Recently Viewed: Retake

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

Japan Cuts frequently programs movies about amateur filmmakers—a niche genre that, for obvious reasons, I find extremely appealing. Thus, when the lineup for this year’s festival was announced, I immediately purchased a ticket for Kota Nakano’s Retake.

Unlike It’s a Summer Film! or Single8, this low-key, quirky mumblecore drama isn’t terribly preoccupied with the particulars of craft, the history of cinema, or the joy of the creative process; instead, it utilizes its deceptively simple premise to deconstruct the medium itself. Adopting a recursive, repeating structure (reminiscent of Fireworks, Should We See It from the Side or the Bottom?), the narrative explores themes and conflicts that are both metafictional and metaphysical—contemplating stillness and movement, meditating on separation and reconciliation, and reflecting on the inexorable, inevitable flow of time.

Where the story truly excels, however, is in its thoroughly charming mood. Boasting a minimalistic visual style, an infectiously laid-back atmosphere, refreshingly modest stakes, captivatingly complex characters, and endearingly naturalistic performances, Retake epitomizes the indie spirit. I adored it!

Recently Viewed: Mermaid Legend

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

When introducing Japan Cuts’ recent screening of Toshiharu Ikeda’s hauntingly beautiful Mermaid Legend, festival programmer Alexander Fee described the movie as “elemental”—a thoroughly accurate summary of its bleak tone and surreal style. It is a shockingly graphic film—in terms of sex, violence, and sexual violence—but never gratuitously so. On the contrary, the often uncomfortably, confrontationally explicit subject matter serves a vitally important narrative purpose, conveying the sheer emotional weight of our heroine’s traumatic experiences. When she succumbs to the amorous advances of her slain husband’s friend in a moment of vulnerability, for example, the director shoots the scene in the manner of soft-core pornography; any potential titillation, however, is diluted by the audience’s knowledge that the man is in league with her enemies and intends to betray her (albeit reluctantly). Similarly, when she mercilessly butchers her spouse’s murderer (her first kill, but certainly not her last), literal geysers of gore erupt from every stab wound that she inflicts—the sort of macabre spectacle normally reserved for the Italian giallo genre.

Indeed “violation”—of personal boundaries, of the environment, of the social contract—emerges as the story’s most prominent and pervasive theme. It is a cautionary tale about power, privilege, and how otherwise “good” people can become complicit in their own oppression. It mourns the desecration of the natural world (and, in turn, the gradual erosion of the human spirit) at the hands of corporate greed and political ambition. It explores how injustice corrupts everything that it touches, culminating in a horrifyingly awesome display of indiscriminate bloodshed—a terrible act of vengeance (or perhaps divine retribution?) that is cathartic and tragic in equal measure.

Simultaneously sensual, grotesque, provocative, unapologetically melodramatic, and absolutely uncompromising in its nightmarish artistic vision, Mermaid Legend is a genuine unsung masterpiece—like a precious pearl half-buried beneath the sand at the bottom of the ocean, just waiting to be discovered by sufficiently adventurous cinephiles. Take the plunge; the water’s fine.

Recently Viewed: Kubi

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

Kubi is a film of deliciously compelling contradictions. A period drama with little regard for “historical accuracy,” it reimagines the Sengoku Era as only Takeshi Kitano could: drenched in gore and dripping with homoeroticism. It is simultaneously his most cynical work and his funniest, deconstructing the borderline mythological status attributed to various real-world figures by depicting them not as cunning strategists or Machiavellian masterminds, but rather as mentally unstable psychopaths competing for underserved power.

Kitano himself, for example, leans into his comedic roots by playing Toyotomi Hideyoshi as a bumbling, insecure country bumpkin whose political ambitions are constantly thwarted by his utter lack of finesse when it comes to court intrigue and samurai etiquette; his schemes and machinations depend entirely upon the competence of such unwaveringly loyal subordinates as Kanbei Kuroda (Tadanobu Asano in a role that is essentially the antithesis of his sniveling, amoral character in Shogun)—many of whom he impulsively has assassinated as soon as he perceives their intelligence to be a threat. Ryo Kase, meanwhile, delivers an unapologetically theatrical performance as Oda Nobunaga; a far cry from the brilliant tactician of popular folklore, there is no grand design behind this hedonistic tyrant’s plans of conquest and “unification”—he simply revels in bloodshed, wantonly and remorselessly abusing peasants and fellow nobles alike.

The movie’s depiction of violence is equally subversive. The spectacular battle sequences are chaotic and harrowing, evoking Orson Welles’ Chimes at Midnight (and, consequently, the derivative cinematic epics helmed by Ridley Scott and Mel Gibson); there is no honor or glory in war—just men clumsily flailing about in the mud and filth, their suffering serving no greater purpose. On other occasions, however, the carnage delves into outright absurdist humor. In one scene, for instance, Hideyoshi grows increasingly impatient as he waits for a vanquished foe to commit ritual suicide—an excruciatingly prolonged joke that satirizes the pomp, poetry, and idealism traditionally associated with bushido.

[FINAL WARNING: MAJOR SPOILERS BELOW!]

Recently Viewed: Nezumikozo Jirokichi

Nezumikozo Jirokichi—recently screened as part of Japan Cuts’ Shorts Program 2–managed to hit three major categories on my annual festival bingo card: Jidaigeki, Anime, and (albeit to a lesser degree) Behind-the-Scenes Story Celebrating the Joy of Filmmaking. An impressive feat, considering it runs a lean, breezy twenty-three minutes!

Based on a lost movie from Sadao Yamanaka (a pioneer of early Japanese genre cinema, whose tragically limited surviving work includes Humanity and Paper Balloons and Tange Sazen and the Pot Worth a Million Ryo), Nezumikozo Jirokichi honors its source material by building upon it, rather than merely resorting to hollow mimicry. By framing the narrative as a dream—with the dozing director imagining the entirety of the onscreen action just before the camera rolls—animator Rintaro allows himself enough creative license to be a bit fanciful and whimsical in adapting/reinterpreting Yamanaka's original script and production notes. The visual style, for example, is reminiscent of classic Fleischer cartoons: expressive, but not remotely naturalistic; the characters’ movements often lack “realistic” weight and fluidity, but nevertheless convey a great deal of personality and emotion.

The result is a triumph of form and technique, utilizing thoroughly modern sensibilities (particularly the energetic rhythm of the editing) to evoke that quintessential 1930s aesthetic (complete with intertitles and benshi narration). What a lovely tribute to the legacy of a genuine auteur!

Recently Viewed: Look Back

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

Look Back opens with a shot that seems simple at first glance, but gradually reveals itself to be dense with detail. Our protagonist sits at her desk, hunched over a blank sketchbook. Although the “camera” is positioned behind her, the reflection of her face is just barely visible in a nearby mirror, her features contorted in frustrated concentration. Her sock lazily scratches the back of her leg as her pencil traces invisible patterns in the air, drafting potential scenarios in her imagination. Finally, she begins to draw, her foot drumming a beat of excitement and satisfaction on her bedroom floor as her ideas take shape on the page.

This same basic composition recurs throughout the film—both in isolation and in various montages—like the chorus of a song, or a poetic refrain that becomes more meaningful and impactful with every repetition. Indeed, director Kiyotaka Oshiyama’s sublime style elevates the narrative foundation established by author Tatsuki Fujimoto’s source material; he understands that the inherent power and appeal of animation lies in movement, color, rhythm, and expressionism.

Not that the story is any slouch on its own merits. The plot revolves around a pair of young manga artists that frequently compete to get their four-panel comic strips published in their school newspaper; slowly, their initial rivalry blossoms into mutual admiration, then inspiration, and ultimately collaboration, with each girl contributing her respective talent—creative vision and raw technical skill—in order to improve the quality of their combined work. As the years progress, however, conflict—incompatible career ambitions, an inability to separate their personal relationship from their professional partnership—fractures their bond and causes them to lose sight of what motivated them in the first place, leading to resentment, regret, and inevitable tragedy. The movie's unconventional structure emphasizes this core theme: diverging timelines (a gimmick reminiscent of Shunji Iwai’s Fireworks, Should We See It from the Side or the Bottom?) force the characters to confront the consequences of their actions and contemplate how events might have unfolded differently had they chosen another path.

Poignant, emotionally resonant, and exquisitely heartbreaking, Look Back is anime of the highest caliber. It has more than earned its box office success and numerous accolades.

Recently Viewed: The Box Man

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

The Box Man is based on a Kobo Abe novel that is—according to my admittedly limited research, at least—widely considered to be impossible to adapt. Although I am unable to properly judge the accuracy of that assertion (having not read the source material—yet), evidence in the film certainly supports it. The narrative is rough and ragged around the edges, so sprawling that it frequently threatens to unravel. As you might expect from a medium that requires concrete imagery, metaphor is often smothered by literalism. The tone and style are likewise wildly inconsistent—pulpy and avant-garde in equal measure; the iconography surrounding the eponymous hermit, for example, borrows much of its visual language from—of all genres—superhero cinema and anime.

The fact that director Gakuryu Ishii manages to wrangle the unwieldy story into something resembling coherence is nothing short of miraculous. A talented cast certainly helps matters: Masatoshi Nagase lends pathos and gravitas to even the most absurd scenes, while Tadanobu Asano (fresh off his acclaimed performance in FX’s Shogun) embraces the inherent slapstick comedy of the premise without hesitation or reservation. The poignant themes, too, anchor the chaotic plot; the recurring motif of false identities—a man who forsakes any semblance of “self” and instead lives as a nameless vagabond, a “doctor” that practices medicine without a license, a femme fatale whose allegiances and motivations remain infuriatingly ambiguous—is particularly compelling. The titular box emerges as a powerful symbol; clad in his cardboard armor, our protagonist exists on the fringes of a decaying society—anonymous, invisible, ignored by his so-called “civilized” fellow humans, trapped in their personal prisons of materialism and consumerism. But it’s the metafictional twist near the movie’s conclusion that truly elevates the whole package. I won’t spoil the ending here; suffice it to say that the audience is implicated as the ultimate voyeur, observing an artificial world through a narrow frame—judging the characters’ actions despite our fundamental lack of agency.

Featuring spectacularly choreographed fights, exquisitely overwrought melodrama, and inscrutably convoluted philosophy, The Box Man is the quintessential festival experience: impenetrably dense, difficult to classify or codify, a little pretentious, captivatingly beautiful, and absolutely unforgettable.

Purchased my tickets for this year's Japan Cuts!

Might book a few more screenings depending on what my work schedule looks like closer to the dates. We'll see, this initial transaction was ridiculously expensive already...

Recently Viewed: Children of the Great Buddha

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

The opening scenes of Children of the Great Buddha don’t really give the impression that it will be a particularly emotional cinematic experience. The first several minutes consist almost entirely of expository dialogue: the young protagonist guides groups of tourists through the temples and shrines of Nara Prefecture, reciting memorized historical facts and legends pertaining to the various relics and artifacts encountered in a dispassionate monotone. At times, it feels more like a documentary than a narrative feature—informative, but not terribly dramatic.

As in much of Hiroshi Shimizu’s best work, however, a compelling conflict resides just beneath the surface of the seemingly simple story, emerging gradually before striking at the viewer’s heartstrings with devastating abruptness. Early on, for example, our hero is filling out a postcard for mail-order binoculars. “What will you put down for an address?” asks an acquaintance with a lack of malice that doesn’t make the query any less insensitive; “You don’t have a home.” Later, a conversation with a vacationing World War II veteran reduces the orphaned boy to tears; his own father is still missing following Japan’s recent surrender, and the cruel reminder that he probably numbers among the countless soldiers killed in action immediately (albeit briefly) shatters his façade of cool, composed professionalism, unleashing the grief that he’d previously repressed. Even the character’s childish daydreams are surprisingly poignant: he longs to one day nap in the open palm of a colossal Buddha statue—a powerful metaphor, symbolizing his subconscious desire to be nurtured, protected, and loved unconditionally.

Ultimately, though, these loosely structured episodes aren’t nearly as thematically significant as the spiritual and religious icons around which they unfold. The sculptures, towering pagodas, torii gates, and stone lanterns that populate the setting are magnificently photographed, framed from low, tight angles that emphasize their awe-inspiring stature (further magnified by slow, fluid camera movements). I’ll admit that I initially had my reservations about Children of the Great Buddha’s frequent (and excessively lengthy) educational interludes—after all, they tend to disrupt the rhythm of the otherwise lean and elegant plot—but Shimizu’s exquisite craftsmanship eventually won me over; I now consider them to be some of the finest sequences in his oeuvre (comparable to Ornamental Hairpin’s gorgeous ending montage, which remains a personal favorite of mine). For sheer spectacle alone, the film deserves to be ranked alongside the director’s greatest stylistic triumphs.

Recently Viewed: The Sentimental Idiot

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

The Sentimental Idiot is a major departure from the other Hiroshi Shimizu films that I’ve seen—in terms of both substance and style. Whereas Mr. Thank You and The Masseurs and a Woman, for example, were decidedly rural, this postwar melodrama is a strictly urban affair, substituting the scenic landscapes and sprawling mountain trails of Japan’s countryside with the smoky nightclubs and luxury apartments of the big city. Despite these superficial differences, however, the director’s core thematic concerns—chance encounters, missed connections, and the transient nature of human relationships—remain remarkably consistent.

The protagonist is Yuri, a popular cabaret singer with a veritable army of male admirers at her disposal. When one of her regular customers is arrested for embezzling money in order to finance his habit of showering her with expensive gifts, she immediately intercedes on his behalf, going to great lengths to ensure that the misappropriated funds are properly reimbursed—not for the perpetrator’s sake, she repeatedly insists (perhaps a bit too emphatically), nor to repair her own damaged reputation (it is, after all, tempting for the general public to blame a “woman of loose morals” for leading an “innocent youth” astray), but simply because it is the right thing to do.

Produced for the notoriously commercial Daiei Motion Picture Company, The Sentimental Idiot feels more mercenary and less personal than Shimizu’s previous work; the plot is rather formulaic, and some of the supporting characters lack the depth and nuance found in his earlier ensemble pieces. Fortunately, such minor blemishes hardly diminish the excellence of the craftsmanship on display: the cinematography, editing, and performances are absolutely sublime. The ending sequence—in which Yuri belts out a mournful reprise of the title song as her spurned would-be lover forlornly wanders the rain-slick streets, his back towards the camera—is particularly poignant, rivaling even the exquisitely structured montage that concludes Ornamental Hairpin. And considering that movie’s borderline universal critical acclaim, that’s an impressive feat of visual storytelling indeed.

Recently Viewed: Tomorrow There Will Be Fine Weather

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

Hiroshi Shimizu’s Tomorrow There Will Be Fine Weather is a fascinating companion piece to the director’s own Mr. Thank You. The earlier film (released in 1936, an… eventful year in Japanese history) is set entirely on a crowded bus navigating the winding mountain paths to Tokyo, a narrative gimmick that lends the otherwise minimalistic slice-of-life story a sense of urgency and relentless forward momentum. While this spiritual successor (made in the aftermath of World War II, which obviously gives it a markedly different cultural context) begins with a similar premise, it quickly subverts the expected structure by having the vehicle break down in short order, stranding the frustrated commuters on the side of a barren, dusty road miles from the nearest town.

Despite the comparative physical inertia of the plot, Shimizu keeps the action emotionally dynamic by emphasizing the myriad interpersonal conflicts that gradually develop between the wonderfully nuanced characters. In the movie’s most dramatic scene, for example, a one-legged veteran confronts a remorseful army officer on a pilgrimage to visit the graves of the many soldiers that perished under his command—a mutually traumatic encounter that inevitably erupts into violence. In a more comedic episode, a blind masseur—who has up until this point consistently impressed his fellow travelers with his insightful observations and keen attention to detail—struggles to communicate with a deaf-mute octogenarian. And then, of course, there’s the surprising relationship between the beleaguered driver and his most conspicuously out-of-place passenger: a glamorous celebrity with a scandalous reputation back in the big city.

Running a lean, breezy sixty-five minutes, Tomorrow There Will Be Fine Weather is nevertheless packed with so much deliciously compelling material that it feels… not longer, necessarily, but certainly more substantial than its relatively brief duration would suggest. Richly textured and thematically dense, its intimacy and economy make it more genuinely cinematic than any of the superficially spectacular blockbusters currently screening at multiplexes. I’m glad that it was recently rediscovered after languishing in obscurity for almost three quarters of a century (to the extent that it was actually considered lost media before being salvaged from the vault of a studio that neither produced nor distributed it—I’m not particularly religious, but that must have been an act of divine intervention); now let’s hurry and get it on home video, where it can be properly appreciated by a wider audience.