Some day in the future, someone will write a treatise on the many conventions of the commercial blockbuster in the era of globalization, and they will hit on key elements of the formula: a mash-up of violence with sexual overtones; a heroic protagonist who seeks answers to and resolves that central violence, living on the outside of conventions, and looking damn cool; product placements for McDonald’s, Coke, Red Bull; a seepage of American “cool” aesthetics into everything, everywhere.
And then that someone, basking in the glow of their treatise’s Asimovian precision in explaining all film, will come upon Takashi Miike. And they will see all of the requisite conventions, and the film will still defy any and all commercial sense. Detective Story may somewhere deep down be a conventional serial-killer narrative, but even deeper down it’s got the loony heart of Hammer horror films and its protagonist channels the spirit of Robert Mitchum on mushrooms and while never being horribly gruesome or traditionally gory nonetheless features pureed organs and layers of viscous blood and urine. It is about 1000 times funnier and more enjoyable than every Saw film put together. It isn’t top-drawer Miike, but even as a toss-off its lunatic precision and constant small goofball details and tactics would keep most filmmakers in milk and honey for several films.
I made the mistake of trying to eat some cold pasta while watching the opening scene, with aforementioned pureeing of organs, and damn near lost my lunch, but the movie then settled down for long enough for me to finish eating. It is manic fun, made all the more so by the inclusion of scenes that seem like pure whimsy: the ex-serial killer with the mask and maggots eating at him. Where did he come from? Did he move the plot along? No, but it neatly combined horror, absurdity and humor in one short scene while allowing us to ponder what Anthony Hopkins would have done with that role. The joy that the McDonalds corporation must have had at the product placement in that scene may be tempered by the bloody fingermarks on the large drink just in reach of one wildly twitching bandaged hand.
And why did Kazama’s fingers grow back?
I have no clue–but it now ranks among my favorite blackout closes of a film ever.