BRICK

BRICK
Written and Directed by Rian Johnson

To call Rian Johnson's debut feature BRICK overslick is an understatement. The film bursts at the seams with coded, almost indecipherable dialogue and performances that dangerously veer to the realms of pantomime, invoking the spirits of WEST SIDE STORY and CASABLANCA. While BRICK has disparate elements of those aforementioned films, it is perhaps most true to the single most maligned genre in film history: the film noir.

Hollywood's idea of what they consider noir cinema is rooted in the myopic base translation of the word: black film. Films that are shot in the dark, covered in shadows and decrepitude, and dealing with grisly subjects blindly get slapped with the term noir. While it can be verified that film noir does contain a lot of those elements, there is something much deeper to the genre, something which hasn't been tapped since the 60s and 70s.

Watch noir films like LE SAMOURAI (which I personally consider to be the greatest noir film ever made), RIFIFI, TOUCH OF EVIL, THE MALTESE FALCON and THE THIRD MAN and you'll see something else is at play. Much like the cowboy western, the protagonists of film noir run their lives according to a strict set of laws, or credo. The difference is that with cowboys, the credo is based in altruism, and the credo of hard boiled detective in film noir is based in something far more troubling: obsession. This is the heart of noir cinema.

Rian Johnson gets this, and to demonstrate his understanding of the genre, he sets BRICK within sunny Southern California, with nary a shadow in sight. Rather than plumbing the depths of sewers, seedy alleys and warehouses, Johnson's atmosphere is an affluent suburban high school. These choices establish that the darkness of noir comes from within the characters, and not the surroundings. Whether deliberate or not, it is a master stroke by Johnson, whose focus on character is marvelous. He really, really knows what he's doing.

We start the film with the living hell that is the life of the gumshoe, the hard boiled detective embodied within loner and perpetual outsider Brendan Frye, played with ferocious precision by Joseph Gordon Levitt. Brendan Frye is too smart for his own good, and when the girl he loved shows up dead, his obsession to consummate a love he never had takes over him and he will not relent in his pursuit of the girl's killer.

Frye investigates the entire social strata of the American high school set, from the privileged rich kids to the low life stoners. His approach is tough and direct- he knows that to ascertain the truth from fake people, he must bring out their real persona. Frye does this by irritation, by dogged persistence, by clever rebuttal, and he pays the price for such tenacity. He is beaten, broken, and shattered, and he wears his bloodstains and scars as a reminder of his obsession. Like the true hard boiled detective, he won't let a few bruises stand in his way- he will get his man, and if he has to he will die trying.

Frye's journey takes him to the realm of seedy characters who all have ulterior motives. Their names are equally ambiguous- Dode, Tug, Tangles, Biff and The Pin. The only person Frye can trust is his sidekick, the school genius known only as The Brain, who helps him decipher clues and give him the low down. Frye shows little appreciation for anyone, and he knows investing too much in someone could cost him dearly, that is, until he meets a dame named Laura...

I love this stuff. BRICK is a throwback to classic pulp, it lives within a universe populated by scumbags, whores and bastards. It takes itself seriously and laughs at itself at the same time, occasionally reminding us that we are still watching high school kids doing nothing but fucking around. It is a taught yarn, and the dramatic conclusion is one that hits you like...well, hits you like a brick. The brilliant script is aided by Johnson's keen eye for visuals and his inventiveness with the camera and the soundtrack. Cinematographer Steve Yedlin and composer Larry Seymour help create a world of shadows without using overtly harsh light- the atmosphere of BRICK is one thick with miasma, and not literal shadows. The film may not have the stereotypical look of noir but it sure as hell feels like it, and then some.

And a few words about Joseph Gordon Levitt. He is, in my opinion, one of the finest actor of his generation. He is intelligent, he lives in his part, and most importantly, he is fearless. His performance in BRICK is flawless and terrifying, and we are witnessing a performer who is nowhere near the height of his powers. With BRICK and his previous film, the amazing MYSTERIOUS SKIN (one of the best movies I've seen in a long, long time), Gordon Levitt is on his way to building an impressive body of work. He deserves to be recognized, and I stated it before and I'll state it again: he is the next Sean Penn, the next Robert DeNiro. High praise for a guy who was the least appreciated element of 3RD ROCK FROM THE SUN.

BRICK is one of those films that has divided audiences. You either love it or you hate it, and there is little to no middle ground. But that is what classic noir is- straightforward, a descent into madness, a one way ticket to a personal hell. There is no other direction but down, and those looking for redemption need not apply. This is the stuff of nightmares, and when executed properly and with respect, it's one of the most beautiful things in the world to witness. BRICK is no exception.

Filmcraft: ACTING LESSON WITH NICOLE KIDMAN

As a director it is my responsibility to give my actors the best tools and information I can for them to make informed choices about their characters. There are several components to this- back story, spine, allegory, and relativity among others. A skilled actor has the intellectual and observational capacity to draw on their life experiences or the experiences of others to extract the truth of the moment from said information. It is a skill that requires courage and panache- the actor is baring her emotions and inner demons to the public, which is terrifying, and she must also deliver the truth in a way that is compelling. It's too easy to act through histrionics and hand gesticulation- the best actors make choices that are subtle, choices that don't involve dialogue, screaming or tears. They use the only instrument they have- their bodies- and they use it masterfully.

Now I've seen many great performances by many great actors who employ this art, but over and over again I return to this particular performance by Nicole Kidman in the film BIRTH as the paramount example of the actor's craft.

BIRTH, directed by Jonathan Glazer, was an uneven film and based on a wobbly script, but it is worth a watch for Kidman's performance. Hers is an exercise in subtlety, of demonstrating the small physical choices that an actor must make to tell a story in the most compelling and affecting way possible. It is an amazing performance, and worthy of our time and study.

Before you view this clip of the film, here's a little back story. Kidman plays Anna, a New York socialite who has been struck with a tremendous tragedy- her young husband, Sean, has died. Time passes, and Anna attempts to move on in a new life and love, when suddenly a mysterious young boy shows up and wishes to speak to Anna. He tells her that he is Sean. Naturally, Anna dismisses the boy, but the boy begins to reveal truths of her relationship with Sean that only she and her deceased husband would know. She still refuses to believe the boy, as she cannot accept whatever supernatural logic that may be at play.

In this scene Anna goes to the opera with her lover. She is still contemplating the boy, as to whether or not he is really her dead husband. Watch:



Quite an unusual shot, no?

If you have come this far, try watching the clip again, this time placing yourself within the mindset of the character. Look at the small, subtle choices that Kidman makes, and be aware that we are privy to the transition of her thoughts.

We begin with Anna's complete distraught and disbelief that her husband may very well be alive in the body of a child. She is confused, maligned, torn between reality and possibility.

We then see her move to reasoning, forcing logic to conform to what she wants most- for her beloved husband to be alive again. She is in the process of convincing herself, of rewriting science and philosophy.

Finally, we see acceptance- she is willing to believe her new logic. There is relief and anticipation- she wants to see Sean again. She looks off to the side, no longer interested in the opera or the company of her lover. She has found love again, and she wants to be there.

Imagine the complexity of piecing this performance together, of what Kidman had to draw upon to expose herself to such raw emotion with a camera right in her face, recording every tic and gesture. If you don't think this is difficult, stand in front of a mirror and try acting out the progression I've just described, without saying a word. It's frustrating as hell to pull it off successfully.

Kidman puts equity in small nuances because she understands the format. She is in extreme close-up with a wide lens, so she knows that even the smallest movement will translate huge on the screen. She shows remarkable restraint, limiting her movement to her mouth and eyes, conveying confusion and discovery with instinctual reactions.

And that's the key word here- reaction. Kidman is not acting out the process of information, she's reacting to it, just as you or I would were we to be in such a predicament in real life. She allows herself to be emotionally available to the information presented to her by the director and the script- she's not judging the information, rather she's allowing it to attack her. This requires tremendous vulnerability and trust, and is indicative of the bond between actor and director, and the actor and the material.

The lesson imparted here for both actors and directors is the faith in instincts, or the ability to react to information truthfully and honestly. One cannot argue with the truth, and when it is parlayed so convincingly and so naked, it speaks to all of us in a universal fashion. We cannot help but be moved by it. Once mastered and understood, it is an art whose power is rivaled by few.

Nicole Kidman won Oscar praise for her myriad other performances, but it is this performance that shows her skill. As a director I am humbled to see acting like this, and it gives me something to strive for. To me, there is no greater joy than seeing actors execute at the height of their powers. It is a rush unlike any other, both for the performer and we the audience. We need more of it.

LOST BUILDINGS

LOST BUILDINGS
Written by Ira Glass and animated by Chris Ware

I'm going to say something that will make me sound like a hipster even though I'm about as far away from even being associated with the term "hip." I love NPR's THIS AMERICAN LIFE, and I've loved it since it ever came on the air here in Chicago. Nyah. Tblpptpt. Hipsters who revel in its quirky stories will claim the same, that they knew about it before anyone else, but dammit I was there a long time ago. My claim is for real- I've been an avid NPR listener since freshman year of high school (I'm 31- you do the math). Just had to get that off my chest.

Every year I call in and pledge support for my public radio and television stations, and every year they send me some cool little gift in return. Last year I got a set of tumblers, and this year I was supposed to get tickets to the Ravinia festival. Unfortunately they had run out of tickets, so they sent me a book instead. Good things happen for a reason, and what I received was one of the most startling and beautiful books / films I'd ever seen.

It was a lovely little book called LOST BUILDINGS, and it was accompanied with a DVD that featured a 22-minute story written by Ira Glass, writer and host of THIS AMERICAN LIFE, and features animation by Chicago's resident reluctant genius Chris Ware, he of JIMMY CORRIGAN fame. The story was of the real-life exploits of Tim Samuelson, who as a young boy became obsessed with the buildings of Louis Sullivan, one of Chicago's premiere architects and creator of some of the most stunning structures the world had ever seen. As Tim grows up he becomes exposed to the realities of urban development, and spirals into horror and despair as he sees developers tear down Sullivan buildings and replace them with behemoth steel skyscrapers. Tim joins an impassioned group of people who dedicate their lives to saving Chicago's buildings, and finds camaraderie with one gentleman in particular. Their enthusiasm and shared joy of Sullivan buildings comes literally crashing down on them, and the story is punctuated with a tragic sense of what we hold dear as a society, and our ideological divide in our valuation of art.

Ira Glass' intelligent writing and narration brings an immediacy and humanity to the subject, deferring to Samuelson in the correct balance between interview and story. The audio is accentuated by the soundtrack, featuring a guitar rendition of Philip Glass' amazing masterpiece 'Mishima.'

But the real star here is Ware's artwork. Every frame of the 300 illustrations on this DVD are meticulously drawn, and the architecture of Louis Sullivan is lovingly reproduced through the eyes of Samuelson, as both a boy and adult. Ware has given mythic significance to these buildings, while also providing a human context to the brick, mortar, plaster and steel. The intimacy, elaborate framing, and pacing of the three elements- narration, music, and image- is simply immaculate. This is hands down one of the best and most unusual documentaries you're likely to ever see.

The book that accompanies the DVD is an achingly sad document of the fate of the Sullivan buildings in Chicago. If it weren't for the insightful text, we would think we were looking at photos of Armageddon, of the barren landscapes of World War II. And the results are equally tragic. It may seem ridiculous to place so much emotional equity within a building, but I felt I understood why Samuelson was so fervent about the preservation of Chicago's old, historic buildings.

See, I live within my home, and almost all of my daily functions happen here. My memories are encased and formed here. My home enables me to do this within comfort, within a safe place. My view of my home is shared in my view of the Earth- as a living thing, a complex network of systems designed to sustain life, to inspire, to nurture. The building I live in was built in 1901, and it is as solid today as when it was built. Old buildings were built with humanity in mind, with the concept of sustaining generations, of providing shelter and inspiration for centuries. Today's new construction is built with a different agenda- profit. Poor construction, sub par prefabricated materials, and putting just enough effort to pass a legal standard of living space is the hallmark of today's buildings. They are built to fall apart in ten years, in order to spur the population to either keep reinvesting in their homes, or to pick up and move to an entirely new building. These cookie-cutter buildings show little in terms of design- they invoke zero creativity, no human spirit, no warmth or desire to be different.

I happen live down the street from one of the few remaining Sullivan buildings in Chicago. Located in Lincoln Square, the building is a small wonder of art- no detail was spared, no aesthetic denied. It is a revelation to look at, to run one's hands over its solid facade and explore the intricate designs. They don't build dwellings like this anymore. It's a dying art, sacrificed at the altars of profitability and greed. The artisans who specialize in this kind of masonry are a dying species, and are deemed far too expensive to be practical. To build a Sullivan building today requires time, patience, and funds, of which today's society has plenty of, but is unwilling to yield.

We must preserve the architecture of the past, because unlike today, it was made with people in mind. I see the expansive suburbs of Chicago and see uniformity, lack of individuality, and an uninspired submission to be mediocre. Apparently we are ok being just another number. We sell our souls for temporary comfort, and in turn destroy the foundations of our inspiration and life.

I think I can say that for things even beyond architecture. Sad.


LOST BUILDINGS can be purchased at the NPR shop at NPR.org, or at the THIS AMERICAN LIFE website. It's a bit on the pricey side, but consider it your donation to good television and radio.

Below is not a trailer for LOST BUILDINGS, but another wonderful collaboration between Ira Glass and Chris Ware. Enjoy!

OLD JOY

OLD JOY
Directed by Kelly Reichardt

What is Americana? We tend to associate it with things that are unique to our own culture- baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, Chevrolets, etc.. But what these things are in fact are elements of nostalgia, of a period of American life that was perceived to be better, more pure, more altruistic. more principled. Americana is, in actuality, a representation of what constitutes us as people, and while this includes the aforementioned nostalgic items, it also includes our despairs, our desires, and those things which have become marginalized and deemed as unimportant to the fabric of our existence. Perhaps then the best description of Americana is the segment of life that the American Dream has either passed by or forgot. It is those people and cultural tenants that live amongst us, but never really with us.

Kelly Reichardt's OLD JOY is the proverbial slice of Americana, a quiet but never lazy account of marginalized Americans who seek something outside of the base provisions that our country has to offer. It puts forth the assertion that when all has been provided, is that where true happiness lies? Or is there more we must seek out?

Set in Portland, Oregon, the story begins with Mark (Daniel London), a early thirtysomething who sits in his yard meditating while his very pregnant wife blends up a green shake that is probably a lot more healthy than it looks appetizing. Mark receives a phone call from Kurt, an old friend whom he hasn't seen in ages. Kurt offers Mark a trip to relax before the birth of his child, and proposes a hike to the Cascade Mountains, where a natural spring can be found. Mark accepts, and despite the apprehensions of his wife, sets out with his dog Lucy to join Kurt in an overnight excursion into Oregon's wilderness.

Kurt (brilliantly played by folk musician Will Oldham of Palace Music and Bonnie "Prince" Billie fame) is a bit of a mess when we meet him. Disheveled, carefree and devoid of direction, his life could not be more different from that of his friend. Mark has a roof over his head, a Volvo, a job and a pregnant wife at home. He is the archetype of the American lifestyle, one based in comfort and surroundings of things that add value to life. In the initial conversations between Kurt and Mark, we see hints of a past that was genuinely fun and carefree, of regaling in the spontaneity of youth and youthful exuberance. While it is never said, it is implied that Mark has moved on to adulthood, and Kurt remains in limbo, wandering the boundaries of maturity.

Kurt and Mark pack up the Volvo and drive out to the woods. In the background we hear the chatter of talk radio, of questions of the state of the nation, elections, and bipartisan politics. The radio fades as the men reach the woods, replaced by the aimless guitar pickings on the soundtrack by Yo La Tengo. The music, coupled with the stunning surroundings of the Pacific Northwest, create a dream landscape that is beautiful beyond words. Cinematographer Peter Sillen's camera drinks up the colours of the forest, spilling multitudes of shades of green, yellows and browns across the screen, offset by a crystalline blue sky. This film contains some of the most striking visuals I've seen since Thomas Riedelsheimer's RIVERS AND TIDES and Ron Fricke's BARAKA.

Kurt smokes a lot of weed and talks of contentment, of commitment, of times past and regrets for having lost touch with Mark. Mark is reserved, still feeling out what his friend has become, and he is still tied via cell phone to a busy life back home. Mark's wife periodically calls and makes sure everything is ok, and she is a constant reminder of Mark's domestic bliss and imprisonment. This is a quietly surprising element, especially considering the director of OLD JOY is a woman.

Kurt and Mark amble and talk, they get lost and they learn more about one another. Ultimately the spring is found, and Kurt reveals a truth that is both subtle and devastating. The men return home, changed, but still with some sense of purpose, for better or worse.

There have been many critics of this film, calling it listless and droning, but I would contend that they are stuck in their definitions of Americana. This is an America that they would prefer not to see, populated with people who want to get away and who seek something other than the nice car, the big house, the 2.5 kids and a garage. The men in OLD JOY do not, in the eyes of classical Americana, represent success. But they are smart people, and they are kind people, and what they seek is that which no amount of material or marital success can buy: a sense of self worth.

I simply loved this movie. It reminded me of my friends that I have lost and lost touch with, and made me think about how I remember those fond memories with these people. It made me think of a meeting I had with an old friend whom I had grown up with since I was a toddler. We went to college together, and while on campus we started to grow distant. After graduation we rarely saw each other again. He got married early and had kids, and I recently saw him again at my wedding.

It was awkward talking to him. We spent almost an hour rekindling fond memories of when we were kids- the stupid games we played, the first time we saw a naked woman on television, the basketball tournaments we entered, etc.. Those were good times. We tried desperately to rebuild that level of fun and communication that we once had, but it was proving quite difficult. He had changed. I had changed. Our world views had changed. He was a father. He'd become conservative, myself quite liberal. I thought to myself that if I were to meet him as a stranger today, I probably wouldn't be his friend, he probably would think the same of me. But we still loved each other. He was still my childhood friend, and I know I could still trust him, and he could trust me. But it just wasn't there. It felt hollow and empty.

Some time after the wedding I thought about my meeting with my friend. I called him and was honest with him, and said maybe we shouldn't try to rekindle what we had in the past. Maybe we should celebrate instead what we've become. My friend, always intelligent, always thoughtful, said it was a great idea. We still didn't have anything to talk about, but a tremendous weight was lifted off our shoulders. We could go on with our lives.

Watching OLD JOY was a revelation of that particular moment, encapsulated within lyrical and visual poetry so profound and subtle that it seeped into every facet of my mind and body. Do not listen to the detractors who call this film slow or hardly engaging- on the contrary, the film is constantly with us, beside us, inside us, pulling and pushing us for answers. We see in these two men the naked truth, the interactions with our friends and loved ones we want and ought to have.

The film's genius is in its ability to say so much with so little. The best example of this comes in a poetic allegory told by Kurt. He recalls a meeting with an old East Indian woman, who leaves him with one poignant line, a line that defines our love-hate relationship with our past:

"Sorrow is nothing but old joy."

We want things to be the way they used to be. In the comfort of our mother's arms. When someone always was there to take care of you. When you cried, there was a shoulder to lean upon. Somewhere along the line, we lost that. Everyone does. But many few of us have actually moved on. We pine for something that had a time and a place, and live with the frustration and hope that we will feel those comforts again. We can, but only in a different incarnation. It will never be the same, but cherish those memories for what they were.

In the final shots of OLD JOY we see Kurt wandering aimlessly about Portland. We don't know what he's up to, but it doesn't matter. One look at his actions and you know he is making a transition- for the better or worse, that is for us to decide. But it will never be like it used to be. Nothing in our lives ever is.

OLD JOY is available on DVD.

P.S. It is worthy to note that OLD JOY was made on a budget of $30,000. Thus proving that cinema can achieve stunning visuals and compelling stories by sheer virtuosity and practical application of intelligence and eye. In the age when the average Hollywood film costs in excess of $65 million to make, OLD JOY is a reminder of where the true equity in cinema is to be found.

CHOPPER

CHOPPER
Written and Directed by Andrew Dominik

I never killed anyone that didn't deserve it."
- Mark "Chopper" Read

There's justifiably been a lot of discussion about the nature of violence this week. We try to postulate the many causes of erratic and sociopath behaviour, and more times than not we come to a nebulous notion of hatred and fear. There is some inner demon that haunts these men and women who commit such violent crimes- the religious right would call it possession or sin, the scientists would call it the ego, the metaphysicians would call it a dark negative energy. I think there's an element to all of this that is universal, however, and that is the call for attention, which in turn is a function of loneliness.

In lieu of the Virginia Tech shootings- particularly the public release of videos, photos, and written screenplays by the gunman, I decided to revisit an old film that I thought might give me more clarity on the mindset of crime and publicity. I turned to Andrew Dominik's CHOPPER, a little-seen Australian film starring Eric Bana.

Bana (in one of the best performances you'll ever see, seriously) plays the real-life Mark "Chopper" Read, a hardened criminal serving seventeen years in the slammer for a variety of crimes from drug dealing, extortion, and attempted murder. An endlessly charismatic man, Chopper is also a man prone to violence stemming from a deep distrust of his fellow human being. He is a short fuse, an otherwise intelligent man whose literacy is shunned in the face of jealously and mistrust.

The film opens in a maximum security prison in Tasmania, and the clear divide between cliques of prisoners is established from the outset. Blurring the lines sits Chopper, shit-eating grin on his face, a man who defies categorization and doesn't care for it. To be given an archetype would be to meld in, and Chopper's thirst for attention drives him to acts of insane violence within the prison walls (including a scene involving self-mutilation that makes "Reservoir Dog" seem tame). He is determined to make sure that in whatever space he occupies, his name will be the one in the spotlight. Even when other inmates assault him, he is the one who gets more press then the assailant. From the moment we meet him, we know that Chopper has one goal in mind: to be the most notorious man in all of Australia.

But as bizarrely magnanimous as Chopper is, he is also the most hated man in Australia. Every other bloke has a contract out on him, and once released from prison, Chopper's life is one consumed by looking over his shoulder. Self-preservation becomes paramount, although the drive for attention follows close behind.

But it's not like the cops would let a nutcase like Chopper out on the streets and simply let him roam free. A relationship is established between Chopper and the fuzz, and we're never truly clear as to who in this relationship has the upper hand. Because of his history, the police know that Chopper will have the top criminals after his head, and that he is the bait they so desperately need. Conversely, Chopper uses the relationship with the police to carry out his dual plan to eliminate his enemies, and to make sure he gets some good press out of it. It is the most unholy of unions, to say the least.

Armed to the neck, Chopper traverses across Sydney and proceeds to harass, instigate and eventually murder those who seek him harm. These are not simple acts of vengeance, however, as they are coolly calculated- Chopper knows who should be maimed, and who should die. While Chopper himself comes off as a ranting, raving bulldog, we never lose sight of the fact that this is an intelligent man, one who has lucid vision in terms of the (literal) execution of his goals. Chopper's actions take him to the front page of media, when he is accused of killing a man in cold blood. He is acquitted of the murder, but is sent to serve time for a previous attempt of murder. With his face on the front page of papers all over Australia, Chopper couldn't be more happy with the verdict. He even proceeds to write a book in prison, and riding the notoriety of his reputation, the book becomes a bestseller and makes Chopper a very wealthy, and more importantly, very popular man.

Bu it's the final scene in the film that delivers the most poignant message, and its relevance to the recent events at Virginia Tech is revealing and bone-chilling. The film ends with Chopper in his cell, watching television with a pair of prison guards. The program is a news interview with Chopper, a tell-all about his new book. On television, Chopper is in fine form, cracking jokes, flirting with the newswoman, and exuding panache and cool. Watching the program, Chopper is in awe of himself, paying more attention however to the reactions of the prison guards, who treat him with the kindness and privilege of a celebrity client. The program ends, and the guards inform Chopper that it's time to lock up. They leave the cell, and shut the heavy metal door. We see Chopper alone in his cell, quiet. All he can do is stare at the wall. He no longer has an audience. He's back to being a loner. And for the first time in the film, we see some hint of sadness. The film ends.

It's one of the most poignant scenes I've ever seen, and the message it implies about the quest for attention rings true in every facet. Chopper got his fifteen minutes of fame, he rebuked his naysayers, and he was, for that moment, the ruler of his domain. But in one moment- the shutting of a door- he was alone again, back to where he started. Nothing gained, but much irreversible damage done. I see the same in Cho Seung-hui, the shooter at Virgina Tech. Why make a video? Why mail it to the local news media? It's a bitter indicative of a man seeking an audience, and like Mark "Chopper" Read, he was willing to do it at the maximum expense of others. Cho Seung-hui has successfully grabbed our attention, and he will be written in the history books, but his legacy as a man is already forgotten. He died a sad, lonely death. Like Chopper, I feel little sympathy for him, if anything I feel great pity for them. I feel like all that a normal person- a friend and not a doctor- could have done for people like Cho Seung-hui or Chopper was to simply ask them "how's your life going" and just listen to what they had to say.

And maybe that's the problem. A person who seeks attention never has an audience, because the audience has already judged them as not worthy their time. Cho Seung-hui probably wanted to be seen as a normal Joe. But he wasn't a normal Joe, he was a troubled man, who refused the help of others. He denied his audience by himself insisting that his behaviour was normal. He denied he needed help when a doctor told him he was a danger to himself. He saw himself as someone the world didn't understand, a tortured soul who stood for something true in a world full of falsities. But his truth was demented and flawed- he just could not accept that. It reminds me of a dialogue from the film, when Chopper makes the odd declaration:

"I'm just a bloody normal bloke. A normal bloke who likes a bit of torture."

So sad is the denial of truth, and the embracing of the absurd.