Found in Translation

The New York Asian Film Festival is arguably most famous for its horror films. As The New Yorker recently documented, a critic staggered out of one of the more gruesome screenings several years ago, emitted a gurgle, and then dropped in a dead faint in the lobby.

This year provided no exception to the high scary quotient. Along with art-house dramas, broad comedies, and martial arts- and Japanese comic-derived movies, the festival featured the likes of Juon: The Grudge, soon to be remade into a Sarah Michelle Gellar vehicle; Doppelganger, about an innocuous engineer whose evil double is taking over his life; and Marronnier, which features a mad genius who turns women into satanic killer dolls.

The rising popularity of "J-Horror" in Hollywood would seem to necessitate a viewing of these movies – but for a few things. First of all, the film-festival program billed Juon thusly: "If you thought The Ring was scary," – and I did, terribly so – "please don't see this movie – we can't afford to cart you out of the theater after you die of fright." And second, my usual viewing partner was not available to be clawed at and climbed like a tree during the course of shriekfest screenings.

Yes, it's true: Your reviewer chickened out completely.

I am happy, however, to report that this failing led to opportunity, and I was thus able to see a number of remarkable films, ones that break away from the usual fare that trickles in to U.S. audiences. There is something to be said for the Asian standards – the sleek gorgeousness of films by Zhang Yimou and Wong Kar-Wai, the kinetic delights of martial-arts movies, the freakishly frightening horror flicks.

But must films from abroad that center on recognizable human emotion, ideas, and characters be lost in translation, barred from our cinemas? These films will be on festival circuits for the rest of the year; I can only hope American distributors pick them up. What a pleasure it is to watch characters in these Asian films eat, brood, weep desperate tears, laugh like real people! They tell us something harrowing or comic or true about everyday love and suffering, without the sensational, marketable trappings of extreme visual ecstasy or horror.

Three of the movies I viewed seemed to take a special joy in slamming different genres together, exploiting slapstick and Buddhist doctrine to talk about morality, and human interaction and engagement. Drive is a delirious Japanese trifle that takes off with a bang when three screaming bank robbers carjack a migraine-prone salaryman. Little do they know that they have picked the absolute worst getaway driver – a compulsive who cannot go a hair above the speed limit. More shrieking, supernatural encounters, and the requisite bonding ensue, with each of the quartet confronting karma and crash-diving his way toward fulfillment over the course of one fateful night. Drive stubbornly refuses to fit into any one filmic convention, and it gives its characters a happiness that is saved from sentimentality by the movie's quirkiness. What could be better for an obsessive-compulsive than riding off into the sunset, right on time, with a lemon drop bulging in your cheek?

Running on Karma, a Hong Kong smash hit, takes a darker tone in its exploration of causality and fate. Former monk turned stripper Big (Andy Lau in a hilarious rubber muscle suit) can see karma. When he meets an earnest cop, he decides to help her work off her bad karma accumulated from a past life. The film is a freaky, genre-bending pop-noir with plenty of good-natured stripper gyrations and Buddhist ruminations from its star. It shouldn't work: It plunges into melodrama, gives its audience gore and a little chopsocky and then wants to have its beefcake and it eat, too, by preaching about nonviolence. But through the sheer joy and madness of its concept, somehow Running on Karma does just that.