), young Mija can’t prevent her beloved pet from being taken from her. But she finds she has some unlikely allies, members of the Animal Liberation Front, who’ll do just about anything to protect animals from human exploitation. Led by the (usually) soft-spoken Paul Dano, they at first come across as earnest and reasonable, but their passion for their cause leads them, at times, into outrageous acts. Their intentions may be good, but often they seem as crazy as the greedy capitalists they oppose with single-minded zeal.

 So what becomes of the young girl and the giant pig?  I don’t think it’s giving too much away to say that in this film everyone ultimately gets what he or she deserves. Though there are some stomach-churning moments that spell out the ultimate fate of most of those giant pigs, our two favorite characters live to enjoy another, brighter day.   

 Okja had its world premiere in 2017 at the Cannes Film Festival. Despite some technical difficulties during the screening, it was rewarded with a four-minute standing ovation, and was nominated for the prestigious Palme d’Or. Filmed in Korean and English, the film makes a deliberate mistranslation (by Korean-American actor Steven Yeun, playing one of the ALF activists) an essential part of its plot.

 By the way, anyone checking out the recent DVD (which boasts a separate disc full of extras about the film’s technical challenges) should be sure to keep watching until the very end. Following a long set of end-credits, there’s a sardonic coda featuring the re-united ALF team. It’s as though Bong can’t bear to end his film on a note of Happily Ever After.