Japan Cuts Masterpost

Here's one convenient link to all of my Japan Cuts reviews—for 2023 and every other year that I've attended.

To highlight a few of my personal favorites:

Recently Viewed: River (2023)

[The following review contains MINOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

In many ways, River is less artistically ambitious than Beyond the Infinite Two Minutes, its spiritual predecessor (with which it shares the same writer and director, as well as several actors).

For one thing, the mechanics governing the temporal paradox around which its plot revolves are much more conventional. Unlike the earlier movie’s bold, novel, innovative experimentation with “the Droste effect/mise en abyme,” River features a relatively traditional time loop; every few minutes, the characters are abruptly teleported back to the beginning of the cycle—a phenomenon akin to rewinding a VHS tape or reloading a save file in a video game. Consequently, its visual style is comparatively modest. Whereas the previous film is presented in a single, seamless, uninterrupted shot (or rather a reasonable facsimile thereof), for example, the anachronic structural framework here allows the editors to dispense with such elaborate illusions; whenever the action “resets,” the transition between each repetition is easily “hidden” in plain sight via a blatant match cut—an obvious yet elegant solution to an inherently challenging (and extremely popular) gimmick.

Despite these superficial differences, River manages to rival its companion piece where it really matters—in sheer unpredictability. As the narrative unfolds, the initially comedic conflict gradually evolves, veering into delightfully unexpected dramatic territory. Indeed, the story eventually develops into a genuinely compelling meditation on the self-destructive nature of anticipatory anxiety—how an irrational fear of the future can halt a person in their tracks, preventing them from moving forward, making progress, pursuing their dreams, living—with the eponymous body of water (constant, ceaseless, relentlessly flowing) serving as a brilliant central metaphor.

While River owes its greatest emotional resonance to its imaginative premise, deft tonal shifts, and rich thematic subtext, however, its true appeal lies in its simpler moment-to-moment pleasures—ultimately, it excels because it’s just cute, charming, and a whole lot of fun. What more could you ask for from a cinematic experience?

Saw the first three episodes of Dragon Ball DAIMA on the big screen, courtesy of Fathom Events! An earnest love letter to the early days of the franchise—for better or worse.

On the one hand, the action choreography returns to the series’ Jackie Chan inspired roots, and there are fun callbacks to classic running gags (e.g., Master Roshi treating the various divine artifacts that he’s accumulated as though they’re common household appliances). On the other, approximately 1/3 of the first episode is just a prolonged recap of a previous storyline—and that uneven pacing persists throughout the subsequent episodes.

Still, enjoyable show overall, would definitely watch more.

Recently Viewed: Juror #2

[The following review contains SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

There’s a recurring image in Juror #2 that is as impactful as it is unapologetically unsubtle. In front of the courthouse wherein much of the plot unfolds stands the familiar statue of Lady Justice, her iconography instantly recognizable—blind, impartial, passing judgment with unwavering objectivity. The scales that she holds, however, are conspicuously unbalanced, swaying erratically in the relentless wind. The metaphor is blunt, but undeniably effective, efficiently conveying the film’s central thesis—that these symbols are inherently illusory, and the legal system that they represent is fundamentally flawed.

The premise is a delightfully novel variation on the 12 Angry Men formula. What if, the story asks, Henry Fonda’s character had been motivated by a guilty conscience rather than pure altruism? Suppose that, during the course of the trial, he suddenly realized that he was directly responsible for the alleged “murder” (in actuality a tragic accident) in question; would he be able to convince his fellow jurors to acquit the defendant without simultaneously incriminating himself? Would this otherwise decent man even deserve to escape the consequences of his actions? Why, after all, should he remain free while an innocent person languishes in a prison cell in his stead?

Can remorse alone absolve someone of their sins?

Clint Eastwood wisely adopts an unobtrusive visual style, allowing the deliciously complex conflict to speak for itself. He favors tight closeups, emphasizing the magnificently nuanced performances. Nicholas Hoult is particularly impressive in the title role; his expressive eyes clearly convey the tortured protagonist’s shame, anguish, and sheer desperation. Toni Collette likewise excels as the ruthlessly ambitious prosecutor, who becomes increasingly haunted by (reasonable) doubt as the deliberation process drags on—forcing her to reexamine her preconceptions and decide what she really values: the truth… or her own political aspirations.

Ultimately, Juror #2 is an old school morality play of the highest caliber—lean, economical, and (an unevenly paced first act notwithstanding) thoroughly engrossing. The greatest crime is that the movie received such a pitifully minuscule theatrical release; a drama this mature, thematically rich, and exquisitely crafted demands to be a major cinematic event.

Recently Viewed: Hundreds of Beavers

[The following review contains SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Hundreds of Beavers isn’t just the best comedy released to the general public in 2024; it is also quite possibly the greatest live-action cartoon ever made.

Embracing the delicate art of slapstick with an unapologetic sincerity rarely glimpsed since the silent era, the film miraculously manages to sustain the gleefully anarchic tone of your typical Wile E. Coyote short for the entire duration of its feature length running time. It accomplishes this impressive feat by adopting a hybrid narrative structure. Although the plot primarily revolves around a relentless barrage of sight gags (most of which are variations on the theme of a bumbling fur trader and his ostensibly “adorable” prey repeatedly inflicting sadistic physical violence upon one another), it is not, in fact, strictly episodic; on the contrary, every detail, no matter how seemingly insignificant at first glance, is absolutely integral to the overarching story. The pair of woodland critters that resemble Sherlock Holmes and Watson, for example, aren’t merely an amusing one-off joke; they eventually play a substantial role during the third act. The absurdly chaotic climax, meanwhile, serves as a sort of final exam, testing the myriad skills that the protagonist has acquired throughout the preceding scenes. Even a humble trapping pit established way back in the tale's inciting incident (after which it was probably swiftly forgotten by the average viewer) pays off spectacularly later on—i.e., nearly an hour after its initial introduction!

Boasting imaginative mixed-media visuals (incorporating puppetry, CGI, and intentionally crude hand-drawn animation), delightfully frenetic fight choreography, an outstanding lead performance by Ryland Brickson Cole Tews (which combines the exaggerated mannerisms of Jim Carrey, the paradoxical mischievous pathos of Chaplin’s Little Tramp, and the “rubber hose” style of character design popularized by Max Fleischer), and genuinely gorgeous black-and-white cinematography, Hundreds of Beavers is a feast for the eyes as well as the funny bone. Immaculately crafted and unabashedly immature in equal measure (toilet humor abounds), it is a wholly unique experience. “Masterpiece” is too inadequate a descriptor; this cannot be properly classified or categorized as anything less than an essential, genre-redefining work.

Wrapping up Halloween by playing WayForward’s new port of Clock Tower. I’ve been wanting to try this game for a very long time—so I think that more than justifies the $20 price tag.

Junji Ito and the Horror of Compulsion

[The following essay contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

At first glance, the premise of Junji Ito’s “Smashed” is almost comically absurd. The plot revolves around a group of youths that become hooked on a sweet, syrupy substance that an acquaintance smuggled back to Japan following a recent excursion to the jungles of South America. Unfortunately, every time they partake of the nectar, they risk a brutal demise: abruptly crushed flat by some invisible telekinetic force, reduced to grotesque pancakes of blood, hair, bones, teeth, and leathery flesh. Escaping this grim (and darkly humorous) fate should be a simple enough matter—just quit eating the darn stuff! Alas, any other food or liquid that they attempt to ingest is utterly revolting (or so they insist), tasting of ash and dirt. Thus, they continue to greedily, gluttonously consume their newfound ambrosia, repeatedly gambling on immediate short-term gratification—a sucker bet that inevitably leads to disaster. Not even the more sympathetic characters are immune to karmic retribution (indeed, the most amoral among them survives the longest); all succumb to their base urges—and pay dearly for their transgressions.

Ultimately, it’s a rather silly story. Ito himself admits that the development process wasn’t terribly complex; what if, he essentially wondered, humans were akin to the humble mosquito—voraciously seeking nourishment, in constant peril of being swatted into oblivion. Nevertheless, the tale’s deeper implications lingered in my memory, haunting me. Were the protagonists literally deprived of their agency by paranormal means? Or was their fatal addiction comparatively mundane in nature, indistinguishable from the sort of chemical dependency one might encounter in our own reality? Did a malevolent otherworldly entity manipulate their actions? Or were they doomed by some self-destructive impulse engraved directly into mankind's collective unconscious—a counterintuitive yet irrepressible instinct as inherent and immutable as the need to breathe?

This theme of compulsion recurs throughout Ito’s work (e.g., “Used Record”, “Hair”, “The Enigma of Amigara Fault”), and the ambiguity surrounding it is consistently compelling. The author wisely resists the temptation to provide concrete answers; the true horror, after all, lies in that very uncertainty.

[Click here for more posts on this topic. Happy Halloween!]

Recently Viewed: Creature from the Black Lagoon

Creature from the Black Lagoon belongs to the horror genre; that much is obvious. Not from the perspective of the human “protagonists,” though; their journey is more akin to an old school pulp serial, with a group of improbably attractive, aggressively Caucasian scientists venturing to an “exotic” locale (heavily armed, naturally) in search of fortune and glory. The true terror is experienced by the eponymous monster: from its point-of-view, a bunch of violent outsiders invade its territory and attack it without provocation, intent on exploiting its very existence for monetary gain.

Now tell me: who is supposed to be the “hero” in this scenario?

[And yes, this premise does sound surprisingly critical of capitalism, colonialism, and chauvinism by the standards of America circa 1954—which is probably why its deeper implications are relegated to mere subtext.]

The movie is, of course, justifiably celebrated for its technological innovations: beyond its original 3D format (which hasn’t been terribly well preserved on home video), the ambitious underwater cinematography is still absolutely spectacular, while the delightfully tactile “rubber suit” effects utilized to bring the Gill-man to life remain impressive even in a modern context. What really appealed to me, however, was director Jack Arnold’s effortless command of the fundamentals of visual storytelling. I would describe his style as blunt, yet purposeful, conveying the film’s central themes elegantly and economically. Consider, for example, the following shot:

Despite the relative simplicity of its blocking and composition, the image is dense with narrative significance. To the far left, Mark Williams—the financier of the expedition to the titular Black Lagoon—complains about the steep cost of the excursion, outright admitting that he’s banking on discovering a flashy, marketable novelty in order to recoup the expenses. On the opposite side of the screen, marine biologist David Reed argues that such a mercenary attitude is antithetical to the spirit of serious research; the pursuit of knowledge, he insists, requires a leap of faith—for the sake of progress, one must be willing to accept the inherent risk of failure. And situated at the literal center of the debate is love interest Kay, valiantly (albeit futilely) attempting to mediate between the two irreconcilable extremes.

In short, Creature from the Black Lagoon manages to distill its entire overarching conflict to a single frame. And that is the epitome of immaculate craftsmanship.

Recently Viewed: Creepy

[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

With the possible exception of The Man Who Killed Hitler and Then the Bigfoot, Creepy is probably the most accurate title in the history of cinema. That single six-letter adjective describes the pervasively unsettling atmosphere of Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s 2016 psychological thriller elegantly, economically, and succinctly. Like the director’s own Cure, the film finds horror not in shallow jump scares, grotesque gore effects, or supernatural mischief, but rather in something far more chillingly universal: the nuances of human behavior.

To call the movie’s central antagonist a “serial killer” would be an egregious understatement; that label seems too mundane to apply to his insidious modus operandi. He doesn’t merely butcher his victims’ bodies: he infiltrates their lives, erodes their agency and free will, and unravels their interpersonal relationships. Their minds, spirits, and very identities evaporate long before their flesh expires, reducing them to little more than docile, submissive zombies—obedient (albeit unwitting) accomplices to the psychopath’s sadistic crime spree. Most terrifyingly, it isn't particularly difficult to corrupt them; the oppressive, overwhelming burdens of societal norms and cultural conventions have already irreparably weakened their resolve—their tormentor simply needs to discover and exploit their vulnerabilities, gradually chipping away at their brittle defenses until they finally (inevitably) shatter.

The visual style perfectly complements the story’s underlying themes and conflicts. The protagonist, a former police detective haunted by his catastrophic failure to negotiate a hostage situation in the recent past, copes with his physical and mental trauma by burying himself in his new profession as a college lecturer; beneath his façade of passivity and numb contentment, however, he’s clearly eager to atone for his mistakes—making it relatively easy for an ex-colleague to lure him back into the fold with the promise of an especially baffling missing persons case. As the investigation demands more of his attention (indeed, his “purely academic interest” in the disappearances quickly evolves into an all-consuming obsession), his wife begins to feel increasingly neglected and abandoned; despite her valiant efforts to swallow her misgivings and play the role of a dutiful homemaker and productive member of the local community (though the neighbors tend to be either indifferent or outright hostile, consistently rebuffing her attempts to befriend them), her loneliness, alienation, and isolation remain painfully obvious. Consequently, the couple is frequently framed in claustrophobic, symmetrical, fragmented compositions, the space surrounding them externalizing their repressed anxieties, insecurities, and resentments. The camerawork—which is often so subtle that it borders in subliminal—reinforces this sense of emotional inflexibility; these characters are trapped in private purgatories of their own design—and because the editing implements cuts so sparingly, the audience is forced to suffer alongside them through a series of excruciatingly long, uninterrupted takes, ensnaring subject and viewer alike in an inescapable prison of time.

Ultimately, Creepy closely resembles the murderer around whom its plot revolves: it crawls inside your skull and lingers in your subconscious, refusing to grant you a moment of respite. It’s a deliciously disturbing experience; I savored every unnerving image… but having thus feasted on its rich subtext and complex social commentary, I doubt that I’ll revisit it any time soon.