On paper, it’s nonsense. In execution, it is pure Dada. Obayashi famously gave his young daughter’s wildest imaginings to the screenwriter. The result is a film that has no interest in "plot" as adults understand it. It is pure, joyful, terrifying id. It is cinema as a collage of magazine cut-outs stapled to a moving train. We live in the age of the Algorithm. Netflix knows what you want to watch before you do. Marvel movies are designed by committee. Even "indie" films now follow a predictable rhythm: quirky opening, mid-point crisis, bittersweet resolution.
Think of Un Chien Andalou (1929)—the ur-text of cinematic Dada. A cloud slicing across the moon. A razor slicing an eyeball. Time jumps. Ants crawling out of a hand. When Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí made it, they deliberately threw out any scene that could be interpreted as symbolic. They wanted no explanation . Movies Dada
That is the Dadaist salute.
In 1916, at the Cabaret Voltaire in Zurich, a group of war-traumatized artists began banging spoons on saucepans and reciting nonsense poems. They called it "Dada." Their mission? To destroy logic, mock bourgeois taste, and remind a world gone mad with order that chaos was the only honest response. On paper, it’s nonsense
One hundred years later, walk into any multiplex. You see the same three-act structures, the same quippy dialogue, the same redemptive arcs, and the same predictable jump scares. Hollywood has perfected the grammar of cinema to the point of suffocation. The result is a film that has no