Absurdity, in its raunchy street smarts version, becomes an enriching value in cinema. "The Art of Self-Defense" is proof that the direst insatiable watchers can be filled with alternative dark but sensitive comedy. There is no giant Hollywood ambience in the film. Though its hollow energy is actually a windy stance, for when "The Art of Self-Defense" kicks in with its punch-in-the-gut screenplay, the humor and sharp banters are weapons of brain-churning vision.
The story is plain although compellingly noir: one night post-work, accountant Casey Davis (an anxious Jesse Eiesenberg), after buying food for his dog is ambushed by a motorcycle-riding, helmet-clad gang, who might have unloosen the plot early by asking "Do you have a gun?" to the victim before proceeding to maul him. Attentive viewers will distinguish the "twist" instantly during the scene. Cut to black then resume, the traumatized Casey enrolls in a Karate class suspiciously near his home and more curiously happens to attract him as he nurses his disposition due to the violent experience. The class is headed by the black-belt master, addressed arcanely as Sensei only, portrayed by Alessandro Nivalo. He brandishes the martial arts expert with a creepy frigid kinetic. Sensei is wintry to his narrowest fiber that he is almost the mystery in the whole tale, handing out invitations to brutal lessons that are laughable without wearing a Karate belt. But enter Anna (a refreshing Imogen Poots) who is a brown-belt teaching children classes by day. Poots uncages a serious delectability, imposing as a silent assassin yet her growls are chained inside.
"The Art of Self-Defense" is a hybrid of comedy and thriller, bouying along the tropes of self-realization, feminine leadership, and organized crime. Its gripping energy is furnished by the film's dreary undertones. At night, the streets are dim as India ink, just shadowy lines hinting at buildings and houses that never was. During daylight, as Casey and his Karate mates punch with their feet then kick with their fists, the sunshine should be blinding, but the movie is colorized with sapped contrast that there is little difference between twilight and morning.
Being Riley Stearns' first full-length feature, he hones a script as deadly as the crane kick with humorous outbursts that audiences will be knocked out by the flippant morbidity. The writer-director mounts the suspense through tight-knit frames where Casey could barely stuff his cowers. And where darkness looms, there must be a gruesome gag meant to make even the darkest humorists ponder till the crack of dusk tomorrow. There is constant dread lurking, albeit it tickles unrelentingly, so the comical noir begs for air in the form of smartly-honed absurdity. In spite of logic being rare-naked strangled in "The Art of Sense-Defense," the lack thereof is the focal point of the film -- they may know Karate, but those who practice the martial never truly discern what hit them.
Eisenberg as Casey earning his yellow belt in "The Art of Self-Defense" has a dragon in him and lets it out in a staggering shape of a dachsund. By the final minutes, he compiles the clues to rid himself of the Karate-induced fever pitch, uncorking a rabid determination through a hulking German Shepherd. Art is supposed to be interpreted in a multitude of ways; here is a movie that is both art and realism, the dreadful images laughing in the face of the creative fighting-slash-syndicate-forming style known formerly as Karate.
Director: Riley Stearns Image © Universal, Bleecker Street; YouTube.com
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