In addition to what I wrote previously, I would say my second viewing of Uncle Boonmee definitely helped to solidify the feeling of ongoing class tension and resentment going on in Thailand. However, it does so without mean-spirited self-righteousness. Despite their classist attitudes, both Uncle Boonmee and Auntie Jen feel like compassionately realized characters. Weerasethakul understands their biases, even if he does not accept them, and works hard to demonstrate that having these attitudes does not make you not a human being. Because of the strict structure of the Thai government, much of what he has to say must be veiled in metaphor, or hinted at obliquely through small patches of dialogue.
There are two mirroring sequences, one of a Thai princess and the other of a modern-day Buddhist monk, in which the characters remove the social and cultural signifiers of their status and are then reborn as normal people. These suggest, to me, Weerasethakul's desire, which is in stark contrast to much of the Thai cinema I've seen, to embrace modernity and a new set of values. But, surprisingly, he does this while still maintaining a connection to Thai roots and avoiding romanticizing (or villifying) metropolitan areas like Bangkok. He recognizes the strength and beauty of the forests and rural areas of his country, while still being willing to question the way traditional values have been twisted to create a controlling government. A flashback evocative of both 2001 and La Jetee suggests a future where those who disagree with the government are made to disappear, their lives projected onto a flickering screen until they are forgotten. Upon first viewing, I was baffled by this long sequence and what he was suggesting. Now, on contemplation and another viewing, it seems obvious he is talking specifically about censorship of film and media. The way those who disagree are forced to hide their stories and ideas in the media world, but can even then only put them in when they are obscured almost beyond recognition.
But even these struggles are not the main thrust of the film. Merely one facet of a movie that also meditates on the nature of mortality. The title, Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives, suggests concepts about Buddhist reincarnation. This much is true, as we do see Uncle Boonmee's life first as a cow, then as the aforementioned Thai princess. Other past lives are hinted at. But more than just this more expected (and, for what it is, literal) definition of past lives, the film also recognizes that our memories are, in a way, our past lives -- that within our brain are millions of past lives, almost like movies, and we can recall the ways in which we have changed and progressed. This, I think, is part of what encapsulates what is great about the movie: something so simple attains a kind of revelatory status, merely by being shown in a way that hasn't been before. Long, unbroken, almost actionless takes reflect the presumed feelings that, when one knows he/she is approaching the end of his/her life, each moment seems memorable and worthy of consideration -- that there is no more time to move fleetingly through life. Because it takes its time, these moments are also memorable to the viewer, sticking out long after other, faster and less careful, films are forgotten. Honey, dialysis, dinner, all these words (and likely more that I can't think of at the moment) suggest moments of a life that is rendered unforgettable, regardless of its fiction, by the power Weerasethakul invests in it.
There is also, in a way, a sense of tension and dread about the movie. While I think he is completely uninterested in the idea, many aspects show that Weerasethakul is capable of making an extremely taut and terrifying horror/suspense film. That he melds these easily and casually with the many other aspects of his filmmaking is a testament to his skill and craft. The film transitions gracefully from hazy, dreamlike idyll to a kind of haunting, unexpected tension. He could take a place next to (Kiyoshi) Kurosawa as a master of spellbinding, uncomfortable exercises in modern life examination. But Weerasethakul is more sardonic, more bemused by modern living than the clearly frightened and offput Kurosawa (who is not without a sardonic himself, it should be mentioned). Perhaps it comes from the difference in their upbringing. The stereotypes about the two countries are wildly different, with Thai people known for their friendly easy-going nature, while Japan is more notorious for a kind of polite rigidity. In any case, the two are probably not worth spending all this time comparing, but they do share a small spat of similarity I thought it worth noting. And, as always, I am never quite sure how to end these things. This is good enough, I suppose.
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