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There’s a naive charm to this second feature by Bhutanese director Pawo Choyning Dorji that initially might be misconstrued as patronizing in nature, but Dorji obviously knows whereof he writes and the wit and warmth of the presentation are so effective that the movie, regardless of how reductive it may seem, wins you over. Like It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World without the slapstick, The Monk and the Gun follows half a dozen comic plotlines in parallel until all converge in the end, and each story is so carefully measured against the principal theme—how difficult it is to “learn” democracy—that the conclusion has the force of an epiphany, even though it’s more of a joke. 

Set in 2006, when the king of Bhutan abdicated so that his nation could adopt a republican-style system and become “a truly modern country,” the central event is a mock election that is meant to teach democratic principles to a skeptical populace, most of which loved their monarch and thought the old system was just fine as it was. We see election workers preparing citizens for the vote, potential candidates already gearing up for future campaigns, and the hoi polloi discussing whether all the fuss is really worth it. Amidst all this business two lines of intrigue are introduced. In the first, an elderly Buddhist lama (Kelsang Choejay) in a mountain monastery, after hearing that the king is stepping down, orders one of his monks, Tashi (Tandin Wangchuk), to acquire two guns without stating why he needs them. In the second, an English interpreter, Benji (Tandin Sonam), meets an antique gun collector, Ron (Harry Einhorn), at the airport to help him track down a rare American Civil War-era rifle that was one of many imported to Bhutan during its own war with Tibet in the 19th century. You don’t need to be Stanley Kramer to predict that the pahts of these two firearms seekers will cross, but while we understand Ron’s reason for wanting the gun, the lama’s remains unknown. Tashi is just doing what he’s told, and not only doesn’t know his master’s purposes, but he has never seen a gun before. It isn’t until he stops at a way station for refreshment (“black water” = Coke) and sees 007 on TV in the anteroom brandishing a machine gun that he understands the purpose of the thing he seeks. Meanwhile, the election officials are becoming increasingly frustrated with the attitudes of the king’s subjects, who either believe that voting is inherently divisive (“You aren’t supposed to like the other side”) or are already cultivating a cynical attitude toward political gamesmanship. 

Dorji masterfully orchestrates these different vectors with dialogue that is comically precise and revelatory. When Tashi manages to snag the prize gun before Benji and Ron can get the money they promised to the owner (who first refuses their offer of $75,000, thinking it “too much,” and finally gives in to $32,000) he is puzzled when the pair offers him the same amount for the gun. “I don’t need money,” he says. “I just need the gun.” Though this kind of cultural dysphoria is common in such movies, Dorji delivers it without the condescending baggage that usually comes with it. In fact, the encounter says more about America’s, not to mention the West’s, attitude toward tools of destruction than it does about any perceived backwardness on the part of the Bhutanese. If anything, The Monk and the Gun is as much about the primacy of common sense as it is about the pitfalls of politics. 

In Dzongkha and English. Opens Dec. 13 in Tokyo at Human Trust Cinema Yurakucho (03-6259-8608), Shinjuku Musashinokan (03-3354-5670). 

The Monk and the Gun home page in Japanese

photo (c) 2023 Dangphu Dingphu: A 3 Pigs Production & Journey to the East Films Ltd. 

According to Japanese government statistics cited at the beginning of this documentary, about 42,000 children in Japan require “protective care.” Half of these minors live in “children’s homes,” which are not foster homes or orphanages, but they are nevertheless “living separately from” their parents. The reasons vary and include death, illness, abuse, and “financial issues.” The movie basically goes inside one of these children’s homes in Tokyo and profiles several residents who range in age from seven to 14 and also includes one who is about to depart the facility and another who already has. According to regulations, the children must leave the home once they turn 18 (though under special circumstances they can extend their stay). The filmmakers do not mask the faces of the children profiled nor the employees who work in the home, though not much else is revealed about them, and that’s for a reason. Society tends to discriminate against these children because they are growing up in such a facility. 

The bulk of screen time is given over to interviews with the children: how they go about their everyday lives and how they feel about their situation, including their relationships with whatever family members they are in contact with (or, for that matter, not in contact with), as well as their interactions with the staff of the home and students at their schools (they attend regular public schools). They are perceptive and smart, and understand their situation very well. As one child puts its, “What’s normal here is not normal for most people.” The most pressing problem for them is coping with the world once they turn 18 and have to support themselves. Though they have the opportunity to attend university just like anyone else, they obviously don’t have access to the kinds of resources afforded to children who live with their parents, and thus are at a disadvantage when it comes to higher education. 

Director Ryo Takebayashi says in the production notes that he hopes the movie becomes a “good luck charm” for the children he filmed, understanding that they may struggle after they leave the facility. He thinks if they relive the moments he captured then they can “realize they always had the strength to overcome difficulties.” He also wants viewers to see things “they’ve never noticed before, even though they were right under our noses.” In order to protect the children he and the producers have limited the documentary’s exposure to theatrical screenings, meaning no streaming and no physical media for either sale or rent. In addition, the media outlets who report on the movie are asked to include as little information about the children or the facility as possible. All these restrictions fall within the purview of the production but defeat whatever edifying mission the filmmakers have in mind for the material. If these children are so readily subjected to discrimination because of where they grew up, the source of that discrimination should be addressed by the film instead of just being tacitly assumed. When you hide all the particulars of the “children’s home” system, it becomes impossible to discuss anything meaningful about these children’s situation. There is no input from the government officials who authorize the system (which prioritizes the prerogatives of parents, even those who have abused their offspring), nor any comments from social workers whose job it is to place these children in the facility. It’s understandable why parents and others who may have had a hand in the children living in the home do not want to be interviewed or even mentioned, but that doesn’t mean the filmmakers can’t explain what’s behind these decisions in a general way and why exactly these children have to put up with such terrible prejudices. In the end, the documentary is a well-meaning attempt to inform the public of the existence of these facilities, but without understanding why and how they exist, the children become merely victims of a social environment that has failed them. 

In Japanese. Opens Dec. 6 in Tokyo at Kino Cinema Shinjuku (03-5315-0978), Shibuya Parco White Cine Quinto (03-6712-7225).

A Big Home home page in Japanese

If you’re not into virtual reality, you may need time to adjust to the visual environment of this documentary feature by French filmmakers Ekiem Barbier, Builhem Causse, and Quentin L’Helgouac’h, since it all takes place within the computer game DayZ, specifically the titular post-apocalyptic “place” within the game where zombies roam and the once civilized landscape is returning to nature. The filmmakers’ avatars are dressed in combat gear and flak vests with the word “Press” stenciled on them. They wander around trying to interview gamers who have formed groups of their own. These groups may have purposes within the scope of the game, but the trio’s mission is to go beyond the game’s “story” to find out how and why these people have left “real life” to socialize within a virtual world with people they will never meet face-to-face. It’s a tricky proposition, especially given the fact that, basically, DayZ is a violent game and everyone is carrying guns that can “kill” you. If it seems as if I’m laying the scare quotes on thick, the problem in describing the doc is that the rules of the game are never laid out and so it’s difficult to get a purchase on the logic of its appeal as a pastime before you need to address it as a venue where people live second lives.

This surreal aspect is made apparent right from the start. The first encounter the three “journalists” make is with a vigilante crew called Dark As Midnight, whose philosophy is gleefully nihilistic. “What do we value?” says the nominal leader, a woman with a North American accent. “I don’t give a fuck.” As Barbier talks to the masked woman and her acolytes, a half-naked male prisoner they call “the princess” lies on a table waiting to be tortured, presumably. Though it’s obvious the members of the group are taking the piss with regard to Barbier’s questions about their moral purview, their idea of “fun” is to kill, and that’s why they’re there. “It’s a playground,” one points out. At the other end of the intention spectrum is a religious cult that worships a god called Dagoth headed by a cowboy-hatted “reverend” who we eventually learn is a Finnish massage therapist in real life. Over the course of the movie, which represents 963 hours of the filmmakers’ presence on the island, they will encounter the reverend several times, extracting more about his relationship to the game and why he spends so much time here. “It’s good to disappear,” he says at one point, though he’s keenly aware that he can be usurped by VR and lose himself. A husband-and-wife team, who are based in Berlin and mostly visit the game to surround themselves with the kind of nature they used to enjoy when they lived in Australia, can be heard tending to an unseen child back in their apartment as they explain why they spend every waking hour in DayZ when they are not at work. Another man, a Canadian transplanted to South Africa, describes the game as something akin to “my local pub,” a pastime within a pastime. 

The prosaic responses to the trio’s puzzled inquiries about the nature of these participants’ involvement in the game indicate a desire for a new way to connect with others. Much of the “filming” was done during the pandemic, and some of the journalists’ interlocutors are under lockdown back in their homes (which are suggested at the end with actual footage of views from their windows). Knit’s Island thus also becomes literally a place to escape to. At one point, several of the people with whom the trio has made friends accompany them to find the edge of the island, which is featureless, just endless rolling hills of grass. The creators of the game have obviously thought of everything, including the infinitude of space. Despite the movie’s title, no game is an island. 

In English and French. Now playing in Tokyo at Theater Image Forum Aoyama (03-5766-0114).

Knit’s Island home page in Japanese