Tokyo Godfathers is the latest attempt at an old chestnut of a story: three losers getting unexpectedly saddled with an infant. Instead of cowboy outlaws or swinging bachelors, it’s three homeless people who become the titular godfathers. I had already given up on Satoshi Kon after enduring the tedious Millennium Actress and the inexcusably goofy Paprika, but I’m happy to report that Tokyo Godfathers redeems these directorial missteps (at least retroactively in the case of 2006’s Paprika). Almost Altmanesque in its sprawling coincidences, Tokyo Godfathers transcends anime conventions in creating its grim yet hopeful Christmas story.

Taking a cue from Akira Kurosawa’s best works, Kon keeps this yarn purely street level as we follow the three homeless people on their quest to find the mother of an abandoned baby. At first, Kon introduces the principle players as broad sketches that risk stereotypes: Gin the failed alcoholic father, Hana the swishy drag queen, and Miyuki the surly runaway teen. Fortunately, Kon wastes no time launching into more nuanced character development, and my initial negative reaction to these clichés eventually turned to outright sympathy. From each of their vantage points, we witness a knowing and often harrowing slice of homeless life, from the characters having to endure an endless sermon for soup to a brutal scene of young punks beating up Gin to “clean up the streets”. There is a compassionate, sophisticated undertone to this work that upends the usual anime camp.

Kon infuses Tokyo Godfathers with a consistent black humor that keeps the story moving along and the audience off-guard. The death scene of an elderly wino is particularly moving and hilarious at the same time, and I could only wonder at the conflicted emotions it inspired in me. The strange series of scenes that illustrate an obese man’s explanation how he ended up trapped under a car reminded me of Quentin Tarantino’s playful experiments with time sequences.

Yet through its grim prism, Tokyo Godfathers remains doggedly optimistic that a Christmas Miracle will transfigure all the ugliness in this world. And this is where the film ultimately falters. Despite its street smarts, Tokyo Godfathers just felt too naive in its hopeful tone, and one too many coincidences began to weigh the film down. One wince-inducing sequence involves a ridiculous chase scene where a police officer actually allows Hana and Miyuki to jump into his squad car. And I kept wishing Kon would kill the reoccurring hit-you-over-the-head motif of angel wings.

Despite its obvious flaws, Tokyo Godfathers remains a fun ride and a solid addition to the Christmas cinematic canon. The animation is the first rate job that I’ve come to expect from the remarkable Madhouse, arguably the finest animation studio in the business. The alleyways and neon signs of Tokyo’s underbelly are rendered in all their glorious seediness, and provide a jarring contrast to a gangster’s swanky wedding banquet. Though at times Tokyo Godfathers veers a bit close to mawkishness, the film’s gritty sensibility, coupled with one rather horrifying scene involving a delusional woman, prevents things from becoming too cloying and convenient. That is no a small feat when there’s a cute baby enmeshed in the premise.

Yes, it’s an animated talking cat movie. No, it does not suck.  Felidae resembles your average cheaply produced Saturday morning cartoon for the first three minutes or so. Francis is the new cat in the neighborhood, moving into a derelict house with his fat owner, Gus. His voiceover is annoying and cutesy at first, then he discovers a “housewarming present” in the back yard: the mutilated corpse of a European Shorthair named Deep Purple, which may be just one death in an endless chain revolving around a creepy cult that worships an ancient cat seer named Claudandus. After teaming up with a wisecracking Manx named Bluebeard, the two feline gumshoes begin an increasingly disturbing quest through the local underworld in search of the Katzenkiller.

Owing more to giallo horror than to The Aristocats, the atmosphere of dread ramps up around nine minutes in when Francis listens to Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony, then proceeds to have a prophetic surreal nightmare involving a faceless man, a chain, a disintegrating floor, and some good old Hellfire. When he’s not freaking out to classical music, Francis and Bluebeard are being harassed by a grotesquely huge quasi-cat named King and his two eunuch flunkies. The language approaches a Mamet level of hostility if not profanity, with most of the dialogue being tough-guy proclamations (typically involving castration or other bodily harm) or the increasingly trying repetition of the words “smartass” and “asshole”. You get the picture: a script that wouldn’t pass muster even if read by Daniel Day-Lewis, which somehow becomes parodic and paradoxically brilliant when emerging from the mouths of cartoon cats.

The animation and backgrounds are also occasionally gorgeous, even when you’re watching a congregation of brainwashed cat-zealots voluntarily electrocuting themselves, one by one. This is not even close to the most distressing sequence in this short yet potent feature.

As the killer begins to strike more frequently, the body count reaches a hair-raising high in less time than it takes to skin a cat. The level of gore ramps up to Hard-R levels and then some; you’ll see these cartoon pussies decapitated, eviscerated, melted with acid in horrendous drunken experiments, etc. The deaths are shown in such graphic detail that one begins to wonder if the creators’ hatred of cats and/or children was even more immense than the mountains of cocaine that the animators must’ve sucked up. The perfunctory sex scene, occurring after an intense chase sequence, is a hilarious surprise after 45 minutes of crimson-tinged gloominess. Francis runs into a young hussy, rolling seductively on a slum rooftop. Suddenly his ass shoots into the air as cats are wont to do in these situations, and some sexy saxophone music plays. Then there’s 3 seconds of intense humping, followed by 5 minutes of trying to pick your jaw off the fucking floor.

Not to say that this is some Meet the Feebles-like exercise in trying to gross out the audience. In fact, this is a solidly written noir underneath the grue and perversion. Issues such as racial purity, blind obedience (to man and Cat Seers alike), and even the necessity of spaying/neutering eventually come into play. Then of course, comes the climactic battle, full of blood, fire, fury, flying feline fur, followed by a Grand Guignol gutting in loving slow motion. There’s also a pretty badly dated theme song courtesy of Boy George.

So, by this point you’re either offended to the very core or morbidly curious to check out this long-forgotten obscurity. Once only available in Germany or Spain, now an English dubbed version has been posted on YouTube. Francis’ voice actor sounds like a complete douchebag, and there’s the expected downgrade in quality, but at least it’s legally free (for now) so enjoy! Alternately, AVOID if you are a cat person; this last point cannot be stressed enough.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dqZwCxk_vk&feature=related

Like all great films, The Plague Dogs blindsided me. I was expecting a similar kiddie cheesefest ala the enjoyable but lightweight Watership Down, but lemme tell you folks, Marten Rosen’s second adapation of a Richard Adams novel is a whole lot darker affair. The opening is a knockout…a dog is gasping for air as the camera slowly pans back, gradually revealing a horrific scientific experiment. The scientists are measuring how long the dog can paddle water, and then seeing how long he can survive a drowning. They revive him at the last moment, and send him back to his cage.

The dog, Rowf, can’t take this shit anymore, and he says as much. Rowf’s best friend is the slightly mad Snitter, who has a large bandage attached to his head from a neurological experiment, which we can guess was as equally cruel as Rowf’s daily endurance tests. The Plague Dogs ain’t no fun time talking animals flick…this is gruesome, tragic, and often philosophical examination of not just the cruelties of vivisection, but a meditation upon the nature of rebellion, risk, freedom, and even political realities. There is nothing cuddly or fun about these animals, and I can only point to retarded fare such as Madagascar as a sharp contrast to make you appreciate how extraordinary this film is. Sure, these dogs are talking, but there is simply nothing human about them. And that makes Rowf and Snitter all the more sympathetic.

It wouldn’t be a movie without a proper breakout, which is superbly depicted with nerve wracking, edge of your seat panache. The escape smoothly reveals the contrasting personalities of Rowf and Snitter. The more burly and down to earth Rowf, though fed up as Snitter, is terrified of change and taking risks. Snitter, a little off his nut but clever and resourceful, has to verbally browbeat Rowf into escaping. Snitter’s problem is the occasional memory lapse and trouble distinguishing reality from hallucinations, symptoms of his brain being tinkered with. These mental hangups eventually become a serious problem for Snitter, and Rowf becomes the proverbial character kicking the jukebox to get Snitter back into sync. The co-dependency between Rowf and Snitter is never annoying or contrived, but set up as a convincing premise of two dogs desperately trying to help each other survive.

As the fugitives roam the hills of the Lake District, the scientists are desperate to get the dogs back, lest their animal experimentation are exposed. The dogs’ escape becomes a political hot potato, but Rowf and Snitter are obviously not aware of it, or would even understand their importance. The dogs eventually take up with a “tod” (fox), a cryptic, cynical but helpful figure that teaches them the ways of brutal wilderness survival. I was captivated by the unapologetic, natural, and honest tone of these key scenes.

The animation of The Plague Dogs evolved greatly from the scratchy, jerky movements of Watership Down. The character design and landscapes are fluid, and the dogs’ coats shine with a disturbing reality. There are several wonderfully experimental camera angles that look straight out of some New Hollywood flick, and indeed, I would class this dark, nihilistic film as such. (The Plague Dogs came out of 1982, arguably the last year and gasp of the New Hollywood movement). The ending is magnificent, and very much changed from the book. I would say for the better, but that’s an argument for another day.