Jungle Fever

What makes a movie good? What do you most enjoy about a film? Perhaps most fundamentally, people watch films to see a good story. At times, it's for the pleasures of genre filmmaking. Romantic comedies. Mystery. Horror. You know the conventions of these kinds of films, it's a matter of execution. For example, Land of the Dead is both a zombie film, where you expect the undead to roam the earth in aimless manner, while humans shoot their heads off to avoid becoming zombies themselves. Yet, the film adds a message beyond its genre conventions exclaiming that zombies want a life too.

A plot may not be so important if the characters are interesting and likeable. As moviegoers, we want to meet people that we don't meet everyday. They seem more interesting, more exciting, more quirky than the people we see every day. There's something oddly endearing about Richard, in Me, You, and Everyone We Know who tries to impress his two sons by lighting his hand on fire using lighter fluid instead of alcohol. He had expected it to burn harmlessly, but instead...well, you know...ouch!

Some films don't give you either in great detail. In Fallen Angels, there isn't so much of a plot, as there are scenes, half-discussions, observations. It's a world inhabited by people with unusual lives (killer, assistant to a killer, an unemployed mute) who share the lack of ability to communicate in common.

Some give you less than that. 2001: A Space Odyssey is something of a mystery. What is the monolith? What is at Jupiter? Why does Hal act so weird? The characters themselves are bland, but still, at its heart, lies a mystery, and that compels us through long periods of nothing to a transcendent ending.

Perhaps, if anything, Tropical Malady shares this minimalist view, though I liken it more to Gus Van Sant's Gerry. Like Gerry, there's a minimalist feel to Tropical Malady. It tells the story, if you can call it that, of Keng, a soldier, and Tong, a boy who's occupation appears to be an ice cutter. The opening twenty minutes are quite slow, as you see events in their lives, as they hang out, go to listen to a woman sing. Eventually, they fall in love, but not in the usual ways that you find in so many teen films where love must be declared.

They meet up with an elderly woman, who isn't the least bit bothered by their relationship. and essentially has them go to the "Dagobah tree". You know, the one where Luke must confront his fears, and finds Vader, who is really Luke.

In the cave, she tells them that there is a dangerous place within the cave that they should go, and if the love is true, they will survive. OK, so it's not told in as many words. But it's roughly what's said. One of them is fearful, and chooses not to go.

At this point, the characters are pleasant, with the three elderly Thai women being most interesting. With little dialogue in the film, you begin to pay attention to the things happening on screen. The use of English words on t-shirts. The fact that Tong has a job as an ice cutter, not a profession you see everyday. The odd hieroglyphc quality of the Thai alphabet. The simple living standards in the country. That there are internet rooms in Thailand where people play out-of-date video games. You can't say there's that much of a story in the first half, only snippets of conversations. It doesn't even delve deep into quirky melancholy as do Wong Kar Wai's films, nor use lush photography with men and women in cool clothing.

Then, the film switches gears, and tells of Keng, the soldier, who hears the story of creature that is killing livestock, and begins to track it in the forest. The subtitles tell us of a shaman who could become any creature he wants. And like the Discovery that flies through space in many minutes of silence, Keng walks through the jungle for many minutes. It's very much like following Matt Damon and Casey Affleck in Gerry. Yet, while Van Sant makes their aimless journey hypnotic, Weerasethakul is even more minimalist.

This is story as myth, telling of an ancient tale, in a modern setting. The tiger is played by Tong, who's only clothing are tattoos across his body. He is symbolic of a tiger. It is as much Keng dealing with his fears. It's only when the monkey explains what's going on (yes!) that we get a sense that Keng is dealing with his fears and perhaps his fear of love, and it's brought as a metaphor of live versus death. This journey through the forest is given mythic heft. Has be become an animal? Is this Zeus pursuing Hera, changing his form in many shapes? Keng is learning to trust, despite fear, to be something. Will he be brave enough to be devoured?

Perhaps this film has wowed critics for its mysterious second half. What does it mean? And yet, like Gerry, it can be soporific. Why is nothing happening? It's just some guy wandering in a forest, and wandering in a forest. and there are tracks, and some naked guy running around. What. The. Hell!

Indeed, the film drags like no one's business. Critics of Gerry rightly claim that very little goes on in that film as well. There are beautiful, hyponotic shots of the two walking in the desert, and wandering, and wandering. Will they live? Do they care?

Yet Tropical Malady is oddly fascinating, and more so upon reflection. The hunt at the end is much like the oldest myths told, and in fact, appears to be based on an old Thai myth. It is reminiscent of Gilgamesh and Enkidu (a story I heard in Star Trek, the Next Generation, in one of its best episodes) where Gilgamesh is king, and Enkidu is a rival, yet becomes a friend, and both go to the forest to confront Humbaba.

The myth in Tropical Malady is simpler than that, reducing the myth by one character, combining, say Gilgamesh and Humbaba as one. Its ending, rather than one of traditional death and sacrifice of one who kills a dreaded enemy, is that of sacrifice of one's self to love. It is presented as a kind of emotional catharsis, to present love in the most primal way possible, to accept love as one accepts death.

Weerasethakul does this without a heavy-handed approach. The actor playing Keng plays the role naturalistically. This isn't presented as some myth, with gods and monsters, with actors intoning their lines like Charlton Heston. Indeed, at times, that kind of weighty acting feels necessary to the story, and yet, it's a soldier, the same one we see in the first part of the story, who is in the jungle, like some Marlow searching for Kurtz.

The spareness of Tropical Malady extends to music. John Williams, who composed Star Wars , Jaws and many other themes, once said that a good score is unobtrusive (ironic, I know), that the listener gets the sensation of fear or excitement, but is totally engaged in the story, with the music in the background. The menace of Jaws comes as much from its dum-dum theme as it does from Spielberg's ability to hide the shark and let us use our imagination.

Think through the film, and you realize why it is that you feel nothing is going on. No music! Like some Dogma 95 film, Tropical Malady eschews any film music. What music is heard is from singing and the radio. In its place is the hum of insects, the forest, filled with its own sounds and rhythms. As quiet and contemplative as 2001 is, imagine it without Also Sprach Zarathrusta. Much of the power of 2001 comes from music. Weerasethakul strips music away. It is spartan storytelling in the most literal way.

This is exactly the kind of film that even enlightened movie goers are going to be mightily frustrated watching. It doesn't offer the traditional story telling that one expects. The second half is nearly devoid of dialogue. There are visuals. There is myth. When all is said and done, it is a love story told in the most unique way possible with a spare visual sensibility.

Fear.

Love.

Life.

Death.

Man.

Beast.