This big blind white guy, the recovering alcoholic Larry Lewis, walks into a Jiu-Jitsu class on Mayfield Road just west of Warrensville Center and falls in with Darren Branch, the little black guy who runs the place. On the side, Darren is some kind of petty criminal in league with a skinny pale boy (a nicely pasty Andris Brunovskis) with a jones for nunchucks. Darren and Andris take Larry to a strip club where a tall blonde drink of water named Candy gives him a lap dance. That’s where Aardvark, written and directed by Kitaro Sakurai, gets complicated – as if it isn’t already, what with Lewis and Branch playing themselves, Jessica Cole playing Candy, and Brunovskis’ character never named. But I get ahead of myself, as does Sakurai’s movie.
What begins as a commentary on friendship becomes a mystery that coagulates into an impenetrable ball of wax. The talented Sakurai, who bit off more than he can chew here, has devised a series of ever-receding MacGuffins. Aardvark is tense. It’s dramatic. But it’s also frustrating. What did Darren do that got him killed? Why do he and Andris smash windows in an abandoned warehouse? Does Larry subdue Candy Jiu-Jitsu style or rape her, as her screams indicate? What the hell is that scarlet bar behind the upholstery warehouse on Lee Road where Larry goes to find out who killed Darren? Why did the little girls in the final scene not jump out of their skins?
Perhaps Aardvark is postmodern mash-up, a non-linear masterpiece. My take is it lacks coherence despite magnetic performances by its principals, particularly Lewis and Cole. Sakurai was onto something at the start, when Larry learns to defend himself through Jiu-Jitsu even as Darren defaults to boxing, more orthodox violence and sex with a pillow. Exploring the distance between the two might have made for a more modest, far deeper movie. Aardvark is a testimonial to cheap thrills, shot in Cleveland, throbbing with intermittently cool music by the New York band Falling on a Sword.
✭✭
Reviews are scored on a four-star scale
