Akira, released in 1988, is a science-fiction anime movie directed by Otomo Katsuhiro and based on his 6-volume manga series of the same name. Set in 2019 in post-war Neo-Tokyo, the movie follows the leader of a youth bike gang, Kaneda, as he attempts to rescue his gang friend, Tetsuo, who has been kidnapped and is being subjected to scientific experimentation.
The movie begins with a shot of what appears to be an atomic explosion that annihilates Tokyo in 1988, signaling the start of World War III. Viewers are then fast-forwarded to the post-war city of Neo-Tokyo in 2019, a monstrous neon metropolis built on an artificial island in the middle of Tokyo Bay. Here, viewers are presented with scenes of chaos: bike gang battles, anti-government rioting, and terrorism. The storyline begins by following a bike gang, led by Kaneda, as they fight another gang, the Clowns. During a chase scene with the Clowns, Kaneda’s friend, Tetsuo, crashes his bike into #26, a child-mutant produced by scientific experiments, and is seriously injured. Army personnel arrive at the scene and take #26 and Tetsuo back to their laboratories. Kaneda comes into contact with the resistance group that had tried to kidnap #26, and joins them in an attempt to rescue Tetsuo from further scientific experimentation. However, they are too late, and discover that Tetsuo has already been turned into a mutant being with supernatural powers. After laying waste to security forces that try to contain him, Tetsuo goes in search of Akira, a legendary entity that supposedly sparked the 1988 explosion. Kaneda continues his mission, but must now save Tetsuo from himself. The two meet near, and eventually inside, the Olympic Stadium where they fight in an epic showdown before Tetsuo begins to completely lose control of himself and his powers.
The funding, resources, and manpower needed to create Akira were made possible by a consortium of Japanese entertainment companies called the Akira Committee, an entity that became the movie’s producer. Such strong financial backing allowed Otomo to devote a large amount of resources and time to the animation process. As a result, viewers will notice the detail put into the animation technique used in Akira, cel-shading, is extremely precise. The intricacy and density of the cels gives Akira an unprecedented feeing of fluidity and realism. The colors used in Akira’s cels are also bright and highly varied. The intricate cels and vibrant colors make Akira’s numerous battle and protest scenes, as well as Tetsuo’s mutations, even more frantic, violent, and realistic. High-speed chase scenes that follow the gang’s motorcycles feel incredibly fluid. Overhead shots and fly-bys of Neo-Tokyo also benefit from the high-end animation: viewers get a real sense of the city’s expansiveness (both vertical and horizontal) and complexity. Also noteworthy in Akira is the detail put into the facial speech animations, making it seem as though the animated characters are truly pronouncing and meaning the words they speak. Even by today’s standards, Akira is still visually impressive.
Looking past all of the visually pleasing action and destruction, viewers may find that Akira’s subtext addresses numerous issues facing late twentieth-century Japanese society. Indeed, themes of decay such as consumerism, social unrest, corruption, and juvenile delinquency, as well as themes of destruction such as memories of the World War II nuclear bombings are present throughout the movie. Perhaps most noteworthy is the theme of nuclear destruction and re-growth as it relates to Japan’s post-World-War-II experience. In the wake of the conventional and nuclear Allied bombings during World War II, Tokyo and much of the rest of Japan lay in ruins. From the ashes, Japan was able to rebuild itself once more into a thriving economy and society. In a similar fashion, Akira’s Neo-Tokyo had been built from the ashes of the nuclear explosion experienced during a fictional World War III. From the outset of the movie, it is apparent that Neo-Tokyo is again approaching the end of another destruction/reconstruction cycle: it is unstable, corrupt, filthy, and decaying from within. Viewers are presented with numerous scenes that signal the impending collapse: rioters take to the streets and are confronted by armed and brutal police, explosions are set off by terrorist groups, and corruption and ineptitude are evident in meetings held by the city’s government. The city’s young, too, have become delinquent, as exemplified by Kaneda’s bike gang and their revelry in violence and vandalism. To make clear the severity of the decay, one of the child-mutants in the laboratory, #25, Kiyoko, delivers an ominous prophecy in the first third of the movie: “The city will crumble”. Conveyed by Akira’s theme of destruction and reconstruction is a fear, and possibly a warning, that Japan will never escape this cyclic process of death/birth/re-growth that started in World War II; Japan will eternally fall prey to excess, greed, corruption, only to annihilate itself, reconstruct, and start the process anew.
Akira is not only a spectacular piece of animation, but also a much deeper look into concerns facing Japanese society. The storyline weaves the viewer through the decay occurring within the city of Neo-Tokyo – rampant consumerism, juvenile delinquency, civil unrest, and corruption – while also bringing attention to post-war fears of further nuclear destruction and rebirth. Akira’s influence outside of Japan has been far-reaching, and has been included in Michael Jackson’s music video, Scream, as well as Kanye West’s music video, Stronger. The movie has numerous scenes of violence that involve animations of blood and gore, and profanities are used often. Akira is truly a must see for fans of animation, anime or for those interested in Japanese culture.
Category: experimental
In his surreal, autobiographical drama, Pastoral: To Die In The Country (Den-en ni shisu, 1974), Terayama Shûji sacrifices conventions in narrative framing to create an aesthetic befitting of the film’s elucidated themes; he amalgamates the nature of thoughts, dreams, and memories to illustrate how a person’s existential self is constructed of the unconscious interaction of all three natures. The film stars Suga Kantarô as Terayama as a boy and Takano Hiroyuki as Terayama as an adult. The film was entered into the 1975 Cannes Film Festival; Terayama was nominated for the Golden Palm award; and Harada Yoshio, who plays Arashi (a friend of the adult version of the protagonist), won the Blue Ribbon award for ‘best supporting actor’. Though critically acclaimed upon release, lack of distribution has made Pastoral a relatively obscure piece of Japanese avant-garde cinema.
The film begins as a relatively conventional narrative about Terayama’s childhood – his domineering mother, his disturbed connection with his dead father, and his boyhood crush on a married woman whom he dreams of running away with. However, in the second act, Terayama pulls us out of the narrative and into a post-structural setting of reflectivity; we see present-day Terayama as himself, a director making a film about his own childhood, struggling to honestly express his past through the limited medium of film. By appealing to truth rather than conformity of filmic conventions, Terayama forfeits narrative structure by surrealistically putting the adult version of himself into the film about his childhood. In this way, Terayama uses the film as a personal meditation of his own existence. Through the interaction between his adult and adolescent self, and the illumination of incongruities between them, Terayama illustrates how a person’s existential self is truly constructed of the unconscious interaction of thoughts, memories, and dreams. By amalgamating his thoughts, memories, and dreams into a spectacle, Terayama literally elucidates this unconscious interaction. This allows Terayama to genuinely attempt to “express the past”, “remove it from the core or [his] being”, and free himself from memories and illusions of the past which he “carries around like a millstone”.
Terayama utilizes lighting and colour filters to create a viscerally engaging, theme-befitting aesthetic. While the emphatic colours and sharp tones appear chaotic and arbitrary, they are not used in vain; they enhance the mood of the scenes so as to reveal thematic consistencies. Within the film, Terayama utilizes four distinct modes of lighting and colour filtration; each mode imbues particular scenes with the particular mood he wishes to render. The first mode consists of low-key lighting and dark colour filters, such as navy blue or dark purple; this produces wild shadows, gloomy tones, and a dreary atmosphere, and is generally used for scenes of the ‘scary mountain’. This mode illustrates Terayama’s youthful sadness and disturbed connection with his dead father. The second mode consists of high-key lighting and a spectrum prism filter (encompassing all the colours of the rainbow); this produces vibrant tones and a joyful atmosphere, and is generally used for scenes of the circus. This mode illustrates Terayama’s childhood wonders, joys, and dreams. The third mode consists of natural lighting and calm, earthly colour filters, such as sky blue, and grass green; this produces neutral tones and a peaceful atmosphere, and is generally used for scenes of the countryside. This mode illustrates the restful tranquility Terayama feels of the countryside – a tranquility he likens to death. Finally, the fourth mode consists of high-key lighting in black and white; this produces high composition between black and white images, bright and dim tones, and a pensive atmosphere, and is generally used for present day scenes of Terayama. This mode illustrates Terayama’s nerve-racking existential struggle.
Moreover, elements of mise-en-scene and sound complement these modes of lighting and colour filtration to create an artistic aesthetic common of the surreal and avant-garde. Colours and shapes of props, such as clothing, tools, and even the characters themselves, complement the moods rendered by the four aforementioned modes of lighting and colour filtration. For example, the vivid colours of the circus complement the spectrum prism filter used to light the circus scenes. What’s more, sound effects, such as a ‘humming’ noise, and music, both diegetic and non-diegetic, immediately translate mood into the audience’s experience; the sounds, therefore, serve as background mood directors for the audiences’ experience of the visuals. The combination of all of these elements – lighting, colour filtration, mise-en-scene, and sound – creates an engaging aesthetic, giving Pastoral: To Die In The Country the capacity for producing aesthetic experience – a direct, perhaps transcendental experience of the formal properties of an artwork.
Since Terayama Shûji’s Pastoral: To Die In The Country is a complex, tenuously structured film with a non-linear narrative, it is not for the faint of heart. For this reason, I cannot recommend the film to just anyone. So, I’ll leave my recommendation with the following: if you are interested in poetry, philosophy, and art, and are willing to experience something different, give Pastoral: To Die In The Country a shot – I doubt you’ll be disappointed!
The Blind Beast, also called Mōjū, was released at 1969 and directed by Masumura Yasuzo who was recognized as the starter of Japan’s “New Wave” of the 60s. And the story itself was primarily written by Japan’s leading horror writer whose name is Edogawa Rampo. Other film cast members include Funakoshi EIji, Midori Mako and Sengoku Norijo. This movie was ranked as the number-one grotesque story in the Asahi National Newspaper between 1931 and 1932.
There are two main characters in the film. One is called Michio, a blind sculptor who is fed by his mother. His mother is a pedophile and gradually misrecognizes him as her husband. Another character is called Aki, a shapely young model, who is the only victim to form the basis of Michio’s latest project. The movie starts from Michio’s Art Studio when he seeks a suitable female model to construct into a perfect sensual sculpture. Aki, as an applicant, goes to the studio and is finally kidnapped by Michio. The rest of the scenes happen in the same place, which is the secluded warehouse where Michio lives. The warehouse is designed very strangely. It contains a huge room with no lights and two of the walls contain large reproductions of female anatomy. In the center of the room, two giant nude sculptured bodies are lying on the floor. At first, Aki is distraught and threatens to kill Michio and his mom but gradually she begins to love him even though she has already tempted Mochio to kill his mother. The rest of the film is seriously filled with sadomasochism, sex, and violence.
The most important aspect of this film is characters because it is produced 50 years ago and there was no one making this kind of movie before its success. There are many naked and extremely violent scenes in this movie such as Michio chopping off Aki’s arms and legs. Those scenes required actors to devote themselves because no one knows whether this film is successful or not.
Another aspect of the film is camerawork. In order to make the horrific scenes, the director utilizes the static shots with huge body parts crowding into the full screen. And also, at the end of the film, most audiences can feel scared because the director delivers all the chopping detail to them.
Michio’s world is just like all simple animals because he can only know things by touching and smelling them. He only knows what he wants and just like this simple. This is pathetic of course. However, in my opinion, the “blind animal” should be Aki rather than Michio. There are many scenes contained in this movie that can prove this. For example, after Michio’s mother dies, he and Aki crazily make love in the dark warehouse. Therefore, Aki gradually loses her sight because she stays in the dark environment too long but she feels happy because she now is the same as Michio.
Another scene also can prove my opinion. At the end of the film, Aki asks Michio to chop off her arms and legs in order to obtain greatest happiness through this sadomasochistic action. This is never adapted by a normal person but Aki accepts this because she has already become blind and will never be a person. This film contains extreme violence and sadomasochistic sex. I would suggest anyone who wants to see this film that stays away from child. I would not recommend this movie to classmates.
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Dunes of Darkness
Teshigahara Hiroshi’s Woman in the Dunes (Suna no Onna- 1964) is a surreal drama that uses the conventional captivity narrative to speak to contemporary social issues. The film could best be described as a contemporary drama, but the nature of the story is such of a thriller or a mystery. The film is an adaptation of the book of the same name by Kobo Abe, who also wrote the adaptation of the book for the screen. It stars well-known Japanese actor Eiji Okada as Niki Jumpei and Kyoko Kishida as the Woman. The film received critical acclaim when it was released, winning the Grand Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival and receiving an Academy Award nomination for Best Director.
The film opens with Niki Jumpei, a school teacher and entomologist, who goes to the barren seaside sand dunes on an expedition to find rare species of bugs. After missing the last bus back to his hotel, one of the villagers offers him a home to stay in for the night. He is dropped off in an unnamed woman’s home, located so deep in one of the sand dunes that a ladder is required to get down to it. The next day, Niki discovers that the offer of hospitality was in fact a ploy to find a male helper and mate for the woman, and he finds himself trapped in the sand dune with little hope of escape. Niki’s attempts to escape the sand dune fail and he remains trapped with the woman. We find out that the woman is under the control of the villagers, who require her to shove buckets of sand in exchange for water and food rations. Due to their strange situation, the woman and Niki begin a sexual relationship. The Woman develops an intense sexual and emotional attachment to Niki, but his desire to return to his previous life persists. Niki does make one successful attempt at a getaway, but he is caught by the villagers who bring him back to the sand dune, an event that echoes the seeming permanency of his entrapment. Months pass before a series of events alter the future of Niki’s life in the dunes, and reveal a sharp alteration in his perspective.
Notable in the film is the way that Teshigahara creates atmosphere. The sand dunes are filmed in striking visuals that make them an overwhelming presence. Sand appears in the film in ways that give it symbolic and thematic meaning within the narrative. The introductory sequence in the film features a series of stationary shots of sand pebbles, at first in extreme close-up, cutting to reveal wider and wider shots of the sand until we see the whole mass of the dunes. The sharp stationary cuts bring attention to the sheer number and breadth of sand pebbles, suggest their uncontrollable power. When Niki enters the frame in the opening scenes he looks small in comparison to the foreboding and massive sand dunes around him. The sheer mass of the sand dunes rises up around him, blowing dust giving eerieness to this new environment. It serves to highlight the contrast between Niki’s former urban life in Tokyo and the harsh rural life he is soon to face. Sand also plays an important narrative role in the film. The futility of man against this wild and unpredictable form of nature is highlighted when Niki says: “This sand could swallow up entire cities, entire countries”. Although the sand is what is ultimately keeping Niki and the woman trapped and confined, we also find out that it helps to sustain them. We find out that the buckets of sand which the woman shovels and offers the villagers are ultimately sold to cities to make bricks for urban dwellings. Sand is used as a measure of control not only in the characters’ lives, but to help sustain the village economy as well. The sand also operates as somewhat of an allusion to the Buddhist tradition of creating and destroying sand mandalas, reflecting on the Buddhist belief of impermanence.
One of the questions the film poses centers on the ability of humans to exercise free will in modern society: is this freedom real or is it only an illusion that masks never-ending social confinement? This theme is mirrored by the different perspectives of Niki and the Woman. Niki’s entrapment is paralleled by the insects that he traps and collects at the beginning of the film. Just as Niki uses the insects for his own selfish purposes, the women and the villagers trap Niki to use him for labor and to help populate the community. At the beginning of the film Niki expresses a dissatisfaction with the ‘trappings’ of modern life in an internal monologue heard through voiceover. Despite this he still longs to return to his world of papers and certifications, which seems liberating in comparison with being trapped in a sand pit. Niki’s attitude is contrasted with that of the woman’s. The woman chooses to stay in village shoveling sand, as she feels more important in her life in the dunes than she would in regular society. Her reasons for staying in the dunes are revealed when she says “If it wasn’t for the sand, no one would bother about me”. For Niki the sand takes away his sense of purpose and meaning in life, but for the woman it constitutes it. Niki’s decision at the end of the film highlight this contrast between freedom and entrapment, and speaks to the true nature of free will.
Woman in the Dunes is a strange, absorbing mystery and a fascinating study of human character. The film cannot only be enjoyed for its human mystery, but as a visually stimulating experience in itself. The crisp black-and-white cinematography and moody lighting give viewers lucid and spellbinding visuals. Woman in the Dunes has often been described as ‘surrealist’ and would be a good film choice for viewers looking for an unconventional film that will challenge their expectations.
Teshigahara Hiroshi’s The Face of Another (Tanin no kao, 1966), based on Abe Kobo’s novel, is a science fiction dramatic film that closely follows Mr. Okuyama’s (Nakadai Tatsuya) psychological recovery after a laboratory fire that left him entirely facially scarred. Dr. Hira (Hira Mikijro), Okuyama’s psychiatrist, proposes to him an experiment to create a lifelike mask that can assist him in the integrated return to society. When Okuyama accepts the challenge to put on a mask created from a mold of a stranger, the mask pressures him to choose between appearance and identity. The theme of masks and identity and the usage of mirror images and repeated scenes is a trademark of many of Teshigahara’s films, and The Face of Another is no exception.
The story encircles Okuyama’s return to society followed by an accident that scarred his face. At first, he conceals himself under layers of bandages; however, everywhere he goes he is still given stares and pondering looks. He goes into a paranoia that no one wants to look at him, and feels that even his wife (Machiko Kyo) is disgusted. He seeks help from his psychiatrist, Dr. Hira, and then he is offered the chance to undergo a face transplant experiment. Okuyama accepts without hesitation and they quickly go out in search of his new face. Surprisingly easy, a stranger agrees to sell his face to create a mold for 10,000 yen. Furthermore, Dr.Hira’s experiment turns out completely successful and Okuyama now has a face without flaws. The sudden change in appearance boosts up his confidence, but on the other hand, it influences him to drastically change his style and behaviour to a more attention-seeking manner. Thus, one may question, is the mind over matter or matter over the mind? As Okuyama continues to explore the functions of his new stylish looks, he changes his lifestyle by moving into a new apartment. Meanwhile as Okuyama undergoes his transformation, he is reminded of a film that he has seen before about a girl (Miki Irie) who was facially scarred on the left side of her face and neck due to the radiation of the Nagasaki bombing during World War II. The film intertwines these stories together as the main characters goes through the loss of appearance with the fear that they will not be accepted back into society. The story reaches its climax when Okuyama discovers that his mask can lead to the loss of control over one’s body.
The psychiatric clinic has an intriguing set design that calls for attention. The clinic has no boundaries, the furniture is always changing, and mirrors and reflective surfaces are located everywhere within the space. The hanging of the Langer’s lines, Leonardo DaVinci’s Anatomy diagrams, random black blotches, and rigid shapes all add to the mysterious and uncomfortable atmosphere of the clinic. In addition, Teshigahara uses interesting camerawork, such as sudden dimming of lights and zoom ins and outs, especially in the clinic, to portray a sense of the unknown and the cruelty of loneliness. Much of the film takes place inside this open space, where he undergoes the face transplant, and has discussions about how Dr.Hira plans to monitor Okuyama’s behavior after the transplant. In contrast to real psychiatric clinics which are bright with simple designs, a place where patients feel safe and prepare to recover from their psychological problems, this clinic serves as a base for radical experiments and personality alterations that make Okuyama stray off into this unknown space. When Dr. Hira repeatedly puts the plastic to shape Okuyama’s face into a machine to soften the plastic, it is a metaphor for how easily malleable the human mind is. This paradoxical set design creates an incredible sense of eerieness.
There is a usage of symmetries, and parallelism throughout the film, Teshigahara uses camerawork such as doubling of shots, and changing the aspect ratios, to foil scenes. The story in the background of the girl who was facially scared by the Nagasaki Bombing is introduced by “melting” from a full-frame aspect ratio into a widescreen ratio. This girl serves as a constant comparison to Okuyama, when Okuyama receives stares and looks of pondering, she also did, when the film reaches its climax, her story also reaches its climax. This draws the audience into deeper thoughts about what is real and what is not. Then there is a repeated scene where Okuyama rents the apartment in a bandaged face in comparison to the scene when he rents the apartment with his new plastic face. These two scenes are filmed identically, with the actors doing the same things and with the same dialogue. However, in the second time around expressions and tones have changed, the landlord shows that he is less scared of talking to him, and Okuyama talks and walks with more confidence. It presents an interesting example of compare and contrast using this technique of identical shots. Teshigahara’s methods grab the audience’s attention in a way that penetrates minds, consequently, scenes cannot be easily forgotten.
Although The Face of Another was not a successful film internationally and it was a huge letdown from the previous Teshigahara film, The Woman of the Dunes (Suna no onna, 1964), to see it just as a twisted horror film would be a shame. The film in fact touches upon many aspects in life where one must reflect on, to find one’s true self. The Face of Another is strangely attention-grabbing and highly recommended.
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“Yūkoku”
Yûkoku [Patriotism] or The Rite of Love and Death is an experimental short film directed by Mishima Yukio and released in 1966. The plot is simple and all the action takes place on a Noh stage: A husband (Mishima himself) and wife (Tsuruoka Yoshiko) share a final embrace and then take their own lives. Despite its simplicity, the film leaves a lasting impression on the viewer through striking imagery.
Exposition is provided to the viewer by title cards at the beginning of the film. We learn that the husband was among a group of soldiers who planned a coup d’état. They are caught but he is not. Yet as an officer it is his job to execute them. Since he does not wish to execute his friends, he finds the only option is to take his own life (known as committing harakiri) with his wife. These title cards are all handwritten (in English) by Mishima himself. They give the film a hand-made look which adds to intensity to the scenes that follow.
The first action we see is the wife drawing calligraphy and carefully preparing. The image of her husband is superimposed over her as she thinks, showing their deep connection. They begin their ceremony in formal wear but are soon shown naked in a series of beautiful closeup shots of their entangled bodies. The black and white cinematography is employed to great effect to show their tenderness, innocence, and spiritual bond.
In the next section of the film the couple is dressed in traditional wear. The husband stabs himself twice slowly as his wife watches and silently cries. The scenes of his suicide are graphic and messy – emphasizing the physical reality of the act. The wife’s death happens much more quickly and we are left with the final image of the two lying dead together (much cleaner than they looked earlier) on a garden of rocks.
The film works largely through imagery: close ups of their intense gaze, showing the wife’s hair half-covered in light, shots of the couple’s blood splattering on the wall, etc. Through such imagery, the viewer gains a sense of their passion and of their commitment to the act. Honour and tradition are also emphasized – the act of harakiri being considered an honourable way to die itself. The use of a Noh stage and having no dialogue, in particular, emphasize tradition and as well lend a certain dignity to the act.
The honour showed in the act of harakiri is troubling when coupled with the fact that Mishima himself committed harakiri in public just four years after the film was made. As a result, his real-life wife had nearly all copies of the film destroyed and it went unseen for many years (until its DVD release in 2006). In light of these facts, perhaps, it’s better to see the film as a symbol of devotion and trust between the husband and wife.
Also of note is the pacing of the film. The film starts quite slow with many title cards and the shots of the wife preparing. The pace then gradually crescendos as it moves from their final embrace to the bloody act. The pacing along with the juxtaposition of the couple’s embrace and the husband’s gory demise, adds tension to the conclusion of the film.
Mishima’s Yūkoku is a fascinating work of art. He is able to deliver a cohesive and powerful work through the use of vivid striking images. This film is not for the “faint of heart” as there is a significant amount of gore. It’s also not a film for those looking for a plot driven movie. It’s a piece that communicates in images and emotion, leaving a lasting impression on viewers.
Shinoda Masahiro’s Double Suicide (Shinju: Ten no Amijima, 1969) is a film adaptation of the 1721 doll drama, The Love Suicides at Amijima (Monzaemon Chikamatsu). Conforming to the jidai-geki genre, Double Suicide examines the notions of the giri (social obligation) and ninjo (personal emotion) conflict and, to some extent, issues of the bourgeois social system. In the context of film adaptations, Shinoda strictly and successfully retains Chikamatsu’s vision of death as the ultimatum against social structures during the time period. With that being said, Shinoda produces an original cinematic style and stylistically creates a melodramatic device by drawing his inspiration from kabuki, a highly stylized traditional Japanese doll theatre, and bunraku, which is the traditional Japanese puppet theatre. Perhaps the most prominent features of this film is Shinoda’s use of kuroko (stagehands/puppet handlers dressed in black – a common feature of the puppet theatre), who interacts with the live actors, and the same actress to play both the wife Osan and the courtesan Koharu played by Shima Iwashita. Both features relate to Jihei (Kichiemon Nakamura) and Koharu’s inevitable fate as they both undergo the harsh realities of social restrictions and eventually, as implied by the title of the film, commit suicide together.
The story revolves around Jihei and Koharu’s tragic love for one another in the context of the Japanese social structure and giri. Set in eighteenth-century Japan, Jihei is a paper merchant who falls in love with Koharu, a courtesan, while neglecting his wife Osan and two children. He hopes to redeem her from her master of the prostitute quarter, but is unable to because he spent all of his money on his appointments with Koharu. Unbeknownst by Jihei, Koharu plans and swears to kill herself instead because of her social obligation to Osan (giri). From one woman to another, Osan, regardless of discovering his infidelity, writes a letter to Koharu begging her to spare Jihei’s life. Unfortunately, Jihei misinterprets Koharu’s intentions and accuses her for her act of betrayal. Eventually, Jihei and Osan finds out that Koharu is about to be bought by the master of the prostitute quarters, which prompts Osan to admit to Jihei about the women’s agreement. Now that Osan must fulfill her obligation to Koharu, she helps Jihei to redeem Koharu before she is physically removed by her father. The plot reaches its climax when Jihei attempts to break free from social conventions through a series of erotic and unfortunate events in order to reunite with Koharu.
The camerawork is heavily influenced by the kuroko, who essentially determine the character’s fates and act as agents of the audience’s reactions. In an opening sequence featuring Jihei entering the courtesan quarters, Jihei enters into the shot from the left and stares directly towards the camera. Immediately, the camera follows him from right to left, behind the wooden beams, causing the discontinuity of the audience’s view of Jihei and his directional path (he enters the frame from the left and proceeds to walk further into the quarters by entering the frame from the right). After a few cuts, one must take note on Shinoda’s clever crossing of the 180-degree axis rule to make it appear that Jihei is walking back and forth (horizontally and vertically) rather than continuing in one direction. The sudden cut to a kuroko blowing out the lantern flame freezes the people walking around Jihei. We watch him walk through the frozen crowd. Then it cuts to a kuroko holding a candle. Afterwards, we watch Jihei appearing from the left of the frame, who then approaches towards the kuroko and mesmerizingly follows the candle flame, as if he is attached to the kuroko by an invisible thread. After passing several scenes of courtesans and clients, the camera cuts to a kuroko’s point of view, revealing a group of kuroko slowly disbanding and leaving the scene. That scene reveals Koharu and Jihei, following an additional shot of Jihei watching his own scene. The use of kuroko during that sequence, as well as during Koharu and Jihei’s conversation, seem to suggest and reinforce the idea that a person’s fate is literally beyond their control. Moreover, the quick shots of the kuroko’s facial expression and their omnipresence could be representations of them gazing into the scene, much like the audience, as well as directing the emotional reactions of the spectator. Throughout the film, the kuroko are constantly, but indirectly, helping the actors lead to their fate (i.e. a kuroko helps Osan packs the clothes up which helps free Koharu). With the huge presence of the kuroko, it enhances every framework and scene to build emotional responses both from the characters and spectators.
The use of the same actress, Shima Iwashita (who plays Osan and Koharu), plays a significant role regarding giri and ninjo. Osan and Koharu have clear distinctions regarding their appearances to fit their role in the film. Koharu’s heavy make-up and flawless appearance convince the audience that she is one of the most popular courtesans who seems to capture the attention of many clients, including Jihei. Opposite to Koharu is Osan, a housewife. She does not have make-up, which makes her appear older, wiser, and more tired. An important feature is the colour of her teeth. The pure blackness of her teeth seems to reflect her age. While Koharu appears to be young and beautiful, Osan seems less attractive, despite our knowledge that the same actress portrays both characters. As mentioned briefly earlier on, both women are obligingly bounded by the letter Osan has sent to Koharu without Jihei’s knowledge. Koharu’s giri obligation to Osan forces her to kill herself regardless of her love for Jihei (ninjo). The same applies to Osan. When she realizes that Koharu is about to be bought by the owner, she obligates herself to save Koharu and insists that Jihei should help Koharu out. Additionally, Osan encourages Jihei to be with Koharu in order to fulfill her happiness, disallowing the ninjo aspect to overcome her feelings for Jihei. The use of the same actress indicates similar situations that Japanese women go through during the Edo period regarding giri. It also seems to suggest that no matter what the role women play in society and its social structure, they must conform to the concept of giri, as demonstrated by Shima Iwashita’s internalized double roles.
Double Suicide is known for its excellent practice on kabuki to explore realism in terms of the stage sets and images used in the film. It is an incredibly artistic and smart film that knows how to use the kuroko in an appropriate manner which enhances the audience’s experience of witnessing a traditional Japanese theatre drama in cinematic form. One must be aware of subtle nudity. Double Suicide is an interesting film to those who appreciate filmic styles and are curious about the film’s unique theatre and cinema crossovers.
Branded to Kill (Koroshi no rakuin), directed by Suzuki Seijun in 1967 under the Nikkatsu Corporation, is not your typical yakuza film. Meshing the extreme violence of action cinema, the drama of crime cinema, and the creativity of experimental art cinema, Suzuki creates a truly unique film experience worthy of any filmgoer’s respect.
The film follows Hanada Goro, a likeable but ruthless rice-sniffing hitman played by Joe Shishido, as he carries out several assassination jobs under his boss Yabuhara Michihiko (Tamagawa Isao). As the film progresses, we see the toll the cutthroat assassin lifestyle takes on Hanada’s mental stability and his relationship with his wife Mami (Mariko Ogawa). The importance of status in Hanada’s world results in his increasingly obsessive desire to move up the ranks as a hitman, becoming the source of his downfall and that of the people close to him.
The film begins with Hanada as the “No. 3 killer” who is given a prestigious job by Yabuhara to escort a high-profile client to Nagano. Despite his drunken partner and two ambushes by the fourth- and second-ranked hitmen, Hanada completes his task and kills No. 2 in the process, taking the rank for himself. On his way home, his car breaks down, and he meets a troubled, beautiful young girl named Misako (Mari Anne) who drives him home. Hanada later accepts Misako’s request to kill someone for her but fails in the process. Now on the run from Yabuhara, for whom failure is punishable by death, Hanada becomes entrenched in a confused and hectic state as he falls in love with Misako, kills his wife for cheating on him with Yabuhara himself, and becomes thoroughly obsessed with increasing his hitman status rather than losing it.
By the end of the film Hanada has caused harm to everyone around him due to his mental instability, and we are left with one major event: a final test from No. 1 (Koji Nanbara) where he and Hanada fight to determine who is the best hit man in an epic battle, an ending that stands tall beside cinema’s most decorated action-film showdowns.
One aspect that greatly enhances this film’s attractive narrative is Suzuki’s artistic use of extreme lighting; or rather, his masterful use of shadows. On numerous occasions Suzuki keeps the entire shot in darkness, artistically revealing small pockets of light in strange shapes, just enough for the viewer to understand what occurs in the scene. For instance, in the final sequence during Hanada’s battle with No. 1, we can barely see Hanada as he stumbles across a beautifully-dark boxing ring, where our only visual reference points are the shimmering reflections on his skin and the ring ropes. In another shot, we see a confused and drunk Hanada sliding across a large wall after killing his wife, on which strategic lighting illuminates a strange triangular shape. Hanada passes through this shape, moving back into the jet-black shadows that envelope the frame. One other striking example is when we see Mami after she is caught red-handed by Hanada at Yabuhara’s house. After Mami comes face to face with Hanada we see her terrified eyes placed beautifully within a rectangle of light, while the rest of her head and body is immersed in subtle shadows. Suzuki gives the impression of watching Mami through a window shade, where her full emotional state is brought to the surface by directing our attention explicitly towards her all-telling eyes.
Here a second truly unique aspect of Branded to Kill is revealed. Not only do these striking lighting techniques give the film a very artistic and experimental feel, they have deep thematic significance as well. The extreme contrast between overwhelming darkness and sharp pockets of light in his shots visually symbolizes Hanada’s downfall into the darkness of the hit man lifestyle, as the light in his life is being slowly extinguished by his excessive greed for higher status.
Indeed, numerous dark themes run deep in this film. Suzuki delves into the harsh effects of money, power and status, corruption, obsession, and even touches on a mysterious fascination with death. By doing so, Suzuki attempts to examine some of mankind’s worst vices, and more specifically, the Japanese culture itself. His focus on status is certainly a very “Japanese” issue, one that runs deep in much of Japanese cinema and culture, exemplified by the class struggles between characters in films such as Sisters of the Gion (Mizoguchi Kenji, 1936) or I Was Born But…(Ozu Yasujiro, 1932). Will Hanada, representing the Japanese culture itself, be able to “see the light” and escape the social and personal effects of obsessing over status? Will love prevail over personal success? These are the types of intriguing cultural questions that Suzuki brings up in Branded to Kill, resulting in its impressively relevant thematic depth.
As a warning, this film contains explicit nudity and gun violence. However, these elements are used tastefully and are necessary for Suzuki to convey Hanada’s fast-paced and dangerous hit man lifestyle. A masterful combination of self-reflexive themes, influential artistic expression, and a unique and appealing storyline gives us reason to classify Branded to Kill as a highcaliber work of cinema. Certainly, once Suzuki’s marvelous use of lighting and Hanada’s intriguingly dark narrative downfall ensues, the film’s glory cannot be denied. Thus, I feel that this film is a turning point for yakuza cinema, and gangster films in general, where artistic creativity and deep themes are not squandered by the need to entertain the audience. Rather, these elements work together in harmony. I highly recommend Branded to Kill, for its ability to thoroughly entertain, while also making us think about the disastrous societal and personal effects of money, greed, and power, long after we have popped the DVD out of the television.