He Keeps Me In A Bubble, So I Swam Away From Home: Ponyo (2008)

Yesterday was the birthday of the great Japanese animation pioneer and director Hiyao Miyazaki.  While I had encountered much of his work prior to beginning this blog, he has been featured rather prominently here in the past few years, particularly when I was finally able to catch up with My Neighbor Totoro, a film agreed by many to be his masterpiece, as well as one of the greatest moments in animation.  While my personal preferences lean towards Howl's Moving Castle, all of his films succeed at an exceptional level, wherein others fail to even scrape the surface.  I have watched a lot of anime films, most are trash, many are decent, but few are exceptional.  Ponyo, Miyazaki's take on the classic Hans Christian Andersen tale The Little Mermaid is one such work of exceptional stature. Miyazaki's more contemporary work is noted by its reliance on incredibly crisp visuals that expand and exploit the latest technology in both two dimensional sketching and three dimensional rendering. Ponyo while no less stunning visually is a bit of a digression for the director as it involves him using very simple animation with an equally moving and fantastical effect.  While one could make a case for Miyazaki's films working on various levels regardless of the age of the viewer or the individual sensibilities of the person encountering the film, given the nature of this work pulling from the fairly tale nature of Andersen's work, it does take on a rather childlike sense of awe without being juxtaposed by an adult reality, which occurs very jarringly in My Neighbor Totoro and proves a through line for all of Howl's Moving Castle.  Ponyo is one of the many films to be upgraded to bluray by Studio Ghibli, now a subsidiary of Disney and it is absolutely stunning.  The kaleidoscopic nature of the film, doubled by its already magical setting, much of which resides underwater, is a draw to any person appreciative of true art.  With the onslaught of CGI-only animated films comes at audience these days, it is heartbreaking to realize that Miyazaki has all but retired from the field, fortunately, his adoration is well-documented and varied, affording him a point of awareness given to few directors, let alone animators.

Ponyo, as the title might suggest does focus on a character named Ponyo, by the way of a young boy named Sosuke who lives with his mother and father on a cliff in a small pier village, wherein most of the residents work at sea.  This includes, Sosuke's father who remains absent from the narrative for much of the film, much to the frustration of his mother, who spends a considerable amount of her own time working at the local retirement home.  Prior to leaving for another day at school, Sosuke discovers a small, unique looking goldfish in the shore next to his home, capturing it an placing it in a bucket of water near his house.  Panicked and in a rush to get to school, Sosuke brings the goldfish with him on his ride to work, his mother noting its gorgeous nature.  Deciding that he wants to keep the goldfish, he names it Ponyo and hides it in the bushes outside his nursery.  Ponyo, however, is not a simple goldfish, but is actually Brunhilde, one of the many fish children of Fujimoto and Granmamare two deities of the sea.  When Sosuke leaves Ponyo alone, she is retrieved by an infuriated Fujimoto who tells her that she has no business messing with humans.  Yet, in an attempt to help Sosuke, Ponyo consumed some of his blood, which causes Ponyo to take a semi-human form.  During her escape to return to Sosuke, Ponyo accidentally knocks a potion into the center of Fujimoto's underwater home, unleashing a wild storm that ravishes Sosuke's town.  During this storm, Ponyo arrives at the home much to Sosuke and his mother's surprise.  Nonetheless, she takes what she believes to be a young girl into their home and await news on the safety of Sosuke's father.  Sosuke's mother eventually leaves to check on the safety of the nursing home, only to have her remain away for a considerable length of time.  As such, Sosuke and Ponyo mount their own rescue mission, one that leads to the awareness of Ponyo's non-human status, all leading to a meeting with Fujimoto in his underwater lair, wherein he and Granmamare test the loyalty and love of Sosuke for Ponyo.  When it is verified much to the happiness of all involved the two are allowed to live together and in the same moment it is revealed that Sosuke's father has return safely from his dire time at sea.

There are many ways to talk about a film like Ponyo, one of which would be to consider its validity as an adaptation, which is solid, because it is Miyazaki.  There is also the narrative surrounding human identities and how to navigate understanding that which is performing humanism, but is not technically human.  This is a new research interest of mine and will certainly lead me to return to this film in my academic studies in the future, yet I do not want to take that route here.  Knowing that the familial component is key to many of Miyazaki's films, Howl's Moving Castle, From Up On Poppy Hill and The Secret World of Arrietty, I too want to extend it to consider the narrative of Ponyo.  I think that it is particularly a ripe discussion point in this film, because it is heavily invested in the absence of Sosuke's father, something that leads his mother to drink on at least one occasion.  It is not to suggest that Sosuke's father does not care, but that economic situations necessitate that he must remain detached from the familial space only to assure the safety of such a construct.  The catch-22 at play is rather blatant, but, nonetheless, indicative of the illogical nature of capitalist consumption and idealism that has rooted itself in an unusual way within Japan and was particularly intriguing in and around the time of this film.  As such, one can certainly read the character of Ponyo as the family's own anxiety regarding the possibility of a future child, one that is met with adoration by the young Sosuke, but with understandable hesitation by Sosuke's mother.  In the film, Sosuke says something along the lines of it being part of reality that she must accept and the absence of his father only makes it that much more of an internal struggle.  Little should be made of the love relationship between Sosuke and Ponyo, because it is not one of a romantic nature, but more so of kindred spirits.  Indeed, keeping this economic anxiety in mind, the scenes involving Ponyo consuming are quite interesting, Sosuke's mother now having to provide food (specifically ham) for more than one young mouth, other economic issues like the lack of candles too take on larger narrative elements.  By adding the fact that Sosuke's mother works at a nursing home, which is, for many, another layer of economic anxiety makes this possible reading of economic anxiety that much more fascinating.

Key Scene:  The scale and intensity of the storm scene, is a particularly dark moment in an otherwise vibrant film, but it plays out poetically and perhaps best evidences the magical realist elements so key to this era of Miyazaki's work.

This bluray is stunning, indeed, all the Studio Ghibli blurays are stunning.  If I were to mount any downside to this particular release, it is the lack of a Japanese audio track, but that is probably only bothersome to a handful of people.  As such, purchasing it is well worth your time.

Always Get Moving Again. OK!: The Happiness Of The Katakuris (2001)

The idea of post-genre cinema is one of the things that has come to truly fascinate me in the past year or so as I begin to truly unpack my research interests and begin to focus on graduate school endeavors.  When I refer to post-genre, at least in my mind, it is taking a particularly key genre, such as horror or the western and using tropes and themes from it in an incredibly post-modern way, usually in a satirical or absurdist manner.  Of course, there are post-genre exceptions that manages to take their execution very seriously without be comedic or absurdist, John Hillcoat's The Proposition being a perfect example of such an occurrence.  Indeed, some filmmakers simply exist in a state of post-genre, always mashing together what they find to be cinematic language extended to its furthers points, Quentin Tarantino being an example of this, although much of what he does is purely copying and pasting.  Other directors, like one of Tarantino's favorites, Takashi Miike manages to be post-genre in every cinematic endeavor he undertakes.  For example, both Audition and his more recent 13 Assassins manage to be post-genre purely by prefabricating the horror and samurai films to fit within a post-digital and post-modern viewer palette, resulting in incredibly engaging works of film that also happen to be deeply unsettling for their frank depictions of violence and oppression.  In a world all its own, however, is Miike's The Happiness of the Katakuris, which sets itself up primarily as a musical, but also functions as a tradtional family drama, not to mention making heavy use of claymation throughout.  In setting up a film with such a series of idyllic and traditionally positive genre elements, Miike's choice to make the film a horror thriller within this context proves to create as perplexing and enigmatic a film as one might ever encounter, taking second only to House in terms of otherworldly Japanese cinema.  Assumedly a work like this is part of the Japanese Weird Wave, but simply describing it as such does nothing to help establish how truly unusual and anti-normative this particular work manages to be.  It has no limitations, nor does it expect its viewers to look for such boundaries.

As the title suggests the film centers on the experiences of a family known as the Katakuris, who have been living under the guise of failure from their various generations for well over four decades, beginning with the father Jinpei (Tesuro Tamba) and running all the way down to the Katakuri son and former criminal Masayuki (Shinji Takeda).  While failure seems to simply be part of the family dynamic, they are nonetheless capable of running a moderately successful bed and breakfast in a rural area of Japan, even picking up considerable business when they arrive at a new location.  Things at the establishment seem to be particularly successful until a weird occurrence begins to unfold wherein the various guests at their home begin dying, either by suicide or other inexplicable causes of death.  Alongside the other members of the family divorced daughter Shizue (Naomi Nishida) manages to navigate her own severe anxieties and depressions at being left by a Japanese man purporting to be part of the British Royal Family named Richard Sagawa (Kiyoshiro Imawano).  Aside from struggling at his return, Shizue also attempts to shelterer daughter Yurie (Tamaki Miyazaki) who also narrates the film, from the various violence and sadness occurring around their residence.  However, this attempt at sheltering proves all but futile when it is revealed that not only have the buried bodies begun to stack up considerably, but many of them are coming back to live with avegence, one that is surprisingly quelled by the seemingly indifferent Yurie.  Between this bizarre occurrence and the unforeseen return of Richard to the family space, the various failures of the members of the family are pushed to the forefront and each is able to deal with their individual issues, while also understanding that they are within a family structure simultaneously, one that should prosper both within and detached from the individual.  Although the family clearly moves to a place of forgiveness, the rumbling and eventual explosion of a nearby volcano proves to be the last bit of push needed for a new direction in their lives, even if violently so.

I want so desperately to unpack every bit of minutia in this film, but I am aware that it is a lot going on and it is only exacerbated by not being completely versed on the various genres at play both in their Western context and their appropriation within a Japanese setting.  Furthermore, I am far too lacking in knowledge of the familial space in Japan to offer a further consideration.  I make all these claims, because I am still hoping that I can draw some conclusions based on post-colonial bodies and having scene not only other Miike films, but quite a lot of Japanese cinema as well (although I could always stand to view more).  I want first to consider Miike's use of claymation within the film, while things like Alice and The Fantastic Mr. Fox have managed to push the consideration of the childlike association to such an advertising style, it is decidedly entrenched within the cinema of young children and Miike is clearly using it in this context.  The humorous, slapstick nature of the situations occurring in this setting lead one to assume a situation in which it is wholly funny, if not a bit on the grotesque side, but I would argue that it is using this very non-threatening medium to call attention to very real issues of violence, based in oppression within the context of modern Japan.  This could emerge in two distinct ways, the first being a fear of the colonized past, wherein the performative Richard, donning his literal costume, represents an idea of the colonial figure as idea, even though he himself is indeed a colonized body in the context, his rejection is affecting his body, whereas the claymation serves as a means to directly address the violent bodily harm at play within post-colonial and later gendered oppression, by making light of it.  Brechtian as it may be, it is calling attention to the viewers own concerns, by placing it under the guise of humor and childlike comedy.  This same critique could be extended to consider masculinity within the musical numbers as well, whether it be the action movie inspired musical number about male sacrifice, or the entire scenes surrounding the deeply disturbing engagement between a young girl and the sumo wrestler guest.  It is all a veneer of hyper-idealism that plays into the reality which is far from ideal.  Indeed, this is on a level of anti-escapism equal to Von Trier's Dancer in the Dark.

Key Scene:  The karaoke style sing-a-long portion had me laughing uncontrollably the entire time.

The DVD is a bit pricey and not the best quality.  While I can hold out for a bluray upgrade in the future that is probably not very likely.  As such, renting is the most appropriate course of action.

I'm Michio Hiyazaki, Too: Doppelgänger (2003)

When Christopher Nolan released the audacious and interwoven narrative that was Memento he created a piece of cinema that not only demanded a full viewing by those engaging with the work, but required it in order to truly understand the complexities of what he was trying to do in regards to the frame of storytelling, as well as in consideration of the frames of cinematic space.  When people went nuts about his more recent Inception, I kowtowed to it being cinematically sound but also silently remembered that his earlier work was far more engaging, entertaining and deconstructive in regards to what the traditional film could do despite having a relatively minuscule budget.  I say all this because it is a rare feat for film to be so different and demand that those watching it give it their full attention, but more so to be rewarding as a result.  In most cases, such as something like 13 Tzameti, the film will take an idea and flounder it in its own sense of pretension and self-aggrandizing glory failing to see the message beneath its push for grittiness and non-narrative constructs.  Doppelgänger, hereafter Doppelganger for the various search engines, is from director Kiyoshi Kurosawa and in its quest for an understanding of how one categorizes the self in relation to a larger social other, he manages to push not only to the level of the puzzling Memento but well beyond its limitations, breaking down even more cinematic conventions in the process, even if doing so required the simplest of camera tricks and editing techniques, and while the currently available transfer of the film is far from stellar, it is better than not having this work readily available to American audiences and the particular sects of fan boys that see Inception or anything Nolan puts out as the pinnacle of cinematic achievement, in which case most items are far from reaching (Inception is quite good I am willing to accept its having merit).  I included Doppelganger in the month of horror movies, partially because it is wildly revisionist, but too because it demands viewers to reconsider what is truly scary in life, positing that an encounter with one's self in all its impossibility would prove far more challenging to the self than any degree of horrendous other, because it breaks down the very dichotomy in the process.  This has the same chilling effect as it does in Primer, but here with even more of a confrontational intensity.

Doppelganger focuses on the work of Michio Hiyazaki (Koji Yakusho) an engineer who is working on a machine for disabled persons that is both incredibly mobile, while also possessing the finesse to properly crack an egg into a bowl, a task that is considerably difficult given the still clunky movements of even his high end robot prototype.  Caving under the stress related to such a project, doubled with a deadline, Michio's day is made all the worse when he discovers that a duplicate version of himself has begun occupying all the same places he does, specifically a coffee shop, but eventually meeting him in his own house.  Knowing of the ancient folklore that one who sees their doppelgänger is assuredly moments away from their death Michio begins to panic even more, actually ignoring his work in the process, even when it prove successful at an expo of the product.  Frustrated, Michio begins to mount all his efforts into confronting the doppelgänger  who while similar in looks is the complete opposite of the repressed and reluctant Michio, using all of his will and power to exert himself in the world in a wily and destructive way, going about killing individuals and sleeping with women, much to the demise of Michio who fears that they will mistake the engagements as actions undertaken by himself, leading Michio on a frivolous quest to prove the difference between himself and his identical doppelgänger  only able to convince a few that he is actually a twin brother, thus explaining his questionable actions and problematic ways.  Yet, when Michio comes to discover that the doppelgängers destructive attitudes are actually helping to relieve stress from his life, he begins to embrace its presence, allowing his particularly rampant and carefree attitude to wash over his previously troubled body, playing into blind ignorance in favor of allowing himself a continually stress free state of existence.  Yet even in these moments of joy, the actions of the doppelgänger prove to get a bit too out of hand and Michio must step in and correct the actions of his other self, one that ends in even more violent results than before, but not prior to an absurd set of events that take place in an abandoned building, one of which includes a giant disco ball careening out of control.

The self and the other prove to be the great divide in terms of privilege and oppression in pretty much any system of hierarchies in the world.  Doppelganer, absolutely destroys any possibilities of quantifying these two opposing forces, instead; suggesting that the self/other divide is entirely an internal construct created by one to define and set up an existential understanding of how one should engage with the world.  Now this becomes tricky when the self must create a tangible other in the real world, whether it be through creating a sense of higher moral standing based on religious/philosophical ideals, or in an oppressive sense through suggestions of inferiority that are always ungrounded and often predicated upon some seemingly miniscule genetic difference.  Again, Doppelganger manages to tackle both of these as constructs by showing that when extended to consider an identical body this becomes impossible to assert, let alone conceive, affirmed by Kusosawa's splitting of the screen into multiple spaces to consider how and why a person would demand a separation from one's self, here in a very literal sense.  What makes Michio's doppelgänger distinct is its seeming lack for moral conviction or sense of restraint, giving it a very id-like quality that he initially attempts to suppress, however, when it becomes evident that these actions speak to his internal frustrations Michio is willing to overlook such problems in favor of his (the self's) higher advancement.  Indeed, by throwing the genetic variations out the window, it also causes Michio to consider his own points of power and lack, drawing upon his own failures by having to face himself in a mirror of sorts, one that constantly haunts his every move.  By seeing his own loneliness on display through an other version that seeks harmony, Michio begins to fall apart at the seams, but this is not before the other, or perhaps the self, takes it upon itself to engage in a destructive path, one that is never truly reprimanded, for Michio has managed to exist space as both the self and the other, throwing any sense of authority or hierarchical structure out the window.  Kurosawa breaks the conventions of cinema in order to show that rules and guidelines are foolish when the very signifier that have caused them power are duplicated, subverted and invariably undermined.  This is a bold and forward thinking piece of cinema that demands to be viewed fully and critically.

Key Scene:  The first of the filmic space fracturings is so pleasantly unexpected as to set the pace for the remainder of the film as it grows exponentially more bizarre.

The transfer of this film currently available is a bit underwhelming, as such a rental will make due until a bluray is made available.

Man Is Foolishly Oblivious To Danger: Goke, Body Snatcher From Hell (1968)

I have seen a lot of Japanese films in my day.  Indeed, before I decided to focus primarily on South Korean cinema I considered throwing my hat into the ring of Japanese film scholarship, which has come quite a long way since the labor intensive work of Donald Richie and the many off shoots that followed.  While I certainly still incorporate Japanese cinema into my research when possible, it has now become more a labor of love to engage with the country's cinema in all its glorious forms whether samurai or kaiju related, even stepping into the lush and evocative world of Kurosawa on occasion.  I say all this with reference to one of my particularly adored genres within Japanese cinema, the shoe string budget horror films that were released throughout the sixties and well into the late seventies, including the wonderfully wacky House and the schlock heavy, but well-regarded Matango.  Indeed, I am, as such, always on the look out for a new film in this bizarre cannon to consume, realizing that in the space of these non-traditional, low-budget films exist some of the most pointed and scathing critiques of the many facets of Japanese society and the manner with which it relates to a larger global context.  The delightfully eerie Goke, Body Snatcher from Hell is certainly a case of this, right down to its use of a white European (perhaps American?) character and her lost Vietnam soldier as an extension of larger post-colonial woes in a country that was then still finding its footing on a global scale.  At times some of the special effects in the film could give the worst of the b-movie nonsense a run for its money, but given the clear admiration and care for the filmic out come of his product, director Hajime Sato manages to make a shoe-string budget into something spectacular, through heavy use of red tones, a healthy does of fake blood and enough hand drawn animation to make even the most stern of film viewers smile in disbelief.  Goke, Body Snatcher from Hell will never exist in a world of perfect cinematic output, but it is also far from being incurably bad, in fact, it is precisely in its willingness to not take itself seriously that the very critiques and condemnations it spouts become almost prophetic, even if only in a satirical sense.

Goke, Body Snatcher from Hell begins with a group of individuals flying on an airplane from Tokyo to  Osaka, wherein the flight stewardess Kuzumi Asakura (Tomomi Sato) attempts to layout a general flight plan only to be repeatedly interrupted by birds killing themselves by flying directly into the plane. Paired with a disturbingly red sky the other members of the crew and the passengers begin to grow anxious of their safety on the plane.  When information suggests that their might be a man on board with a bomb, the captains order an immediate search of all the persons present, including the somewhat befuddled Neal (Kathy Horan) an American widow, as well as a prestigious senator named Mano (Eizo Kitamura).  When a sudden light floats above the ship, the captains lose control of the plane's computers and the aircraft spirals downward, landing damaged on a desert like area, assumedly between the two cities.  It is at this point that the crew becomes suspicious of a particular man on the ship known only as The Hijacker (Hideo Ko), whose possession of a rifle makes him a prime suspect for a political assassination that happened prior to the flight.  Noting the inherent survival nature of the situation, a psychiatrist in the group named Momotake (Kazuo Kato) suggests that the group be incredibly aware of each action they commit as the wrong phrase or move could send the entire group into a frenzy, a warning that proves futile when it is revealed that not only is The Hijacker dangerous on purely an assassin level, but that he is indeed a creature that consists entirely in blob form, using the human body as a vessel to transport itself and destroy the other members on the plane in a manner quite similar to a vampire.  Nonetheless, figures like Mano in a foolish quest to quench their thirst drink large amounts of whisky, only worsening his suffering, while Neal, already reeling from the trauma of her loss, begins to act in bouts of hysteria bemoaning the war in Vietnam and the general downfall of humanity.  Matters come to their worst point when it is revealed that the aliens, who refer to themselves as Gokemidoro, show that they are capable of transferring between bodies at a quick rate, consuming the life force of all those they encounter.  The closing shots depict two remaining survivors traveling about the streets of Japan in a quest for survivors, only to be told by the spectral voice of a Gokemidoro that no human will be spared, as the camera then pans out to show the true destruction wrought not only on Japan, but the entire world.

While a well-argued case for this not really being a horror movie, but more so a science fiction thriller could be made, I would like to instead say that the survival aspects of the work are precisely what make it fall within the framework of a horror movie, as deemed so by Criterion who released it as part of their stellar and repeatedly rewarding Eclipse box set When Horror Came to Shochiku.  In fact, the psychiatrists speech during the film notes that in times of survival one can see humanity turn to its most inhumane, tapping into base animal instincts and maliciously seeking their own survival over that of others.  The narrative in Goke certainly evokes this sort of sensibility, but manages to take it even a step further, using this moment of survival to allow characters to challenge deeply entrenched notions of oppression, privilege and accessibility.  This is absolutely the case when Tokiyasue (Nobuo Koneko) exploits the well-being of Mano by offering him the initial drink of whisky, thus affording his increasing suffering and drunkenness as a point to show the horrors and injustices he has condoned while in office.  Similarly, there are multiple through lines between the figure of Neal's dead husband and his oppressive behavior both in regards to how he navigates as a continued colonial identity in Japan, while also proving quite hazardous to Neal who appears to be at a complete lack without the privilege attached to a white male in society.  Of course, the horror does not extend at these oppression, one can certainly look closer and note the manners with which Japanese women become a doubly othered figure in the narrative, neither possessing the whiteness or the maleness to be taken completely seriously, despite, at times being the most rational in a situation.  As such, Goke, in its low-budget ways becomes a wonderful look at the spectrum of intersectionality and the ways this oppression occurs even in the face of a near fatal accident, suggesting that as long as oppressors exist in the framework of a society, hegemony will exist and perhaps that is where a real horror lies, if not in this realization the purposeful juxtaposition of the Gokemidoro with the violence occurring in reality (Vietnam, political assassinations and riots) certainly drives the point deeply in a viewers psyche.

Key Scene:  The airplane crash!

This particular film is part of an Eclipse series that is full of great Japanese horror films, in which this piece of brilliance is not even its best offering.

I Want To Stay Sane Enough To Recognize The Terror: Marebito (2004)

I have seen many Tartan Asian Extreme releases, in most cases entirely predicated upon their being Korean films, which means that I will give them consideration for this fact alone.  While about a third of the films are generally watchable, most prove a bit reductive, or exploitative in ways that neither push forward genre conventions or prove watchable even in a disconcerting manner.  Even fewer suffer from the problem of wild mislabeling in their advertisement, or at least that was the case with Marebito, a film that sat on my "to view" shelf for ages because from the looks of its vague, torture porn/vampire cover it was something I would immediately hate upon popping it into my DVD player.  Yet, in the case of this film, the DVD cover and vague description on the back do little to truly speak to the excellent work which presents itself on the film.  An entirely digital film, Takashi Shimizu, manages to meld together various types of moving images, whether they be video recordings, television images or even the diegetic space of the film itself to consider what is seen by the human eye and, more interestingly, what presences beyond human perception can emerge when a new form of technology can achieve heightened senses.  Doubling also as a narrative of descent into the labyrinth of madness, Marebito becomes a work so purposefully expressionist that it has a degree of landscape painting, at times indicative of the work of Caspar David Friedrich or the wonderful nightmarish spaces of a F.W. Murnau film, more so considering the twisting of the plot in ways that make Dr. Caligari seem like a straightforward story.  Marebito, much like post-2000 J-horror films, challenges the conventions of horror, but does so while also undermining the entire under process of filmmaking in the process.

Marebito focuses on Masuoka (Shinya Tsukamoto) a freelance cameraman who travels about the city of Tokyo chronicling items of interest, compounding them together, along with hours of surveillance footage to create a bizarre sort of viewing room in his house full of televisions and computer screens constantly streaming various imagery, both of a mundane and tragic nature.  Perhaps one of the more unusual things in Masuoka's viewing is that of a woman staring out a window, of which he constantly talks to about her existence.  However, when Masuoka uncovers footage of a man stabbing himself in the forehead, he becomes obsessed with the nature of his fear and curious as to what the man was starring at so intensely right before committing the act.  When the image breaks free of its conventions and directly acknowledges Masuoka's looking, he becomes even more scared and begins a quest into the underworld of Tokyo to find answers.   With his camera in tow, Masuoka discovers a world of underground dwellers known as Dero, who seem more like bestial vampires than humanoid figures.  When he comes across the deceased form of the body he watched stab itself on screen, Masuoka's descent takes on new levels, particularly when he emerges from his descent into a new world of lush colors and dreary skylines, where he finds one of the presumed Deros, this time a female, chained to the wall naked.  Confused, but curious, Masuoka takes the woman back to his apartment and begins keeping her as a pet, an act that quickly takes a dark turn, not only for its possession elements, but because the girl, who Masuoka names F, can only be nourished by being given blood to consume, finding particular enjoyment in human blood.  This leads to Masuoka's life falling apart and his alienating, in some times very harmful ways, from the rest of the world, while also becoming aware of his own heightened perceptions after his descent into the darkness, leading to a sacrificial act on his part so grand that it causes him to assumedly plunge into the depths of the labyrinth completely and irreversibly.

To call Marebito a bizarre reconsideration of Plato's Allegory of the Cave would be a bit of a misnomer, even if Masuoka does represent a character bringing an understanding of "the light" to a group living in the shadows.  Indeed, it is far more inclined to pull from the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur, particularly since the narrative does have a winding maze like quality about it and the descent into the labyrinth is rather obvious.  Masuoka, however, is far from the valiant figure of Theseus who manages to slay a minotaur and win the love of the girl.  Instead, Masuoka is almost a hybrid of the two tales, a man questing a deeper understanding of perception by coming to face that which is truly frightening, hoping to share in the vision of the suicidal man, thus becoming hyper aware of the world that surround him.  Masuoka certainly achieves this quest, but it is also at the cost of much of the world around him, clearly not the most healthy of individuals Masuoka shells himself up in his home, clearly malnourished and decidedly lacking in proper hygiene.  It is not until his ability to sequester himself from the world around him is question, via his wife whose presence inexplicably emerges into the narrative that things truly take a turn.  The Prozac popping Masuoka tosses away his pills, affording him a new awareness of his surroundings, realizing that even the most normal seeming of individuals are existing in a state of fractured self, one that is tied to the digital world in ways that are visible.  The quickly maddening Masuoka also begins to pick up the creatures navigate the liminal space of the world both through the lens of his film camera, as well as in the shadows of the street, his psychosis, or perhaps his "transcendence" into darkness proving the necessary lens to capture the world in a new and decidedly troublesome way.  This is only one element within all the other considerations at work in Marebito, including narratives of voyeurism, depression, the place of technology in modern Japan and relationships in a broad scale.  It works on these levels brilliantly and jarringly.

Key Scene:  The walking through the streets of Tokyo when Masuoka's perceptions begin to falter is haunting, in a way only digital filmmaking could invoke.

This DVD is pretty cheap on Amazon, but it might still be worth renting first, particularly since I am still uncertain as to whether or not this is actually a brilliant film.

It Was A Dream, But Not A Dream: My Neighbor Totoro (1988)

This is yet another example of where pulling a quote into the title of my blog post also happens to reflect my feelings for the film on the whole.  My Neighbor Totoro, was perhaps the biggest blip on my "never seen" shame list, because having already encountered countless other Miyazaki films and being made constantly aware of this as a masterpiece, I was constantly putting it on the back burner, figuring that I would eventually get around to its viewing.  When it spent a year or so in a bizarre bluray upgrade limbo (at the time region free was not a viable option), I just sat hoping that it would magically appear in my lap at some point.  When the powerful of arm of Disney used its extension of Studio Ghibli to release this on bluray earlier this year, I knew that it had to be obtained, because much like all the decent stuff Disney releases, it is usually lacking in a wider audience, therefore resulting in it falling into limited print obscurity, a few copies being secretly passed amongst friends, or one would assume this to be the case with something like David Lynch's The Straight Story.  All of this is an aside of sorts to say that I finally caught up with My Neighbor Totoro, a work so heavily hyped and made to be something otherworldly that my expectations were nearly impossible, which I feared would result in a general hesitation to embrace the film.  Yet, when the film began to unfold in front of me I realized that the wonder that made Miyazaki's career was as present as ever, almost in a wildly subtle way, wherein, the magical realist elements that have become signifiers of his oeuvre creep into the narrative, as opposed to exploding into action as occurs in something like Spirited Away or Howl's Moving Castle.  Furthermore, never one to shy away from the tragedies in life, the threat of loss and the forced moments of youth being confronted with adulthood are at their most entrenched within this film, and for a filmmaker whose entire career has become predicated on breaking from realism, excluding his writing of the most recent From Up on Poppy Hill, My Neighbor Totoro, might well have one of the most hauntingly real of moments, so poetically executed, as to take on a surreal quality indicative of the hyper-tragic Grave of Fireflies.

My Neighbor Totoro, focuses on the experiences of two girls, the strong-willed, yet wide-eyed Satsuki and her younger sister the loud-mouthed but earnestly curious Mei.  The two girls are currently residing with their grandmother in the countryside, while their father moves too and from Tokyo for work, the reason for their needing to stay away is predicated upon their mother being hospitalized for an unnamed illness.  As such, the two spend many of their weekends traveling to visit her and awaiting the return of their father from work each day.  Of course, given that they moments, as well as attending school, only consume so much of their day-to-day activities, Satsuki and Mei spend their time traveling through the woods and meadows of the rural town.  It is during one of these trips that Satsuki and Mei meet a giant cat-like creature that Mei refers to as a mispronunciation of troll, therefore becoming known as Totoro.  This creature begins to appear intermittently during Satsuki and Mei's endeavors, often showing up in moments of trouble or fear as a means to put them at ease, for example, a large Totoro spends time awaiting the arrival of their father who is late from work, even providing them with a small gift of acorns and nuts which they plant in their yard.  These acorns lead to a gigantic tree growing in their yard, wherein Totoro and his various smaller forms take Satsuki and Mei on a wild flight through rural Japan.  When the girls awake the next day they realize it has been a dream, but also notice that the seeds have still sprouted, leading them to believe that the magic of Totoro might actually exist.  When Satsuki receives news that their mother has fallen ill, yet again, with a cold her and Mei panic, attempting to contact their father, who tells them to be patient until he can obtain more information.  Mei, unfortunatley, is incapable of grasping the necessity of patience and takes it upon herself to travel to the hospital, getting lost and become a cause for concern in the entire village.  Satsuki in a moment of desperation tracks down Totoro and uses his magical cat bus to find Mei and then visit their mother, although they do so from outside the window, leaving her a gift in the hopes of it leading to her quick recovery.  This act, assumedly works, or at least the closing credits animations would suggest as much.

Coming of age tales are often dealt with in a hyper-sentimental manner, leaning heavily on everything being perfect and avoiding the very real fact that for most people, growing up is tied to a point of fear or moment of tragedy.  Perhaps the best example of this working, while also being highly sentimental would be the lost love sequence of Summer of '42.  I would posit that Miyazaki also does this as a filmmaker, using the magical realist elements of his film to ease the heavy blow of tragedy, while also showing that necessitates growing older.  Totoro and the escapism it provides to the girls is also paired with Satsuki coming to realize that his escapist qualities do not factor into her mother suddenly becoming healthy.  Indeed, if anything Totoro is more a projection on the part of Satsuki to help maintain Mei's sense of wonder with the world, because Satsuki has her own moment of tragic awakening, when she realizes that her mother "having colds" indicates a white lie being propagated by adults to tell the two girls that their mother is sick, but not entirely playing into how truly troublesome her health might well be.  When Satsuki confronts an adult about his lie, they can offer nothing more than a defeated sigh, for they acknowledge the loss of innocence occurring, something that will never fully be the same.  Of course, Miyazaki realizes that the truly happy individual can still retain moments of innocence late into their life, pulling from it at moments of happiness, or as is the case with Mei and Satsuki's father, to help young persons understand the curiosities of the world, as is clear in the dust bunny discussion early in the film.  It is in moments like this were white lies are more fun stories in replacement of detailed scientific explanations which would be of little interest to a young person.  Yet, the most wonderful moment of magical realist escapism emerges when Satsuki and Mei's mother swears she sees her two daughters laughing outside her window, a moment that the viewers assume to be real, however, as their father suggests is only possible through the magical gift of the corn.  In this stroke of genius and subversive non-linear narrative, one can read the message as the father playing into the same "wonder in the world" rhetoric he uses when talking with his daughter as a means to ease the suffering of an ailing spouse.  To Miyazaki, tragedy is a reality, but it is also something that can be softened by a light-hearted and curious view of the world, because no all has to be heartbreaking, particularly when giant fluffy trolls can serve as emotional companions.

Key Scene:  The sandal floating in the water is stark, jarring and surreal and perhaps one of the single darkest frames in all of Miyazaki's oeuvre.

Buy this bluray.  Buy your friends this bluray.  Buy everyone this bluray.

There's A Storm Coming, Can You Feel It?: Fatal Fury: The Motion Picture (1994)

Storms! Gary! A ton of women who are often overexposed, these seem to be the major themes of Fatal Fury: The Motion Picture.  Aside from that it is about as cookie cutter as the anime movies come, particularly ones that are clearly cut with the intention of being screened on television.  I added Fatal Fury: The Motion Picture to the month of kung fu film viewing, because I felt that to exclude the clear influence of the genre on the anime film would have been illogical and Chop Kick Panda's inclusion was more so a dare than anything else.  I, however, should have known better than to even consider that this would be remotely worth my time, because as my appearance on Drive By Nerding to discuss Video Game Adapations showed, it is rarely a successful thing for a video game to make the crossover to narrative film, almost entirely a result of cashing in on the possibility of financial gain by name recognition alone.  The trouble with Fatal Fury: The Motion Picture, however, is that it seems to be trying its best to take itself seriously, including some early establishing character arcs that while initially promising fail to go any place worth note, particularly the forced love stories and even worse the suggestion of some familial bond that can transcend the very divide of good and evil.  That is not to say that the film is particularly terrible, but, instead; to suggest that what could have been a more taut and well-considered narrative on space and identity, particularly given the expansive possibilities of anime as an art and film medium, manages to be nothing more than extensions of the video game realm, meant only for gaze and the thrill of violence and destruction and very little if any acknowledgement of what is really occurring in moments of such violence.  I will admit that my most recent exposures in regards to animation have been heavily lifted from the absurd or heavily non-linear, especially with a recent revisitation of Satoshi Kon's Paprika, but even acknowledging that I cannot help but feel as though Fatal Fury: The Motion Picture missed an opportunity to really consider what it means to identify oneself in regards to a larger national structure, in favor of resting a bit too heavily on hackneyed tropes of gender and power.

Fatal Fury: The Motion Picture begins with a thief exploring ruins in Egypt in a quest to discover a piece of armor, which is purportedly part of a larger set of armor called the Armor of Mars.  The man Cheng Sinzan hopes to use this armor for purposes of powerful corruption, only to be stopped by a group of bandits led by the mysterious Laocorn, a man who already possesses pieces of the armor, thus granting him a considerable degree of power over the other individuals he encounters.  Needless to say, this act leads to a riff in the sense of good in the world, which leads noted fighter and all-around stand-up guy Terry to acknowledge a storm coming.  The film then cuts to a muay thai kickboxing match involving the wiley Joe, a friend of Terry's and the first compatriot we meet in the group.  Along with Joe come Terry's brother Andy whose sexual identity is left surprisingly ambiguous, much to the frustrations of Mai a voluptuous ninja who is constantly seeking out a means to bed the aloof Andy.  During a night of recreational arcade gaming, Terry comes into contact with a young woman named Sulia after she is attacked by a group of brutish masked men.  Knowing it is the right thing to help those in need, Terry agrees to help Sulia find out more information about her mysterious attackers, in hopes that he can also win over her affections.  Recruiting the help of his friends, the group then seeks out a cave that has more information about the armor worn by the brutes, only to discover sprawling hieroglyphics relating to the origin of the Armor of Mars.  It is at this point that Sulia reveals her identity to be related to the lineage of the Armor of Mars and, more importantly, her ties to her brother Laocorn, who is on his own quest to attain the pieces of the armor.  Realizing the dangers imminent in Laocorn's attaining of all of the pieces of the armor, the group splits up and begin to scour the various ancient ruins where the last pieces are suspected to be.  During this quest the various groups achieve new levels of self-discovery, particularly Terry who learns to let go of his previous loss and open up to Sulia for the possibility of a new relationship.  Yet there endeavors prove nearly futile when they arrive at the last location and discover Laocorn assembling the armor, however, the result of that act are grander than even Laocorn could have imagined.

There are some moments of possibility in this film where one might argue that the film navigates boundaries and since I am not ready to dismiss this film, I find it best to approach the film with such a framework in mind.  The clear boundaries emerge in a film like this through the travel narrative, in so much as the the various pieces of the armor are scattered about all the spaces of antiquity in which traversing means a very physical movement over a space.  As such, it is important to consider the privilege and power of the group as they seamlessly bob in and out of lands that are thousands of miles apart, dropping their obligations, if any, to do so.  Considering that it is lifting from Fatal Fury the game, which does focus on people moving about space, such a choice is not highly problematic, but the whim on which they move about cannot be overlooked.  Similarly, it is the layers of the modern upon the space that are also worth considering, especially since the group is moving through the ancient world.  In many case the high rises, or ruins of attempted modern civilization cover the archaic world in which Terry and others must move within.  To a degree, one could certainly argue that Fatal Fury: The Motion Picture, in its choice to place the narrative within spaces of antiquity that have confronted modernity, that boundaries not only take on a length aspect of crossing, but one of depth as well, reinforced by the multiple inclusions of caves and catacombs.  These are considerably tangible versions of space, however, and one must also consider the ways in which space can be a bodily function, especially in anime where characters looks and physicality are far more indicative of Western influence than Eastern, yet in the narrative it is made painstakingly clear that all of the individuals are of some form of Asian descent, right down to Terry who looks about as American as Hulk Hogan in his heyday.  To consider the animation choice beyond its video game adaptation, one could certainly suggest that the creators hoped to transcend body boundaries by creating Asian identities in non-Asian bodies, but this is likely not the case, instead; reaffirming the privileged place of western ideals of everything from ancient history to beauty.

Key Scene:  The arcade scene is probably the highlight of the film, if only for the one moment in the fight sequence, where things go almost entirely into cel-shade animation.

Watch Akira instead.  This is really not worth your time unless you want to be a completist on bad video game adaptations.

Fear Takes The Shape We Are Willing To Give It: Mind Game (2004)

Here I was, post viewing of Fantastic Planet, rather certain that I had explored all the possibilities and corners of the animated film, and was entirely sold that Satoshi Kon would be the height of Japan's particular anime leanings, however, when I discovered that the late director had championed a work I should have expected it to at the very best rival his films and at the very least explore some of the same territory.  While I will always respect Akira as the seminal work in anime, consider Paprika the point of absolute deconstruction of linear narrative expectations, while adoring Howl's Moving Castle as the classicist anime, what is at work in Masaaki Yuasa's Mind Game is one of the most revelatory, celebratory and outright challenging works in the canon of animated films, comparing perhaps even with the great works of spatial and temporal reconsideration in all of cinema.  I found myself constant shifting my viewing expectations throughout the film, sometimes being lulled into the sensuous colors of certain scenes, only to have them slashed into black and white dreariness, or in most instances taken to an even higher hallucinatory level.  In a couple of the film's moments I found myself changing expectations and understanding relative to each frame within a montage, whose juxtaposition was so clearly considered and organized as to work on a psychological level equitable to that of the Soviet montage.  It is glaringly obvious that Yuasa is not merely a filmmaker who knows how to make a cool looking film, but one that desires to engage with as much of cinematic theory and history as possible, both as it relates to his field of animation, as well as its larger place within the framework of cinema as a reflection of the mind's eye or in a French New Wave approach, an absolute truth that reflects the disillusions of society.  Mind Game is a ton of things, none of which are misguided, half-boiled or poorly delivered, in fact, this movie begs to be carefully considered frame-by-frame, so much so that I found myself pausing, hoping that some degree of osmosis would allow for the bombardment of imagery, commentary and overall visceral pleasure to properly wash over me, instead, what I am left with post viewing is a wild desire to simply press play again and see where the connections emerge in a film that takes the idea of enigmatic narrative to a whole new place.

Attacking the narrative of Mind Game is daunting, considering that to a considerable degree it is a series of cyclical events interweaving together, or perhaps a dream sequence bookended between two parallel visions, that are possibly within their own diagetic vision, it is tough to say.  There are, however, moments that tie together to at least glean some possibility of a protagonist in the character of Nishi, a soft-spoken manga artist whose chance reencounter with a former crush Myon results in his being dragged to Myon's family restaurant where he meets up with Myon's sister Jiisan and their less than likable father who only seems concerned with his own sexual conquest.  Within moments of being there, Nishi who is trying to outshine Myon's romantic interest, becomes, along with the other members of the restaurant part of a stick up as a mysterious man in black and brutish enraged soccer player begin making a mess of the place, violently attacking those in the restaurant.  At one point, Nishi is shot by the soccer player, leading to his own near death experience, before assumedly being reincarnated and afforded a second chance to stifle the attack, this time successfully killing the soccer player and stealing the man in black's car taking the sisters along with him as he proceeds to flee the city, the lackeys of a mob boss chasing him along in the process.  This second chance at life leads to Nishi throwing caution to the wind in this chase, ramping of truck beds and speeding much to the frustration of the pursuers.  Eventually, trapped by an insurmountable roadblock, Nishi ramps the car off of a bridge which will lead to his and the sisters' certain death, yet as though by divine intervention, a whale leaps out of the water and swallows the car, with its passenger.  Confused initially by their survival, the group finds themselves in a Jonah like situation eventually running into a large boat, occupied by an old man who has been living in the belly of the beast for thirty plus years.  He explains that it is a futile effort to escape from the whale, because the nature of his feeding and breathing cause waves to push boats backwards.  The desperation felt by the group, leads into a series of hallucinatory spirals and visions that become the narrative framing for the remainder of the film and their style is so non-normative and transcendent that to even provide a vague explanation would be to betrays its unfolding intensity.

I was mesmerized by a variety of elements in this film, particularly the suggestion that identity is something that is constantly evolving and reshaping itself to afforded the most ideal presence in a situation.  Indeed, one could call Mind Game the cinematic equivalent of a chameleon, but even that would be a false moniker, because it suggest an evolutionary necessity of survival.  The narrative that Yuasa provides viewers with is far from concerned with safety and survival of the fittest, indeed the film almost seems certain that it is only through reckless behavior that any notion of survival is afforded.  The characters who fair well in this film are in a incessant state of motion, which allows for them to move through the boundaries of the living and the dead, while in other moments defying physics for extended periods of time.  Yet, the film seems to also suggest that while much of this dynamic presence exists in the physical, it is more often a result of allowing one to free themselves from the mental constraints of a singular experiential frame of reference.  Indeed, this is where Yuasa manages to extend even beyond the wild visions of Kon.  I would never suggest that Kon did not push the images that occupied his films to their farthest parameters, but it is worth noting that in even his best work Paprika the bodies that occupy the space remain visually the same, even when their space movies between two dimensions.  In Mind Game both the characters and the spaces move about from live-action stop motion as the most grounded visuals, to highly impressionist works that are would be nearly indistinguishable were it not for the preceding or following images to add a shade of context.  Yet even these styles betray a possibility of grounded identity, because they constantly shift from the memories and daydreams of the various characters, to the point that even in the closing moments of the film, it is unclear as to whose story the viewer has just watched, or if it was indeed any story at all.  While they are stylistically as opposite as possible, I can only think to compare Mind Game to Chris Marker's La Jetee, in so much as both seem to posit a world where things are in constant motion, and it is rare, if not near impossible for things to ever coalesce into perfect harmony, but when they do it proves to be nothing short of beautiful.

Key Scene:  The last twenty minutes of this film will cause you to reconsider everything you have previously understood about film.  Trust me, I swear by this statement.

So I had to use creative methods to hunt down this film, but I am seriously considering selling a kidney to get hyper-rare this DVD.

We Are Not Underwater, This Is Really Happening: The Calamari Wrestler (2004)

A recent acceptance into an academic publication has led me to heavily reinvest interest in the manner with which I critically read films and I have been setting aside, in my mind at least, a set of films that I know I want to create papers around, one it particular being the 2007 genre bending Big Man Japan, which reconsiders the Kaiju film by adding a layer of mockumnetary to its narrative, while deconstructing Japanese masculine privilege in the process.  However, I figured this film stood in its own bizarre world and would be somewhat impossible to relate outside of setting it against its wild predecessors in the various Toho films.  Yet, when I hear about a film that focused on the wrestling experiences of a human/calamari hybrid I was rather certain I had found something that would exist, at the very least, in the same space of the cinematically bizarre.  Yet, when I realized that the film was tackling some of the same issues of otherness and loss of male power in a changing Japanese modernity, I was aware that the two films exist in a theoretical framework that first focuses on the state of masculinity within Japanese culture only to immediately dismiss it as a failed notion point of power, one that has been and continually should be undermined for all its absurdity.  Indeed, it is no small accident that both films center their narratives within the notion of combat for viewership, but that will be discussed in more detail in a bit.  It should be noted that The Calamari Wrestler is not the most visually appealing of films and clearly either lacked, or purposefully avoided, a high budget.  I would argue that this is a production choice on the part of those involved to make The Calamari Wrestler come across not as a glossy science-fiction film, but instead; to exist more within lines of the magical realist melodramatic tradition that has the ability to study the human condition from a decidedly detached point of view, while also not become so distancing as to seem impossible.  Sure it is really weird to see a anthropomorphized squid walking about the suburbs of Tokyo, but it is also quite an endearing thing to see him flail his tentacle arms in frustration and stare longingly to the wall as he dreams of past loves.

The Calamari Wrestler takes very little time establishing itself narratively, beginning very in media res with a battle going on between the championship holding wrestler and an up and comer who hopes to make his name in the ring, eventually trumping a great icon of the sport with whom he has been living under the shadow of both professionally and personally in that his girlfriend reveals that she still has feelings for the iconic wrestler to which she was married.  After a successful win, the lights go dark and inexplicably a large squid humanoid enters the ring, quickly defeating the wrestler, much to the shock of the audience and the federations various executives.  Looking at the numbers from the bout, the executives do everything in their power to convince the mysterious calamari wrestler to engage in another fight, hoping that he will take a dive in order to assure the heroic virtues of their young star.  The calamari wrestler is furious at such a suggestion and agrees only to fight on the grounds that it be absolutely real and not staged, hoping to win back the heart of the woman he loves.  Yet, it is this very desire that almost causes him to lose his powers as the calamari wrestler, only managing to be saved at the very last moment by a set of Buddhist monks.  Returning to the bout, the calamari wrestler is stunned when he sees that his opponent has become his own beast man, in the form of a mutated octopus.  While it proves a greater challenge, calamari still wins and goes on to be the champion of the league, as well as an icon within his neighborhood.  Letting his guard down, calamari is attacked by yet another muted man known as The Squilla Boxer, leading the federation to plan yet another huge battle, wherein, they pit the brawn and determination of calamari against the agility and guile of squilla.  The battle is terribly one-sided as squilla brutally beats upon calamari, yet when octopus joins in his aid things are revealed to be far more intertwined than either could imagine, leading to what has to be one of the most unusual reunions in all of cinema, followed by a birth reveal that would give Rosemary's Baby a run for its money.

I mention this film as being a close partner to Big Man Japan, first because they can be seen as unique revisionist Kaiju works, one adding a human component to a genre that is decidedly otherworldly, while the other shrinks down the gigantic monsters to human size, and in the process giving it a degree of human investment.  More simply, the two films manage to ground a genre that lives in a state of excess and cinematic grandiosity.  While it could be contested that the films are simply deconstructionist, particularly Big Man Japan in its mockumenary style, it is far more probable that both intend to reject the sort of masculine entrenchment in the figures of kaiju.  While I am not familiar with Kaiju in any great detail, I did a brief search on Google and discovered that kaiju that are expressly feminine are limited, indeed most websites get creative and include Audrey 2 from Little Shop of Horrors on their lists.  As such, it is a decidedly masculine realm, even for being creatures that are "strange beasts."  Both Big Man Japan and The Calamari Wrestler accept this world to be influenced by the masculine and set about undermining its privilege, whether it be making calamari seem diminutive when forced to exist in a space that does not afford him to use brawn, particularly, the moments when he is shopping, or when Big Man Japan drops the child that is assumedly to be his enemy.  What makes The Calamari Wrestler particularly interesting is that there are layers of masculinity being undermined, competing ones that all find it necessary to evolve to something different to attain power over a competitor.  Essentially, calamari begins as an unusual version of masculinity, one that is mocked and feared, until it is revealed that there is a degree of power and potential in the difference, at which point it becomes the point of desired masculinity.  It would seem at this point that the work is, for all intents and purposes, the opposite of Big Man Japan which chronicles his downfall, yet the reveal at the closing that proves the whole set of bouts to be a result of repressed lack of a paternal figure and a backdoor prodigal son narrative, suggest that a masculine duel that should have existed solely in the private sphere, instead, became a spectacle both of show for the men who wanted their privilege to be acknowledge and of desperation, suggesting that their place in the private sphere leads to their own degree of silencing.  The two films work brilliantly to deconstruct masculinity, if one can get over the layer of absurdity covering each work.

Key Scene:  The entire scene in which calamari works out the initial details for his upcoming match with the federation organizers might be one of the greatest contemporary uses of situation comedy available.

This film needs to be seen, unfortunately, it is hard to come by, but there are ways, one just has to be creative with obtaining the work.

Together, We Can Turn This World To Fucking Rust: Testuo, The Iron Man (1989)

I should begin by explaining why I have been a bit less consistent in blog posts over the past two weeks or so.  Firstly, I decided to do the 100 films for June challenge which has meant keeping a pretty consistent viewing schedule going, one that has taken up much more time than I expected, particularly since I included a considerable amount of films that were on the lengthier side.  I would think about posting and then get distracted by a back-to-back feature of some daunting two hour works.  This, of course, is only half the reason, since I still find myself allotted with a good bit of time in between.  Aside from my regular summer job I have also been given the incredibly fortunate opportunity to be part of a upcoming book, in which I will have an academic article published in and it has meant doing some heavy duty research and the like, again taking up more time than planned.  I am being vague with it until it is a certainty, but once that is official you better believe I will be posting in regards to it her on the blog.  All that out of the way I have come with a film so intensely its own and indicative of the possibilities of post-modern cinema as to assure it would be a great cinematic experience for me, made all the more excellent by it being one of the classics of post-sixtes Japanese cinema, while also existing before the big push towards J-horror in recent years.  The film I am referring to is the maddening and demented, industrially fueled Tetsuo, the Iron Man, directed by Shinya Tsukamoto and had been a film that was long on my shame list for films that I had yet to encounter.  I knew I needed to see it upon it also receiving mention on The Story of Film documentary and boy am I glad I finally made it around to this work.  It is parts David Lynch paranoia in human interaction, part Cronenbergian sexual/bodily violence nightmare and even pulls heavily from Teshigahara, for some of its more oeneric, ghastly elements that are heavily influenced by its Japanese cultural milieu.  While I can begin to draw these deserved comparisons, Tetsuo still very much stands as its own work, one with such a fevered editing pace and visually jarring schizophrenic nature that it is really a surprise the film has not been championed as a horror classic all its own.

Tetsuo, the Iron Man begins with images of a man known only through the reveal of the closing credits to be The Metal Fetishist.  Played by the director, The Metal Fetishist is shown running pieces of metal ocrros his teeth and jabbing pieces of steel into his exposed flesh, until he realizes that these actions have allowed for maggots to invade his wounds.  Disgusted the fetishist runs out into the street and is immediately rundown by a driver and his girlfriend, simply known as The Man (Tomorowo Taguchi) and The Woman (Kei Fujiwara).  Fearing for his well-being and the trouble that could be caused by the vehicular manslaughter they dump the fetishist's body into a ravine and go on with their life as though it did not occur, however, when The Man begins to notice tiny pieces of metal protruding through his face, as though it were beard stubble, it becomes clear that the fetishist has moved beyond the grave to exact a physical revenge upon his murderer.  The man, who is then shown attempting, unsuccessfully, to retain some normalcy at his life in business, as well as with his relationship to his girlfriend, begins to have his body taken even more over by the metal, which grows out through intravenous means and even begins to reproduce itself in the form of sexual organs, all to the dismay of the few onlookers throughout the film, as well as the viewers.  Eventually, after a frightening nightmare in which The Man's girlfriend takes on her own metal form, his evolving body reacts by destroying the theoretical threat of The Woman in a violently sexual manner, followed almost immediately by the emergence of the fetishist from the newly laid corpse.  The Man, now completely formed into The Iron Man begins a battle with the fetishist over the industrial and urban spaces of Japan eventually merging into one collective bodily form that agrees to undertake the task of destroying the entire world by turning it into rust.  The new form more insane and layered in various extremities takes to the streets of Japan at a frenetic pace as the term GAME OVER appropriately flashes upon the screen.

The body transformed and mutated is certainly something that is not unfamiliar to this blog, particularly as it is tied to deeply troubling psychological aspects, as is the case in a beloved film of mine I'm A Cyborg But That's OK (also of which I plan to juxtapose with Tetsuo for a presentation), nor is it entirely new to the world of cinema itself, stretching at least back to the themes of Fritz Lang's Metropolis which looks at the possibilities of alteration and simulacra when considering the human body.  Of course, what makes Tetsuo so particularly engaging is that it takes this theme and these images which are decidedly entrenched within the realm of science fiction and appropriates them to be both within their original genre framework, while also reflecting upon what spaces of the horrific and grotesque, one might even say carnivalesque that a cyborg body could inhabit.  Furthermore, when extending this idea of cyborg, one must remember that it is often the case, narratively speaking, that these human-like robots are made entirely of synthetic materials which are metals and the like altered to appear to be the anatomy of a human body.  A case could certainly be made that in Tetsuo the exact opposite is occurring, wherein The Man's body is taking its fleshy human parts and altering them to achieve a degree of metallic perfection, or a fetishistic ideal, helping to explain the decidedly sexual nature of many of the encounters, or more aptly put confrontations in this film.  Much like the aforementioned Cronenberg films this invasion comes at the aftermath of some sort of high-level guilt experienced by a character, whether it be the failure to protect something or a forced and unsuccessful repression of natural desires, in the case of Tetsuo it appears to be some bizarre combination of the two.  The Iron Man transformation occurs as a result of the paranoia and guilt that emerges after committing a murder, even if accidental and this troubling occurrence, allows for other walls to be let down, particularly tumultuous and tense relations with those close, ones that can lead to violent and penetrating actions that range from emotionally harmful to physically violent.  Tetsuo is as much a metaphor as it is experimental art, moving, much like the title character between the emotive concerns for a simple existence and the industrialized demand for constant growth and upward expansion at the cost of nothing.

Key Scene:  The rust and stainless steel monologue is powerful stuff.

The DVD's available are both out of print, therefore they catch a lofty price, however, one is available on Netflix and is definitely worth renting.

Beau-ti-ful: Air Doll (2009)

Air Doll is a film destined to be something I thoroughly enjoy.  First, it was directed by Hirokazu Koreeda, whose film Still Walking received a more than favorable review and heavy admiration for its clear admiration for the late Ozu.  Secondly, the film focuses on issues of body and gender as it relates to East Asian cinema, a personal and well-vested research interest of mine.  Finally, if those two things were not enough, the film also includes the amazing Doona Bae, whose performance in Cloud Atlas was among one of the many enjoyable portions of the film.  Of course, a set of favorable things in my favor does not necessarily mean that it will equate to a good movie for other people every time, however, in the case of Air Doll, I think its cinematic leanings, Westernized cultural references and somewhat melodramatic soundtrack lend well to most film palettes, not to mention it involves artificial intelligence, allowing for even the most strict of sci-fi enthusiasts to find something to love in the film.  While the critics who claim the film to be a bit lengthy in its execution certainly have a right to do so, I cannot help but defend its drawn out nature as a necessity in regards to Koreeda's clear desire to promote the issues of human suffering and loneliness as realized through a being whose just come to terms with their own realization that they have emotions.  Hell, I would go so far as to describe Air Doll as a work influenced heavily by the ideas and writings of Albert Camus, although if said ideas were to be incorporated in to a Phillip K. Dick world.  Rarely do I ever possess a desire to go out of my way to read manga, although I probably should begin considering it since it does have ties to my research intestates, I really cannot deny my desire to read the graphic text on which Air Doll was based, because it is such a decidedly philosophical film that I cannot help but consider the ways in which the novel either intensifies or overlooks these reflections.  With is existential woes and considerable understanding of generational issues within contemporary Japanese culture, both in this film and Still Walking, I have began to actively seek out this directors other works as I can only hope they are filled with and equal degree of vigor and poetic earnestness.

Air Doll begins with the introduction of Hideo (Itsuji Itao) a middle-aged man working in a clearly draining and financially unrewarding job, taking solace only in his ability to come home and enjoy intercourse with a blow-up sex doll named Nozomi (Doona Bae), leaving the next day to return to his job of under-appreciation.  It is during his leave from the home that Nozomi begins to come to life as an almost spectral essence, one with a human form, but an opaque shadow.  Having only the realization that she has a heart, Nozomi attempts to navigate the world of urban Japan mimicking the actions of those she sees around her, whether it be an older woman bowing around various businesses or a girl singing a children's song.  Nozomi's curiosity with the world around her is so real and engaging that she actually finds herself successfully landing a job in a video rental store, all within the time frame of her owner being at work, thus being completely oblivious to her changed form.  As the days grow and Nozomi learns better how to navigate the world she is able to express emotions and intelligent conversations to the world around her, whether it be an old man reading poetry at a park bench, or with Junichi (Arata) whom she begins a relationship with, one which allows her to experience young love as well as continuing her curiosity with the world around her, taking particular notice of a young girl being sang "Happy Birthday."  Yet when she falls during work and accidentally punctures herself, it is revealed to Junichi that she is an air doll, something he reacts to by willingly filling her back up with air, in a noticeably sexual manner.  After this accident, Nozomi becomes considerably connected with the lonely individuals around urban Japan, sharing their sadness, as well as coming to terms with Hideo's own loneliness.  She eventually seeks to end her life by releasing her air, after talking with another woman and claiming that she did briefly find happiness in her moments of emotion.  Although it is implied that her sacrifice is witnessed by another woman who draws on its serenity to change their own life and seek out moments of beauty for herself.

Air Doll could be read as many things, an existential reflection on modernity and loneliness, a warning for our seeming willingness to attach emotional outpourings to artificial intelligence, or even a demand of its viewers to appreciate fleeting moments of beauty in a world of continued tragedy.  These are all very real themes within the film and certainly worth intense expansion, however, I cannot help but consider the feminist awakening considered within Koreeda's film, whether accidental or on purpose.  At the films onset, Nozomi is a body objectified, an issue faced by women for centuries, and still problematically confronted today, it is not until she realizes that she is capable of being a emotive and rational being that can seek her own desires that she comes to life.  This life could be read as a socio/political/economic awakening as a metaphor for women in contemporary East Asian cultures where they are still objectified within traditionalism.  As such, it is no accident that she seeks employment at a video store that draws heavily from Western culture, a means of inspiration on a very large level for non-Western feminist rhetoric, although they are beginning to create their own feminist voices and identities completely influenced by non-Western histories and philosophies.  Nonetheless, Nozomi's awakening allows her to move out of the domestic space and create her own sexuality, one that is awakened when she is "blown back up" by Junichi which could easily be read as Nozomi having her first orgasm and realizing that she too is capable of sexual gratification.  In regards to sexuality, it is no accident that the tube to represent Nozomi's vagina is constantly being cleaned both by herself and by Hideo, showing a far larger concern for the female sexual body than medicine tends to do so even in contemporary heath and body discourses.  Finally, her death at the end of the film suggests a feminist martyrdom, no different than Dreyer's Passion of Joan of Arc, one that pushes another woman to seek beauty outside of a domestic space, a veritable call to action which will hopefully open the eyes of a handful of other oppressed persons as well.

Key Scene:  There is a scene where humanized Nozomi is pretending to be a doll while Hideo lays beside her and watches TV, in which Doona Bae delivers the robotic movements of a doll, while also expressing a look of entrapment that is acting beyond perfection.

This pseudo-adaptation of The Little Mermaid is a must-own piece of cinema, and while it is a bit pricey the DVD transfer is gorgeous.

Always Look Ahead And Above Yourself: Jiro Dreams Of Sushi (2011)

As many a documentary filmmaker seem to agree, Albert Maysles specifically, the purpose of the non-fiction filmmaking style is to quote reality to some degree.  A larger question arises though when we are to consider a individual or a reality so unusual or exceptional that they transcend our own understandings of the real or the factual.  This certainly proved true with the penultimate documentary Grey Gardens, directed by Albert and his brother David, however, it also proves to be grounds for many other documentaries, although in most instances filmmakers manage to find exceptional subjects, only to completely drop the ball on creating their world, or as suggested earlier, visually quoting their reality.  This is certainly the case with I Like Killing Flies, a work with a incomprehensible figure that flails to cinematically reflect on the vibrance of the subject.  In contrast, exists what has come to be the standout documentary of last year, 2011's Jiro Dreams of Such, which focuses on world famous sushi chef Jiro Ono, who in his eighties still attends work regularly and delivers a product to his diverse customer base that he acknowledges changes and, hopefully, evolves everyday.  The traditional Japanese food offered by Jiro is not flashy or fusion heavy, but, instead, simple traditional sushi perfect.  Filmmaker David Gelb who both directed and shot this documentary does the idea of quoting reality justice within his visual study of the iconic sushi chef, taking vibrant but subtle angles and deep focus lenses to capture the slow artistry at work in the art of making the cuisine.  Often the film simply rests the camera on the piece of sushi as it occupies a minimalist space on a dish, or will use a series of overlaps and cuts to show time evolution and the notion of memory simultaneously.  The documentary exists both as a provocation on the state of fish-based food industries in Japan as well as a endearing reflection on the life of an accomplished and hard-working individual.  The film is exceptionally well-executed and deserved of the near universal praise it has managed to accrue.

Jiro Dreams of Sushi, as noted previously centers on aging sushi master Jiro Ono, a prominent figure not only in Tokyo where he resides, but on the global scale as well being the oldest chef, and one of the few sushi chefs to receive the prestigious three star rating from the Michelin Institute in France, an accolade one food critic quips in the documentary makes it worth going to said country simply to eat at that restaraunt.  At the time of this film, Jiro is eighty-five and shows no signs to considering retirement, going so far as to awake early in the morning and leave work quite late at night, a routine he has kept up for well over sixty years.  In fact, aside from obeying national holidays and no longer traveling to the fish market, Jiro sustains the same methodologies and approaches from his earliest days in the trade.  While many of his contemporaries have either passed or retired, Jiro keeps at his job, while his eldest son, now well into his fifties works under him as assistant chef, per Japanese tradition.  Incidentally, his younger son, knowing that he will not be afforded the opportunity to take over the restaurant, leading to the opening of his own restaurant, which is a literal mirroring of his father's place considering that he is right handed.  Things seem nearly unstoppable for Jiro and most of the documentary instead chooses to focus on the mad methods incorporated by the chef to assure a quality products, ones he claims are constantly evolving and never perfected.  Jiro proves to be the most humble of individuals and clearly possesses a hidden charm that manages to rub off on all those he meets, especially his former employees and the fish market workers with whom he previously worked.  If anything is left uncertain in the future of the narrative post filming it is the state of sushi as an art form after the eventual loss of Jiro, as well as the problems with overfish.  Although it also considers what troubles Jiro's sons will face living up to their father's illustrious name, yet as the closing moments seem to suggest, this is far from impossible and may already have occurred.

Why then does a seemingly straightforward documentary about a elderly man putting raw fish onto rice seem to gain such mass appeal.  I would suggest that its seemingly universal love is a direct relation to the universal motifs and themes promoted within the film.  Jiro is probably one of the most likable individuals one could ever hope to encounter in live, yet he suffers from some of the same hardships anyone could imagine, most notably issues with addiction to cigarrettes and forming a lasting bond with his children, even his unique distancing from his parents manages to evolve in to a degree of universality.  However, larger themes than these emerge within Jiro Dreams of Sushi, the most obvious being rhetoric surrounding passion and livelihood, one would find difficulty arguing against Jiro's old age being intrinsically tied to the zeal and love he pours out into his work.  The philosophically inclined sushi chef goes so far as to say that the moment a person curses their employment proves to be the exact moment in which they cannot produce a decent product.  Of course, Jiro also struggles with a variety of issues, whether it be technological changes, adapting to a market inundated with quick consumption sushi or changing demands in customer service, however, the zen like patience of Jiro always adapts, as he does when serving each customer, whether it be adjusting portions to unique paces or serving the food on the left hand side to help a customer who favors that hand.  Jiro Dreams of Sushi seems to answer the ever present question of why humanity exists and how one should engage life, if we are to take Jiro's actions to heart, it seems to be to find something we love and continually strive to perfect that, even if said perfection comes in embracing its simplicity.

Key Scene:  There is a moment when Jiro's work is compared to a piece of music that would be on the nose in any other work, however, given the artistic magnitude of this surprisingly minimalist film it fits in all to perfectly.

This is an exceptional film and one of the most stellar documentaries of the past year, if not the past decade.  It is a beautiful work currently available on Netflix Watch Instantly, there is no justification for missing its perfection.