Tag: Japanese

Dozens of Norths (Ikuta no Kita)

Posted on by Redmond Bacon

QUICK SNAP: LIVE FROM TALLINN

A fascinating jumble of images exploring the extremity and isolation of existence, Dozens of Norths is the long-awaited and unique first feature from from legendary independent Japanese animator Koji Yamamura. Don’t expect traditional Japanese anime here: this is someone who has been blazing their own path outside of the studio system with short works for decades. Displaying an amazing sense of craft as well as a fine eye for striking, bizarre images, this is easily one of the standout films of the first feature competition.

The film opens on a series of world maps. They all point towards the area around the north pole, known for its dark nights, hardy people and cold weather. Yamamura presents the film as a series of unconnected and random fragments, a useful conceit as the movie explores the literal concept of meaningless. Don’t watch this if you’re in a bad mood, hungover or even drank too much coffee.

It feels purposefully like a dream, showing an author falling asleep and two smaller men walking away with his quill like arctic explorers. These are the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of the piece, guiding us through a hellish landscape that feels inspired by both Dante and Kafka in its depiction of sadness and depravity. There is a man attached to a dying animal lingering on the edge of a cliff; a man suspended upside-down by a tiny thread, trapped by his own subconscious; a women’s head that’s also a construction site; and hordes of people engaged in tasks with no meaning at all. And like Dante’s Inferno, the world we see is horrific, but is is presented with great beauty; hand-drawn animation that is busy with off-kilter design, oddball character lines and a a real sense of the void.

Text periodically appears on the screen like small poems, featuring aphorisms like “anxiety erodes you”. With no dialogue in the film, you read it as much as you watch it, creating a poetic, silent movie feel. This is complemented by the through-composed music, which has elements of Beatles producer George Martin’s work, as well as New Orleans jazz and atmospheric sound design. You could easily imagine this work presented with a live performance. It all makes for an unsettling experience, but a steadily enjoyable one nonetheless. I’m just glad it was under 70 minutes. Any longer and the really dark thoughts might have come my way.

As well as genuine existentialism, the other message seems to be the alienation of existence under capitalism, especially the part where people are working constantly on a task despite never having met the manager. If we are walking through hell, then that presumes there is also a heaven; someone else having the time of their life at your expense. But release in a conventional sense doesn’t arrive, Yamumura opting for image over narrative every time. The result is one of the boldest animated features I’ve seen in a while, a journey through an animation world worthy of inclusion alongside the likes of Pixar, Hertzfeld and Miyazaki.

Dozens of Norths plays in the First Feature Competition at the Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival, running from 12th – 28th November.

Woman of the Photographs

Posted on by Paul Risker

This Japanese romantic-horror, set in a small town near the coast, follows solitary middle-aged photographer and retouching artist Kai (Hideki Nagai), who out on a forest trek encounters social media model and sponsored influencer, Kyoko (Itsuki Otaki). They meet abruptly when she falls off a verge trying to take a photograph, leaving a noticeable bloody scar on her chest. Unexpectedly, the two strangers do not go their separate ways, and when she observes him retouching a customers photograph in his shop, she asks him if he can erase the scar in her pictures. But when her social media profile suffers a drop-off in fan engagement, she begins posting images that show her imperfect beauty. Confusion sets in as she loses sense of the real versus the manufactured version of herself.

The early impression of Woman of the Photographs is of a gentler type of comedy, subverting our expectations of a darker tale. The cinematography and performances play to the beat of a humorous rhythm, and the interaction between the pair as Kyoko tries to engage with the silent Kai, who flinches at her touch, is wryly amusing. They offer the perfect juxtaposition of energetic sociability and detached stillness. Watching her work her way into his life, staying overnight without any physical intimacy, Kushida reveals his hand.

The art of the film in one regard is the unspoken. An emphasis is placed on observing how Kai nonchalantly responds to her presence, the etiquette of his actions, gestures and habits forming a strong sense of who he is. This goes together with a few scenes with an unnamed customer, played by Toshiaki Inomata, whose daughter has passed and who knew Kai’s father. He speaks sparingly of not only his own personal tragedy, but gives us an insight into the solitary middle-aged man, and why he’s only able to engage with women by way of retouching their photographs.

Kushida’s skill is appreciating the value of words and silence, albeit using as few words as needed. The verbal restraint gives the emotions of the characters a weight, not only because it’s how Kai communicates, but it emphasises the internal world they all inhabit.This is a mental space that we must see and acknowledge, from which moments rich with feeling emerge. Inomata’s character illustrates this when he’s sparing with his words in an earlier scene, that informs a sensitive moment he shares with his wife later on.

40 minutes in and the unsettling horror begins to emerge, although from the beginning the film feels deliberately askew. Unlike Jud Cremata’s single-shot American horror, Let’s Scare Julie (2020), Kushida embraces the edit. He’s not interested in smooth cinematography, he wants the jagged edges, he wants to use the back and forth cutting to jostle us. In addition, an exaggerated sound design almost echoes the noticeable scratching sound of Kai’s Photoshop pen in the early scenes. This approach makes the normal everyday world we can see onscreen feel odd, and goes beyond aesthetic to tap into a deeper idea of the levels of consciousness.

It is fair to say that Woman of the Photographs stylistically contrasts our mental versus our physical reality. It conveys something human – to be physically present in one place, but be elsewhere mentally and emotionally. There are moments late in the film where Kyoko appears to exist on two planes – in Kei’s apartment above the shop, but also in the sea, a place he would photograph her. She slips between a conscious awareness of her surroundings and the subconscious of her imagination. Lost in the imagery that relates to the confusion and pain of placing an emphasis on how others see her, and the way the interaction between the water, objects and her body are symbolic.

The female customer who introduces Kyoko to the idea of image manipulation says, “I believe that myself reflected in the eyes of others is my true self… We can love ourselves only through others’ eyes.” The themes and ideas at the heart of the film are unlikely to decrease in their relevance, cautioning us to the danger of finding a sense of self-worth and acceptance through others. Instead we need to show ourselves compassion and understanding so that we can discover a sustainable feeling of personal value.

For many of us, there is a deep intimacy we share with Kyoko’s experiences. Kushida is touching upon human nature and its inevitable vulnerabilities that are a common source of anxiety. In this context, Woman of the Photographs is a horror story about what it is to be human. Its visual playfulness and ideas many of us can relate to through social media interaction and a basic need to be loved and accepted, makes it difficult to not be enraptured and unsettled by this impressive feature directorial debut.

Woman of the Photographs played at Arrow Video FrightFest Digital Edition 2.

Hanezu

Posted on by victorfraga

The spirits of the ancient capital Fujiwara-Kyo, the birthplace of the Japanese nation is shrouded by mysteries revolving three mountains that have marked generations of a small village, presently manifesting through a relationship of a woman, her husband, and her lover. Naomi Kawase’s Hanezu, which is based on a novel by Masako Bando, is a contemplative work of naturalism, a cryptic sensory of mysticism, spirituality, serenity and tradition told through sparse dialogue that may parallel viewers to the intangible voice overs of Terrence Malick and the subliminal vistas of Apichatpong Weerasethakul (Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives, 2010, and Cemetery of Splendour, 2015).

Kawase’s 13th film demonstrates a philosophy weighing no monotonous reformation of the characters who find themselves at some point in their lives understanding the means of Zen. The transition of disquieting what absurdities may seem to triumph over the free will of desire because of the tradition of things in life (in reference to marriage, mothering a child, what we choose to pursue and what we choose to build) that may ultimately force one to recount a long forgotten desire, or an abrupt desire burdening no simplicity in our dealings with life, itself.

That makes for an anomalous definition of the principle which any conflicted individual practising hopes to suppress, it makes for a realisation so heavy and yet reassuring: nothing in life is simple, for it is just. Not that Takumi (Tôta Komizu) or Kayoko (Hako Oshima) at any point of the film bring the term of Zen to discussion, though much of their intimacy is grounded in moments of complete stillness and stares, and what repercussions will come from their affair Their conversations are more spiritual than they are realistically banal which is completely in contrast to how Takumi’s relationship is with Tetsuya (Tetsuya Akikawa), her awfully absent but loving husband. Their marriage consists of cooking (precise detailing in their use of safflower and gardenia), grocery shopping, morning and nightly small talks. Tetsuya is pretty much absent through most of the story but there is somewhat of an interesting revelation that can be made about him and how he comes to a decision unveiling a shame he bears.

Hanezu is like an open journal of thoughts and mood, there is a great deal of loss and tragedy unfolding in layers of incremented validities neither Takumi and Kayoko are even emotionally equipped for. Their affair is more nurturing than it is mischievous and romantic. In an early scene of the film, Kayoko cuts his finger and Takumi gently kisses it, then she begins to suck the blood off his finger. He smiles, she smiles, he laughs, she kisses his finger again, he reaches close and kisses her head, they hug. This moment is handled quite beautifully, portrayed to be neither exotically raw or thematically mawkish, it’s just, sweet. They ponder on, ask questions like “Whose face will you see just before you die?” and immerse in the doings of day-to-day diversions that feel more fulfilling and hopeful than when they’re living their own separate lives.

Somewhere in the middle of the film is a storyline following a long deceased family member, a ghost, a drafted soldier who is of past and present and of life and death. This ghost crosses paths and conversations organically happen. Why he’s here and why Kawase generates this paranormal meander isn’t ever really conveyed. It’s bold, sure, but not because it’s a precipitous symbol of the meta, which thankfully, isn’t forced even if it were to pose it. Such an addition to an already stoical film isn’t even a narrative device but a poignant confrontation between past lives and the spirits carrying on. Thematically, this paranormal consciousness serves as every persons’ dealing with the family legacies from the generations before them. How Takumi and Kayoko interact with this memory in the form of the ghost is really more obviously transparent than it may even come across.

What we learn from both Takumi and Kayoko is that neither person feels fulfilled with their place in time and the happening. Kayoko wants a child, Takumi wants . . . Well, it’s almost difficult to really pinpoint what Takumi wants. She wants to pursue real love, yes, but will that be enough for her? Does this real love reform her perception, and what exactly is that? What if she doesn’t want to mother a child? What if she no longer complies with the remorse and tremor of both Kayoko and Tetsuya (a husband who is no longer a husband in her eyes but a voice and a figure sharing a home) ?

These are the afterthoughts of what becomes of Hanezu, a film that will find parallels to Eric Rohmer, Malick, Angela Schanelec and Hong Sang-soo. This is probably her finest film, one which offers no explanation to what’s being seen (as any daring filmmaker can and will do, but to what achievable effect?) and yet, for only about 82 minutes of running time, says so much with a sparse of conventional telling in what movies of this kind are expected to explore. There’s a specificity with how she frames the observations of her characters. There’s a mellowness to it, an appreciation for a splendour vastly emphasised on the interactions we have with food, putting things together, creating and what subtleties our eyes choose to prolongedly reverie.

There are so many moments of Takumi and Kayoko cutting food, of Kayoko carving an ancient cedar, and Takumi draining sheets of cloth into red wine; Kawase conveys these intimate interactions with extreme close ups. The hands, like the face, emulate a conviction Kawase puts to bare with a patience and muteness recounting the years of it. There’s a great use of green in this film, the lands, the trees and the leaves. The imagery is a retelling of the nature of birth and death. Each shot – whether still or handheld – of her work is seriously considered, they constitute the life within the life of the story. She’s a filmmaker who sees life in everything that is still because everything which lives at some in time, stops. There is an interaction we have with anything that’ll influence the intimacy we share with another. Be our ideas, our beliefs, our appreciation for what’s at full display.

Watch Hanezu right now with DMovies and Eyelet:

Kontora

Posted on by victorfraga

QUICK SNAP: LIVE FROM THE TALLINN BLACK NIGHTS FILM FESTIVAL

Our story takes place in an unidentified small town somewhere in modern Japan. It deals with the very Japanese topic of WW2 wounds and secrets, in a closely-knit family unused to changes and external influences. You’d be forgiven for thinking this was a a Shohei Imamura or a Nagisa Oshima movie. In reality, it was directed by Indian helmer Anshul Chauhan, and photographed by Estonian cinematographer Maxim Golomidov.

The plot is very simple and straightforward. A young girl lives called Sora (Wan Marui) with her father and grandfather, and one day the latter passes away. Her father’s cousin and his daughter are about the only company that they have, but they also have their differences. Life is uneventful, and so Sora dreams of moving away to Tokyo in search of challenges and excitement. Then two very unusual and apparently unrelated events take place, turning their lives upside down.

Firstly, Sora finds a diary next to her grandfather’s dead body, with writings and drawings of his experience during WW2. It says that he buried his “metal arm” in the forest, and there are some vague instructions of how to find it. Sora sets herself on a mission to find the unusual item. This exciting quest overshadows her desire to move to the nations’ capital.

Secondly, Sora’s father runs over a backward-walking homeless man while drunk-driving. Sora welcomes the hapless into their household, despite her father’s protests. The man does not talk, and nobody knows where he comes from and why he walks backwards. The relationship between the doting Sora and her selfish father begins to collapse as they are unable to agree on the fate of their unusual guest.

Most of this 145-minute purposely languid and meditative movie is built upon these two plot devices. It keeps viewers guessing up until the very end whether the two events are connected. Is the backward-walking man some sort of reincarnation of the late grandfather? Is his backward-walking a war-related gesture? Is he a ghost? Perhaps a sombre presage of something wicked about to happen? Or does he simply have mental health issues? A couple of sudden outbursts suggest that there are more things between heaven and Earth. Presumably, there are references to Japanese culture that I could not grasp.

Entirely shot in black and white, with auspicious actors and a convincing script, Kontora deftly blends dreamy images with very earthly matters. It’s interesting enough to watch, even if it could do with a shorter duration (maybe an hour less). This is ne for the silver screen. It might get a little soporific on a small screen in your lounge.

Kontora is showing in Competition at the 23rd Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival, which is taking place right now.

Ring (Ringu)

Posted on by victorfraga

Adapted from Koji Suzuki’s 1991 novel, Hideo Tanaka’s is the second film version of the book. The first one was a Japanese television movie in 1995. A number of remakes and sequels have been made since, both in Japan and Hollywood. The franchise was so successful that two 3D movies were released earlier this decade. Hideo Tanaka’s film, however, remains the most powerful and successful one to date. Luckily for me, having never seen the original it was a revelation to watch the story unfold with fresh eyes in a superb 4k restoration.

This is truly a story from which nightmares are made, a situation that any viewer can imagine themselves in. Late at night with a group of friends you find yourself watching this video that apparently has a curse, maybe you were dared to watch it. You all laugh and think this is a bit of joke and then (as promised) your phone rings and someone tells you that you will die in seven days.

The simplicity of the idea works well, even if the film is viewed on a video tape. The concept does not lose its impact. It is easy to imagine that we are watching a film made just now and set two decades ago. The new version has a crisp bright quality to the image which gives the effect of having us believe we are watching something set in the past. The use of the schoolgirls at the beginning of the film lends itself to this film being viewed during a teenage sleepover. The plot is carefully constructed following Tomoko (Yuko Takeuchi) who has been given this cursed video by a group of friends who watched it the week before and through her niece’s death to our central character, journalist Reiko (Nanako Matsushima) who feels compelled to investigate this mystery.

Her journey towards the truth leads her to involve her ex-husband Ryuji (Hiroyuki Sanada) who proves to be a willing ally in the adventure. Their son Yoichi (Takashi Yamamura) becomes involved accidentally and has to be left with his Grandfather Katsumi (Koichi Asakawa) for safely. The tension and stakes build exponentially as the search for clues to the origin of the curse progress. The image of water is used throughout to build atmosphere tension and the inner mood of the protagonist. Water is a central device in many Japanese horror films, including Nakata’s 2003 Dark Water. The surging black ocean mirrors the grainy fuzz on the video before we see the blurred face of Sadako (Rie Ino’o). Rain pours down at key moments, and during Ryuji and Reiko’s investigation on Oshima Island they uncover the well that they have seen in the video. They must empty the water to find out if this is where Sadako’s remains are where they suspect them to be. The swampy water at the bottom of the well needs to be dredged by hand, Reiko and Ryūji are on a physical as well as psychological quest.

The complexity and intensity of the story is developed brilliantly by Nakata as he brings in the psychic element of the plot, not only has Sadoko brought the haunted video into being psionically, but Reiko and Ryūji are both psychic themselves and see the whereabouts of the well in a vision.

Just as Reiko thinks the curse has been broken and their efforts rewarded, the plot takes a deeper and satisfyingly shocking turn. Perhaps the only “jump out of your seat” moment, but it is worth waiting for. The final moments of the film pose a very human dilemma for the leading character and for the audience. We are invited to muse about what our choice would be faced with this dilemma. To perpetuate the curse and it’s ‘get out’ clause or to have it end by sacrificing someone else. Sacrifice will be involved whatever the choice and it is just this dilemma and psychological drama that makes this film still so watchful 20 years after its original release.

The 20th anniversary restoration of Ring is out in UK cinemas and also on Blu-ray on Friday, March 1st.

One Cut of the Dead (Kamera o Tomeru na!)

Posted on by victorfraga

Start your new year off right by seeking out this joyful, genuinely independent film from Japanese newcomer Shinichirou Ueda. This project, which came together though a workshop at Tokyo Film school Enbu Seminar, might be one of the great films about filmmaking, shining a light on just what keeps us watching horror films even when we’ve seen it all before.

When One Cut of the Dead begins its ambitious first shot, a 40-minute zombie movie that plays out in a single take, a low-budget film crew are desperately trying to get through a shoot that’s already approaching Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s Apocalypse (Eleanor Coppola, George Hickenooper, 1991) insanity. As his actors mess up a 47th take, the abusive director Higurashi (Takayuki Hamatsu) loses his mind at the cast, slapping one and storming off set. “He seems better than usual,” someone comments. Utter cabin fever has already sunk in, and within minutes we learn that the set is an abandoned WWII experimentation camp. This is some disaster artist act, and when the zombies attack, Higurashi can’t believe his luck, ‘this is reality! We keep rolling!’ At one point he even becomes aware of the camera trained on him by Ueda, and encourages him too to film. Soon he’s setting zombies on his cast in order to get the best footage.

It’s amateurish, but delivered with a sense of play that suggests a movie very much in control of its creativity. Ueda squeezes the best out of his limited budget and location. When the production can’t handle the effects it lingers on a character reaction sometimes for two or three times as long as seems necessary. At one point the crew finds a dismembered hand which they mistake for a prop, and then play piggy in the middle with when the dismembered zombie comes looking. It’s such a slapstick moment that the filmmakers must be aware that it kills the tension, right?

Ueda withholds what he’s really up to as One Cut of the Dead goes through all the Zombie movie beats, from “I heard this place is haunted” to someone hiding their bite, to the crew turning on each other, but at such a pace that you can’t get bored. It’s so breathless that there is little time for character development. As a result, characters that are more like figures, running around the set. The camera gets dropped on the floor at one point, and of course there’s blood splattering on the lens, which we see the cameraman wiping off in another move that makes one question the film’s real viewpoint. It’s full of gestural blocking, the actors rushing to hit their marks. But that gives it a freshness, winking to the viewer of the entire rube goldberg machine that is filmmaking.

In one ingenious scene, the film’s lead, Chinatsu (Yuzuki Akiyama) nurses a zombie bite, which the audience can tell is a rather crudely applied make up effect. But after a moment she realises that it’s makeup from the film she was shooting and she peels it off of her leg. Simple moments play with our understanding of the various ‘films’ that are layered upon each other. Ueda is interested in the edges of films, the seems of artifice. Then halfway though, something even more meta- takes place , which is best un-spoiled but uses an inverse Cannibal Holocaust (Ruggero Deodato, 1980) structure to broaden the film’s universe and brings genuine depth to the characters and points out its tropes in direct ways.

When we return in the second half to those amateur moments, like those overdrawn close ups, the hokey effects, the fourth-wall-breaking gestures, Ueda brings a whole new set of contexts and revelations which transform our entire experience with the film. One Cut of the Dead does so much to highlight the methods of its construction that its third act is brimming with corniness: a selection of contrived narratives and conflicts to illustrate its jokes about filmmaking, have already been lampshaded. It allows the movie to get away with pretty much whatever it wants. Such ingenuity shifts the meaning of the movie from horror-comedy into an inspirational ode to filmmaking and the film community. Call it Through the Olive Trees (Abbas Kiarostami, 1996) directed by Drew Goddard, this generous, effervescent film will delight horror nerds, serious cinephiles, and casual viewers alike.

One Cut of the Dead is out in selected cinemas across the UK on Friday, January 4th. It’s out on VoD, DVD and BD on Monday, January 28th.

Kusama – Infinity

Posted on by victorfraga

Society rarely deems women worthy of the title ‘genius’. As those who control the ways of showcasing art, whether it’s a film festival or an exhibition hall, are so often men, the work of women can often be dismissed as insignificant compared to those of male artists. This was certainly the case for Yayoi Kusama. The Japanese artist arrived in 1950s New York only to be ignored in favour of ‘serious’ and ‘important’ artists such as Jackson Pollock and Willem de Koonig. Yet she persisted, the tide turned, and now Kusama is the most popular living artist in the world.

Now a new documentary details her struggle, taking in everything from her difficult upbringing in conservative Japan to her move to the USA to finally representing her home country in the Venice Biennale. Using a mixture of archival footage and talking heads, Kusama: Infinity works both as an introduction to her life and work, and as a deeper exploration of how the conventional definition of ‘greatness’ is rooted in bias.

Kusama was born in Matsumoto in 1929 in a highly conservative and patriarchal society. Her mother routinely took away and burnt Kusama’s artwork, claiming that she would do much better to find a husband. Plus, she physically abused her daughter. In the start of many rebellions against conventional society, she learned to work in a complete fury — rarely thinking ahead before plunging head-first into her work. The concept behind the dots and the flowers came from hallucinations, allowing her experiences to bleed directly onto the canvas.

Unable to find success in Japan, she wrote to Georgia O’Keeffe, who told her to move to the United States. There we are given a stealth history in how art was used to protest against the Vietnam war, and how happenings and public nudity were used to shock a still narrow-minded American consciousness.

Yet once she moved back to Japan in the early 1970s, in a turn of history that would never occur to a man of the same stature — say a Mark Rothko or Barnett Newman — she was mostly forgotten about until her revival in the late 1980s. The documentary takes great care to talk to the curators and critics (many of whom are women) who saw the importance of her work and championed it, showing that diversity in cultural gatekeepers is the first step to a healthy art culture. Without them, it could’ve been a completely different story.

Crucially the documentary allows us just to see the work for itself. It is dazzling. Whether its her vast paintings of polka dots — which she described as “infinity nets” — or her permanent installations that seem to stretch on forever, her contributions to abstract art have been immense. Now her friendly, highly stylised, Pop-Art like patterns are perfect for the Instagram age, in which one’s feed is not just about just one picture, but how it looks presented in a broader context, alongside other pictures. We can now see infinity in the internet scroll, but Kusama was already there fifty years earlier. Now that is the work of a true genius.

Kusama – Infinity is in cinemas Friday, October 5th.

Mirai

Posted on by victorfraga

The sensibility of a child is not an easy one to transpose onto the silver screen. Our little human beings have an entirely different way of seeing the world, with a very fertile imagination, a lot of curiosity, a certain naivety, but also a touch of callousness. Recreating a child’s world isn’t just about plush and colourful images, toys, fairy dust and pixies. Subtlety and nuance are also mandatory. Mamoru Hosada’s latest film succeeds at all accounts. Mirai is both sophisticated and ingenious, and it’s entirely relatable whatever your age.

A spoiled and pampered four-year old boy called Kun (voiced by Moka Kamishiraishi) is perplexed and indignant at the arrival of his newborn sister Mirai (Haru Kuroki), whose name means “future” in Japanese. His parents (voiced by Gen Hoshino and Kumiko Aso) now have to divide their attention between the two children. The two adults are never named, emphasising that the film is seen from Mirai’s perspective (who simply calls them “mother” and “father”).

Kun is used to all of the attention to himself, so he’s predictably jealous. Extremely jealous. And angry. Red with anger even. He’s prone to tantrums, which throw the hitherto household into disarray. Sounds banal? Well, it is banal. Until you penetrate Kun’s imagination, which is teeming with action, fantastic concoctions but also very vivid fears. Almost the entire film takes place inside Kun’s house. It’s Kun’s imagination that has the ability to travel very far,

Mirai will transport you back to your early childhood, when reaching a doll or a piece of bric-à-brac sitting on a shelf without attracting your father’s attention was a mammoth quest. Kun has two handy imaginary helpers: a grown-up version of Mirai and his anthropomorphised pet dog. The unlikely trio embark on a very thrilling adventure, and this is just the first of many voyages.

Later on, Kun’s vivid imagination establishes a dialogue and a relationship with his late great-grandfather. He has overheard his parents talk about how his forebear – whom he never met – survived WW2, became disabled and married his great-grandmother. His grandfather represents a connection with the past, while Mirai represents a link with the future (the nominative determinism speaks for itself). Past, present and future mingle together, providing integrity and continuity’s to Kun’s family history.

Mirai has at least three subtle yet very significant and pertinent messages to Japan, a conservative country grappling with a demographic implosion (the population is shrinking very quickly). Firstly, the film suggests that it’s good to conceive. Children humanise parents, who become “unflappable”. So let’s have babies! Secondly, the father is caring and doting, and he helps to look after the children. Quite refreshing for a country where men work so hard they never have time for their family. A few years ago, Japan created the annual Beloved Wives’ Day in order to give men the rare opportunity to spend time with their family. Thirdly, the mother is a working mum. Japan has a problem with females giving up their career after they become a mother.

The graphics of Mirai are a delight to watch. They become increasingly soulful and elaborate as the narrative progresses in a tandem with Kun’s imagination. There’s plenty of cuteness, as the opening song suggests (the lyrics cry “cute, cute, cute”, in English). But there’s also plenty of sadness. Enough tears to fill up the Sea of Japan. And there’s a touch of ugliness. The representations of evil and loneliness are quite jarring, even for adults.

Mirai premieres as part of both the BFI London Film Festival (UK premiere) and Scotland Loves Anime (Scottish premiere) in October. It is out in cinemas across the UK on Friday, November 2nd.

Maquia: When the Promised Flower Blooms

Posted on by victorfraga

Fifteen-year-old Maquia is from the Clan of the Separated, where all members are blonde females who stop ageing in their mid teens and proceed to live for centuries. She is warned never to fall in love with an outsider because this would inevitably lead to loneliness. That’s because the loved one will age and die long before her. The problem is that Maquia is an orphan, and so she feels very lonely anyway. One day, a foreign army invades their otherwise peaceful land, seeking to unveil to secret of their near-immortality. Maquia manages to flee, and she miraculously encounter a baby boy who’s also an orphan during her escape.

The two orphans predictably bond. Maquia adopts the baby, whom she names Ariel. Maternal love ensues. The problem is that Ariel is not from the Clan of the Separated, and he will age very quickly. This interesting twist on motherhood is precisely what makes Maquia: When The Promised Flower Blooms clever and engrossing. It’s impossible not to be moved by the protagonist attempts to forge a relationship with the baby and then watch him grow old while she remains the same. She is suffering in silence, presuming that she will watch him die one day, leaving her once again alone. This is probably the biggest conceivable pain for a mother. This is where the female sensibility of the filmmaker blooms.

The photography of Maquia is typical of a fairy tale, and it’s pleasant enough to watch. At times, the images are sumptuous, teeming with blue skies, verdant hills, medieval-looking castles, white dresses and blonde hair, much like an old-fashioned European princess story (including a vulnerable female who gasps and cries all the time). There is also an elegantly somber facet to the movie, with red-eyed dragons called Renatos, earthly colours and mouldy walls. Impressive enough for children and adults alike.

But this is also a film with many flaws, mostly in its epic narrative. Its multilayered arc is too elliptical. I struggled enormously to follow the plot. The story has more twists and turns than a garden hose. I wouldn’t even know where to start describing it. It would have benefited from a simpler narrative.

Maquia: When the Promised Flower Blooms is out in cinemas across the UK on Wednesday, June 27th.

The Third Murder

Posted on by Alasdair Bayman

F ollowing his captivating examination of the family in After the Storm (2016), Hirokazu Koreeda continues his prolific form of one-film-a-year and delivers a multi-layered emotional tapestry in The Third Murder. Pre-dating the appearance of the title on screen, Misumi (Kôji Yakusho) commits the titular cardinal sin, whilst stealing the dead man’s wallet. Charged on the account of murder and robbery, his fate looks sealed until the prudent lawyer Shigemori (Masaharu Fukuyama) seeks to add truth to the matter. Retaining the familial themes that have imbued his works with a vibrant quality, whilst venturing to pastures green, Koreeda entrances you into the seams of his narrative; leaving one emotionally charged and contained.

Throughout, the murder which Misumi has committed only has one valid piece of evidence; his confession. Apart from the fact he worked at a canning factory owned by the man he killed, there is actually very little hard evidence to support Misumi committing murder. Shigemori is all too aware of this and proceeds to look beyond Misumi’s confession and study the actual narrative of the killing. Previous to Shigemori’s involvement, his father examined the case but was all too swift to jump towards the conclusion that the murder was all down to Misumi.

Working in a small team of four, Shigemori’s work relationship is imbued with a tender stroke by Koreeda. Replicating the narrative bonding act of eating noodles, which is so fundamental to the relationships in After the Storm, ingrains a delicate characteristic to the lead. Acting as a cathartic escape from the stresses of the murder case, such senses add levity towards the Noirish elements of Misumi’s brutal act of murder. The fine balance between light and dark tones is an artistic stroke of virtuosity from the director, resulting in a deep emotion investment to all the characters, regardless if they are criminals or not.

Similar to Our Little Sister (Hirokazu Koreeda, 2015) an exploration of young femininity is unearthed in Sakie (Suzu Hirose). The daughter of the man Misumi killed-or seemingly so- she is a vulnerable tender being. Operating to a level of secrecy towards Shigemori, the secrets of her father are uncovered through her. Hirose’s graceful pale faces furthers the progress of her character’s tenderness too.

Matching Misumi and Shigemori, Mikiya Takimoto’s CinemaScope camera fills their claustrophobic encounters in the holding cell with peculiar angles, occasionally merging the two men’s faces together or intimately. Recalling the aesthetics of Robby Müller’s cinematography in Wim Wender’s essential Paris, Texas (Wim Wenders, 1984), it is absorbing to witness.

Adding to an already impressive and varied filmography, Koreeda serves up a delightful slice of enthralling cinema. Akin to the varying genres explored by Francois Ozon from 8 Women (2002) to Frantz (2016) knows what field the Japanese director will operate in next. This interchangeable form of filmmaking is as good as it gets.

The Third Murder was out in UK cinemas in March. It’s out on VoD on Monday, July 16th. The director won the Palme d’Or in Cannes for his latest film Shoplifters, yet to be released in the UK and elsewhere.

Tokyo Ghoul (Tôkyô Gûru)

Posted on by victorfraga

A little zombie, a little vampire, a little alien and extremely Japanese, that’s probably a succinct way of describing the flesh-eating ghouls in the Japanese manga series Tokyo Ghoul, which has now been made into a feature film with real actors, and very plush, colourful and nimble CGI effects. These creatures are “above human beings in the food chain”, a voice-over explains in the beginning of the movie. Worse still, these ghoul are virtually indistinguishable from human beings except that when they are excited or hungry, their scleras turn black and their irises red. Plus they unleash an enormous tentacle from their back. Their must conceal their identity in order to evade pursuit.

Their tentacle comes in all lengths, shapes, forms and colours. Some are three-pronged, some resemble an octopus, some are more reminiscent of a cacatua. These devices are enormous and provide the ghouls with a very striking individuality. They also make the man-eating creatures far more agile: they can use the appendages in order to jump, fight, grip and kill their prey. In fact, it’s these bizarre body parts that make Tokyo Ghoul a very effective blend of fantasy and action flick, with flavours or horror.

The story revolves around Ken Kaneki, a university student who barely survives an encounter with Rize Kamishiro, as his gorgeous date reveals herself as a hungry ghoul. He is taken to the local hospital in a serious condition. He then finds out that he has mutated into a half-ghoul, as some of Rize’s organs were unwillingly transplanted into his body. From now on, he must feed on human flesh in order to survive. Everything else tastes foul and acrid. He’s now faced with a moral dilemma, as he’s still half human. Should he engage in cannibalism in order to satiate his hunger and survive? Coming to term with his new man-eating identity is not going to be an easy ride.

This is an entertaining fantasy movie, with some subtle social commentary. Just not a very dirty movie. The ghouls are forced to live in an underworld, and they are also subject to a hierarchy. There’s also a very tragic humanistic element, as Kaneki realises his inevitable fate. The beginning of the film has references to Franz Kafka’s The Methamorphosis, but then the individual’s plight slowly morphs a societal drama, as humans and ghouls engage in violence (against each other and also between themselves).

All in all, this is a movie likely to please lovers of the series, and might also convert a few new fans. Tokyo Ghoul is out in cinemas across the UK on Wednesday, January 31st.