Wake n Bake

WAKE N BAKE

In which Erin informs you the best movies to blaze to. 

Some films are more enjoyable when viewed stoned. For other films, it’s downright
necessary, especially when considering those made for children. Of these movies emerges
an unsung Claymation gem of Korean cinema, Doggy Poo, which follows the musings of a
freshly laid pile of dook.

Despite the film’s subject, it does not traffic in crassness. This dog-log is one of the
most sensitive, lachrymose (and talkative!) turds out there, prone to weeping spells and
existential crises. But he’s also relatable. He asks the questions we all ask ourselves; “What
am I?” “Why do I exist?” “Am I disgusting?” The answer to the latter is yes, according to a
fallen mud pile that hasn’t made you feel more racially uncomfortable since the crows in
Dumbo.
Oh, that voice acting. This is one of the problems plaguing the English dub. Leaving
aside the disturbing connotations of a stereotyped black American voice portraying mud–
seriously, they could have voiced him in ANY English-speaking style–the dialog is also
criminally slow. My hypothesis is that the original Korean script takes up more syllables
than its English translation, so the dubbed voices attempt to fill the animation time by
chanting their lines in a deliberate andante–“O-kay. So. What? Maybe. I. am. just. a. doggy.
poo.”–and by engaging in some advanced hemming-and-hawing–“Hmmmm… uhhh…
ohh….. uhhhh, hmmmm.” For a film that only clocks in at about a half hour, it takes some
considerable reserves of patience to watch–hence my herbal aid suggestion.
Because once the “patience” sets in, you stop focusing on the interminable dialogue
and become free to enjoy the hilarity of an emotional puppy pellet watching the seasons
change while conversing with mud, a leaf, chickens–all of which eventually leave him
alone, depressed, and devoid of meaning once again. Sunrise, sunset. Will our hero ever
find a purpose in life? Will he come to know happiness? Maybe succumb to the laws of
biology and decompose already? I won’t give it away.
The film, while seemingly simple, can actually conjure some pretty
entertaining philosophy for a mind under the influence, due mostly to its interesting
choices in which non-human entities it decides to anthropomorphize. Animals are an
obvious choice, as they’ve already got a leg up in the sentience department. But since the
film’s very premise is talking feces, then leaves, weeds, and clumps of mud are certainly not
exempt from the exciting world of abstract though. Such a universe, however, is a little
tough for a filmmaker to stick to; wall, ground, clouds, sun, raindrops, wagon, and a cast of
countless others remain mute and faceless–it seems like an inconsistent cop-out, but
giving an equal voice to everything that could be described by a noun would be chaos (and
would have lengthened the film by a factor of 20). But what if the wall had spoken? Would
it speak as one entity or would each stone housed therein have a distinct voice, thoughts,
and dreams? Similarly, would the wagon constitute a single character, or would the
wheels, spokes, handles, and cart have arguments? And what about that clump of mud?
Would he experience pain if he were to separate into smaller piles? Would the resulting
piles offer different personalities, or would they be mere replicas like two daughter
amoebas? How did this particular clump come to be differentiated from all the other dirt
from whence he came? What happens to Clump of Mud’s face as he becomes irretrievably
integrated with others like him–is it a swirling Picasso of agony? How is one clump of
mud even quantized? Do clumps of mud that make up a field become one super-persona
hive mind, with a single goal of dedicating their lives to the crops growing above, crops

they have never seen except in their imaginations, fuelled by whispered tales and fervent
hopes of the faithful and devout? It might just be OG kicking in, but the arithmetic of the
soul is a somber mystery, indeed.
But the fun doesn’t end as soon as the credits roll. Netflix has singlehandedly made
Doggy Poo a value-added piece by providing its users a platform for reviews, which turn
out to be even funnier than the movie itself could ever hope to be. It’s inspiring to see so
many people take time out of their night to share their thoughts on foreign existentialist
cinema, and the writers are as diverse in their views as they are in their writing skills.

Some choice excerpts:
“…pilfered Fellini’s ‘Parable of the Pebble’ straight out of ‘La Strada…’”
“Some people will find the dog poo tragic, and others will simply find him irritating.
I think which camp you fall in shows a lot about you.”
“I’m gonna go talk to a priest…….”
“It was nice. I like the niceness of it.”
“…the titular pile of poo is much too whiny, yet complacent, to engender long-term
sympathy.”
“Thank u korean ppl [sic]”
“what other movie has poo as the main character? Other than the mission
impossible trilogy of course.”
“The character of Doggy Poo is like an emotionally unstable drunk at Christmas”
“Oh my g– [sic] is everyone on crack?!”
“Watch it or you are probably a date rapist.”

Okay then.
While the film is no longer available on Netflix Instant, you can either rent a disc or
watch it in four parts on Youtube. I am not legally allowed to tell you where to purchase
drugs.
A caveat: not all drugs are created equal. Watching this film while drinking
heavily has been linked with boyfriends catching viewers shedding tears over a pile of
mammalian crude, followed by at least a week of merciless taunting. Please watch Doggy
Poo responsibly.

I would like to thank Brenna Lorenz, curator of The Poop Thesaurus, for all the
synonyms. Spread it around.-EW