Funky Forest: The First Contact (2005)

Frank and Flip-Flop are getting onto a bus in Tel-Aviv when they hear the explosion. They were on their way to a Shlomo’s rent-a-camel place anyway, so they just looked at each other in mute concern and booked, never looking back. The blast had been in the city but distant, probably 20 blocks, or on the other side of the world in Middle Eastern terms.

When they got on the road towards Ein Gedi, Frank flipped on the car radio for news and Flip translated. She said there was no news of any violence in the city. Of course, she may have just been covering up. A little embarrassed or self conscious, about the unquiet in her homeland. Not speaking an ounce of Hebrew (except, “Shalom,” “Kaki,” and “Hatoul.” All of which he got plenty of mileage out of.), for all Frank, knew the whole world may be in chaos, cities burning, army’s clashing.

So what better place to go when with WWIII raging, than the West Bank?

The Dead Sea is quite simply a trip. A head trip.

Frank had been told you could float on the Dead Sea, but he had not been told that you had to. No choice. The water at almost 10 x the salinity of the ocean literally pushes you out. Walking ankle deep is profound, with the water repelling your feet at each steep. Easily overcome but a unique feeling nonetheless. Once sufficiently submerged, the sea takes over, spitting you back unto the surface any time your guard is down, which is often as you loose balance, cutting your feet on the jagged salt crystals making up the bottom of the sea.

And oily? No one ever warned you the Dead Sea is slimy.

Hadassah says that its changed a lot, with diversion of water away from the already puny Jordan River ever increasing, and the sea dropping a meter or so annually. The water is below what once was the beach, and you have to climb down a rocky slope, and cross a field of more crystals before hitting the water.

Back up at the beach, frying in the sun like turkey bacon in a pan (but non-stick, thanks to the oily water) Frank checks his email, and is delighted that no one back at work is having a crisis. He does get a message from Angry Jamie with his  must-see movie picks, many of which he’s seen, such as the over-hyped (not without reason) Exit Through the Gift Shop (Banksy 2011) or the perplexingly entertaining bad zombie flick, Dead Snow (Wirkola 2009), and the drab retro-styled House of the Devil (West 2009).

The one that sparks his interest, though, is an odd Japanese pastiche, entitled Funky Forest: The First Contact (Ishii, Ishimine and Miki 2005). This one is news to him, and it is soon zipping its way through his download queue. After all, the hostel they were staying in, though satisfyingly simple and offering fantastic views across the sea to Jordan also had only local Israeli TV.  It was released on DVD by Viz in March 2008; but for those of you wanting a slightly more legal way to purchase, act fast, Amazon seems to have only 17 left in stock right now.

Funky Forest, to Frank and Flip curled up together on a metal cot watching Frank’s little lap top screen, did not disappoint in that it was totally disappointing. Jamie offered the selection as one some-trippy-shit-movie-to-watch-while-you’re-fucked-out-of-your-mind. Frank was comfortable after some Mogen David and vicodin (after a17-hour plane ride JFK-TLV and a tumble over a wall, his back was killing him). But apparently not in a state to really appreciate Funky Forest which requires psychedelic mushrooms and Sudafed and Thunderbird to even begin to guess at its meaning.

First and foremost, it’s long. Two and a half hours, this is really way too long to be incomprehensible. Honestly. Unless you are of course in some mind-bent stupor. Heroin or oxycontin would be best, something that would allow hours of headache free dead attention that you may or may not remember after.

The film is a conglomeration of numerous vignettes, musical and comedy numbers, animation etc. these range from droll little conversations between secretaries to extracting things from bellybuttons and televisions with rectums. The scenes in this latter are straight out of Naked Lunch (Cronenberg 1991), without the thin semblance of a plot. Funky Forest is, in short, a lot like the Dead Sea. It’s an odd thing, and it pushes you away rather than try to draw you in.

But it is oddly entertaining in that Japanese-British way of sticking average button down people into bizarre situations.

Still, if you require a plot, don’t go straying into the Funky Forest, and probably stop reading this blog, whose attempts at both story telling and movie review are tenuous at best.

Funky Forest takes a good deal of the night, followed by some restless hours on the cot as the vicodin wears off. But Frank and Hadassah were up early to se the sun rise over Jordan, before scaling Masada, which is a wonder in its own right, and subject for a blog of another day.

Shalom, kaki shel hatoul!

Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (1975)

Francis Trautman and Hadassah Pomegranate were touring the petting zoo in the village of Kafr Al Shams in the Golan Heights when the trouble began.

Specifically Flip Flop was trying to help separate bunnies from snakes in the reptile house; while conversely Graveyard Frank had been trying to decipher which restroom, the one marked with a bunny or a gorilla was right for him. He had given up and was now explaining to a little girl by the fish pond how the Israeli catfish had little payot instead of whiskers. She was asking why the little tref were bottom feeders (and Frank was resisting telling her that they were looking for loose change) when it happened.

Frank looks away from the pool when he hears a commotion at the fence, which was backed up against the Syrian border. A crowd had gathered on the other side and was working at the links with wire cutters. Those milling in the zoo began to yell and high tail it to the exit. Frank scooped up the little girl and shoved her into the arms of a screaming couple coming toward him. I hope those were her parents, he thinks quickly then turns to look for Flip.

It was perfect addition to their trip, already cut short by the jet fuel shortage at Ben-Gurion. It had been initially blamed on the Palestinians (it you followed the tweet-scene) but turned out to be a fuck up by some contractor. By the time it was cleared up it was Shabbat. No travel, of course. But they got in in time for Yom Hazikaron; it was now a leisurely Yom Ha'atzmaut.

Frank spots flip shoving a snake back into its cage. A section of fence is down and 20 to 25 Arabs are streaming through, chanting something or other. Frank doesn’t know or care what it specifically is, it seems angry and that’s all he cares about. Then the rocks start flying. The plan is to grab Flip and get the hell out of al-Dodge before stones turn into Molotov cocktails.

Of course as in many places, there is no lack of IDF about. In the spirit of the holiday, they had no small amount of equipment laid out for demonstration, mostly for the benefit of the kids who’ll all (more or less) be picking up arms in defense of the Jewish state when they reach eighteen. Or the old folks curious to see how the gear has advanced since the Enfield rifles they had been toting in 1948 or the Kalash in 1967. Now it’s noonish and many are lazing in the grass eating kebabs and pita. They drop the grub and grab their sparkly new Tavor bullpups and advance on the scene. To their credit they fire over the heads of the intruders trying to scare them back across the border.  

Frank fights against the tide to the reptile house. As more and more pour through the fence. Given the black head scarves and green, black, red and white flags some carry, tourist Frank assumes they are Palestinians though he’s not sure why they are steaming out of Syria.

The ugly bruiser that stands between him and Flip Flop wears a Code Pink T-shirt (“Arrest the War Criminals”). “Nice shirt” Frank chirps as he brushes past him, too late to notice the brick he pulls out of his satchel and bashes him over the head. Frank is aware of collapsing over a stone wall into the goat enclosure before blacking out.

While out Frank dreams he is…one of the hapless victims in Pier Paolo Pasolini’s 1975 snuff-epic, Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom. It’s out on blue ray October 4 so you can catch all the senseless rape and coprophagia in crystal clarity…of course the dismal, muted film stock is really kind of the point of it all but whatever. The stills available online are spectacular.

In any case, some artsy friends had invited them to an advance screening in Tel Aviv at Universitat. Seems the young, much like Pasolini himself, thought they could find some understanding of the fascist horrors of the works of deSade.  If flip flop had any idea what this film was about she would have said, “No.”

Of course, guilt of not telling her (his curiosity was admittedly piqued by the event. After all, who would show and what would they think?) led to the unfortunate dream of violation and depravity.

Frank is a film buff. He get’s what Pasolini was going for. It’s so bleak its almost fitting he was killed shortly after finishing it. Anyway, if you want a bit more lighthearted adaptation of deSade, try Jan Svankmajer’s Lunacy (2007). It still has a little edge, but some whimsical animation to boot.

When he comes to, Code Pink is going through his messenger bag and looking disappointed to find a mess of post cards and a stuffed camel for his nephew. Flip has come behind, when he hears her he turns and begins to stand, but flip delivers a quick right hook. “Layla Tov.” She smirks as he splays out in the dirt. Krav maga is a wonderful-thing.

But Frank better warn her about Salo before she Krav maga’s him.

Later Frank’s head is bandaged, most of the protesters have been herded back into Syria, and a few squadrons are combing the hills for stragglers. He gives a quick sound bite to Mabat which is soon on the scene. Frank doubts you will see any of this on MSNBC.