Cinema Talk

Kon Ichikawa, unfortunately, has a bit of a reputation as a completely technical director. He has been criticized by many people as having no true interests in what he films. Instead, he shows more interest in understanding all the complexities of film-making. Many claim that there is no thematic consistency in his films. The Burmese Harp and Fires on a Plain show a interest in the “horrors of war through pathos” type statement but that seems a bit critical. There’s a lot more to those films than just “war is bad!” Both films were novels adapted into screenplays by Ichikawa’s frequent collaborator and wife, Natto Wada and both were my introduction into Ichikawa. Perhaps, Ichikawa himself, shouldn’t be shunned for the eclecticism in his films. Instead, he should be praised that he is viewing certain themes and topics through his very own vision.

My problem with An Actor’s Revenge (a remake of Teinosuke Kinugasa’s 1937 film of the same name) has nothing to do with it being consistent with the rest of Ichikawa’s filmography. In fact, I would almost go as far as to say that everything great about the film can be attributed to Ichikawa’s very particular and very beautiful visual style. It takes a very special director to photograph a film that, at least seems to take place on a built set. There’s a self-conscious “theatrical” vibe flowing through the whole film. Not different to Kurosawa’s Lower Depths, actually. I could never say I’m a fan of such over the top, forced drama but it is a neat way of connecting the main character (who is a Kabuki actor) to the film’s style.

Even with the far fetched occurrences and melodramatic acting, this is a very beautiful film. I knew from watching Fires on a Plain and The Burmese Harp that Ichikawa had a great eye for visuals but this is ridiculous. Cinemascope, technicolor, tightly framed, and wonderfully composed. It’s as though Ichikawa and his cinematographer, Setsuo Kobayashi, tried to fit in as many new photographic ideas in a shot as possible. The stylistic flourishes in the opening sequence cannot be explained by words and yet, this feels intrusive. I could say that the cinematography is “too good” for the story being told here and it really is, but at the same time, it perfectly compliments the time period of which the story takes place.

I suppose I could take time to explain narrative, even though it makes me feel like I’m mocking the film. Yukinojo, a kabuki performer, spots the three men that are responsible for both of his parents’ suicide. One of these men, Dobe, has a daughter infatuated with Yukinojo. This is how he begins to carry out his revenges. That’s it really. There’s a few secondary characters that appear and die, a few subplots that share a similar fate too. I guess, in a way Yukinojo’s relationship with Dobe’s daughter is interesting, if not completely befuddling. The scene where they confess their love for each other is so bad, but I’m pretty sure it’s suppose to be. Because of this, it’s hard to really see Yukinojo’s personal feelings, which makes him intriguing enough. Don’t go in to this expected a nuanced relationship-type drama. You’ll probably have better luck just enjoying the very nice visual composition and wacky humor.

In recent years, a small group of Japanese directors have emerged, all of whom, seem to be making a conscious effort to contest a lot of the “extreme” J-horror stuff that has become popular in the United States. This group, taking it’s cues from the dying film movement in Taiwan, generally focuses on real, undramatic occurrences. Long static takes seem to be popular as well. Unlike the movement in Taiwan, these directors also seem to incorporate lush cinematography with a very poetic sensibility, not unlike the films of Terrence Malick. This movement, that doesn’t actually exists outside of my head is made up of Jun Ichikawa, Hiroshi Ishikawa, and Nobuhiro Yamashita (yes the guy who made Linda Linda Linda) among many others. If this ever becomes a cohesive movement then Hirokazu Koreeda’s Maborosi may be considered the start of it all.

Of course, like any film movement (real or otherwise) the starting point will be very rough as is the case here. My viewing of this film adds some negative bias since the New Yorker DVD is completely detestable. The “rough” spots, in comparison to the future films of the psuedo-movement, is the lack of poetic stylization. Of course, this is not a fault of the film because it’s intentions are not in providing flowery voice-overs but instead on examining life neutrally. I do mention this as the start of the movement (reminder: the one that does not exist) because I can see some dream-like imagery that a director like Hiroshi Ishikawa could have expanded on.  I’ll get into that later.

The main character is Yumiko, played by the gorgeous Makiko Esumi. Living with her husband and her three month old son, she is plagued by nightmares of her grandmother’s departure. Her husband is killed not soon after in a very similar situation. She remarries and finds herself living by the Sea of Japan, a major departure from the gritty streets of Osaka.

Despite the near-VHS quality of New Yorker’s DVD, you can still see what a carefully lit film this is. The most obvious example of this is the sequence the naturally lit discussions that Yumiko has with both husbands. Sequences that start out pitch black, and by simply turning on a lamp, obtain a very odd beauty. A visual motif that can also be found in Fu sheng and Dust in the Wind, both absolute favorites of mine. I can’t say this had quite as strong emotional impact on me, but it is very good film, none the less. Perhaps a viewing with a better DVD source will change things. Until then, this is just a really nice, downbeat, slice of life film.

Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s latest film, Syndromes and a Century is coming out on DVD this Tuesday and it already has a very large following. Four years prior, he made Blissfully Yours which basically lays out a lot of the territory he would work with in his future films, the lone exception being The Adventures of Iron Pussy. Calling him a hybrid between Tsai Ming-liang and Werner Herzog may be a bit too short-sighted but I’m saying it as a compliment. All of Joe’s (Weerasethakul’s nickname) films that I’ve managed to seen bring out the best in the nature driven visual poetry of Herzog’s work as well as the deadpan humor and style of Tsai’s films. At one point, I felt that this was almost like Vive L’Amour just with a different setting. Still this is Joe’s film and while I don’t put him on the same level as Tsai, I do like him quite a bit.

The film is very easy to follow but obviously, not recommended to those who haven’t familiarized themselves with some of the other minimalistic work out of east Asia. Min is an illegal immigrant who is visiting the doctor to have a rash of his examined. His girlfriend, Roong is also there, as well as a friend, Orn. The film opens with a few very funny trade-offs in the doctor’s office, which definitely anticipates a lot of the humor found in Syndromes and a Century. The first fifteen minutes have more dialogue than the rest of the film which is a bit awkward. Also awkward is the fact that the opening credits don’t show up until one hour in. The only other that I can think of that also does this is Last Life is the Universe.

After the opening credits end, the second half of the film is set up: Roong and Min begin to drift along beautiful landscapes (a la the first half of L’Avventura) and end up deep in the forest which is where the film ends. Pretty simple for two and a hours so it’s easy to see why a lot of people got bored by this but if you enjoy this sensory driven type of cinematography then you’ll basically be in heaven. Unfortunately, the film never really goes anywhere and it seems almost self-consciously against having any closure. This is a great film, though. The screen shots do more justice for the film than my own words.

Well, what better way to start this blog than with two films from the filmmaker that basically gave birth to everything I love about modern cinema in Asia. I consider myself fairly knowledgeable when it comes to Ozu (I’ve seen somewhere around 18 of his 35 surviving features) but I’m pretty much unfamiliar with his silent films. I suppose this might be because I’m generally turned off by inter titles and I’m a bit of a modernist but my first venture into silent era Ozu territory turned out quite good…

An Inn in Tokyo (Yasujiro Ozu, 1935)

Outside of the obvious limitations that plague any silent film, this is pretty much perfect. The score is way too expressive (i.e manipulative) and never goes away. I guess I haven’t adjusted enough to the intertitles because they seem to mess up the pace at times. Even then, this is still very much an Ozu film. All the great visual compositions that I’ve become to known and love from the man are present. This is considered Ozu’s last silent film and much of the industry had already begun making talkies so I guess that could play a part in why this looks so good.

Not only does this predate all the neo-realism films of Italy but it’s also a lot better. De Sica and company would never make a film that is essentially this plotless. This probably deserves to be mentioned along with stuff like Los Olividados and Pixote. Now that I think of it, this does remind me even a little bit of Gummo, if only in a strictly narrative sense. The two boys in this have to catch dogs for financial support just like how Solomon and Tummler hunt cats for financial support. Yeah, a dubious connection but that’s the “tone” of the first half of the film.

It becomes a bit less aimless and a bit more conventional once Kihachi gets a job and Otsune becomes a more central character but it’s still really great. I mean, nobody was making something like in 1935, at least not to my knowledge.

The Brothers and Sisters of the Toda Family (Yasujiro Ozu, 1941)

One of only two films that Ozu made during the war (the other being There Was a Father, which I plan to see shortly) implies a lot of steps he would take in his later films, unfortunately this isn’t quite as good. The setup of a family coming together and drifting apart by the death of a key figure is obviously something that is portrayed a bit more convincingly in Tokyo Story. I might actually go as far as to say that this is really just a warm-up for the whole Noriko trilogy. But this actually does hold up quite well on it’s own but in the grand scheme of Ozu’s filmography, this is only a minor footnote.

At this point, Ozu was still developing his style. Thus, there are some technical “flaws” that you won’t find in later Ozu films. The most interesting being the shot length, which is very inconsistent. There’s a few shots that go on for minutes, which is fine by me, but the film doesn’t flow in the same way as the post-war films. After the war, when Ozu had “perfected” his vision, his takes started to flow together a bit more. The timing on the shots are more consistent, which does indeed support the claim that Ozu films feel like slide shows. I actually find the long takes in this to be sort of endearing (assuming one might view them as a flaw) and feel closer to Hou Hsiao-hsien’s style.

I’m guessing that a lot of propaganda material was coming out of Japan at the time and it sort of shows by Ozu wanting to wrap everything up into a more tangible “message.” I suppose this a bit unavoidable when the story is meant to be slightly tragic but it obviously dates the film. In that case, we’re lucky Ozu’s output during the war was so limited; he could have ended up being a full-fledged “political” director.