Seattle International Film Festival ’09: Hachiko: A Dog’s Story

Hachi: A Dog's Tale
ZERO STARS/****
starring Richard Gere, Joan Allen, Sarah Roemer, Jason Alexander
screenplay by Stephen P. Lindsey
directed by Lasse Hallström

by Jefferson Robbins SPOILER WARNING IN EFFECT. It's better than Marley & Me, but so's a Tasering. At least the title alerts you up front to the presence of a dog in this Lasse Hallström movie–the latest Japanaptation, after Shall We Dance, to star serial sentimentalist Richard Gere. As a lifelong mutt owner, I'm unimpressed by stories of fierce canine loyalty and homing instinct. The dog hears your train coming and runs to meet you? That's because he knows you're gonna feed him, you ass. The dog that persists for a whole decade after you're dead, however, could be called obsessive and stupid, not loving and noble. But because it's a G-rated movie based on a Japanese film (Hachiko Monogatari) that was in turn "based on a true story," producer/star Gere demands that your throat tighten. (This even as Hallström shoots Hachiko's POV in an alienating low-angle Cujovision.) Our famous Buddhist reluctantly adopts a lost Akita pup at his commuter railway station, unaware that this particular hound was whelped and shipped direct from a Nippon monastery, fated to shadow him through his earthly turn on the karmic wheel and beyond. That's the judgment of Gere's wise Japanese co-worker (Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa), who doubles as his kanji interpreter and kendo partner. (Offscreen, he no doubt instructs his friend in the tea ceremony, shiatsu, and how to make those cool ninja smoke bombs.) The dog must be magic: it arrives in Gere's Northeastern hamlet of "Bedridge" (you're shitting me) while the Christmas lights are hanging, just in time for the 1996 World Series. This film does for continuity what my dogs do for my lawn, it doesn't care enough about its supporting characters to name them aloud, and it even misidentifies Hachiko's breed. Gere's music professor composes the kind of faux-Vivaldi piano twinkles (courtesy Jan A.P. Kaczmarek) that grace the soundtracks of…well, of Lasse Hallström films; his work is so crucial that he ignores loyal Hachi's warning to stay home on the day he's bound to die. Not that it would've helped–if he can't be saved upon collapsing in a crowded university lecture hall, what are the odds he'd ride out a stroke reading NEWSWEEK on his own crapper? Too bad Hachi's owner showed so little concern in kind, letting him wander for years, leashless and untagged, through the town's busiest streets. Hachiko is the perfect illustration of George Lucas's alleged rule of cinematic emotionalism: if you want your audience to cry, kill a cute animal. It's instructive, in light of Hachiko, to revisit Hallström's 1985 breakthrough My Life As A Dog. In each, a grown man engages in barking to get into his wife's knickers. Also? Both films suck, and Hallström hasn't improved one lick since the first dog he murdered to make us cry.