After two years of virtual screenings, the Japanese Film Festival (previously known as Eiga Sai) has returned to cinemas. Here are a few thoughts on the ten films that screened as part of this festival. (As you may have surmised, this is gonna be a bit long).
I fully admit that Tetsu Maeda's And So, The Baton Was Passed made me emotional, especially during its latter part. Brimming with near-mawkish sentimentality, Tetsu Maeda (A Banana? At This Time of Night?) is no stranger to melodrama, and his directing chops shine through here. However, it is the film's depiction of one of its central characters where the film falls by the wayside.
Yuko (Mei Nagano) is a young woman with a very colorful family background. Her mother, Rika (Satomi Ishihara) struggles to stay in one place and often disappears from Yuko's life. In the interim, Rika leaves her daughter in the care of various husbands who treat her like her own. Yuko's "last" father, Morimiya (Kei Tanaka) is dedicated to Yuko even if the two aren't related.
The dramatic center of And So, The Baton Was Passed is Rika (and ripples formed by her absence from Yuko's life), and despite the film's best efforts to excuse her actions (especially in the film's final act), she still comes off as a selfish, flighty woman who denies her daughter agency for her own self-interests. Much ado is placed on what Rika really thinks of her daughter, but Rika never stops to think about what Yuko wants from her mother - and based on her words on the matter, all she really wanted was for her mother to be there.
Still, taking the film in good faith, there's a lot in here about found families that exist in spite of bad parents and neglect. It's elevated by some great performances by Mei Nagano and yes, even Satomi Ishihara, despite the fact that her character got the short end of the stick narratively.
Hitomi Saito (Riho Yoshioka) is a former public servant who quit her job to work as an anime director. After working several jobs in the industry, she finally catches her big break: an opportunity to direct a series on her own, on a prime time slot. However, she's in for some competition: the competing network is debuting a show of its own, directed by the famed genius Chiharu Oji (Tomoya Nakamura), who has returned after a long dry spell.
Making anime is hard. That should be more than obvious and even more so if you've seen Kohei Yoshino's Anime Supremacy!, a film that delves into the nitty gritty of anime production. It is made clear that no anime is made by one person alone; it is the product of a dedicated team of artists, animators, colorists, actors and producers who work insane, punishing schedules in order to make something wonderful.
While the film's central premise on the surface is a ratings competition between two shows (incidentally, a magical girl show vs. a mecha anime), Anime Supremacy! is a film about the process of creating art, and all the compromises and difficulties that accompany that process. Regardless of who wins the fight, what an artist truly wants is to be able to reach the hearts of others with the things they create, even if it's just one person. People curious about the ins and outs of anime production will find this a treat, as actual industry people helped consult for the film.
Director Yoshino, himself a newbie to directing, manages to show that familiar artistic struggle quite well, and it's obvious that the film, too, is a labor of love: there are lots of easter eggs and references to various anime (points to whoever got the Amuro Ray Gundam reference), and cameos from various seiyuu (voice actors) such as Sho Hayami, Kana Hanazawa and more.
There is something incredibly comforting about routine: something safe in ordinariness, in the idea that no matter how drastically our lives may change, we return to familiar motions. It is also through routine and ritual that we observe the ephemera of living (in Japanese - mono no aware), of the impermanence of all things. Routine, thus, is a quiet act of rebellion then, a way of fighting back the chaos of life.
Noriko (Haru Kuroki) and her cousin Michiko (Mikako Tabe) join a tea ceremony class on the urging of Noriko's mother. As the film follows Noriko as she learns the craft, her life changes in ways both happy and sad. Even while old friends move on, new friends come and life goes on, tea ceremony becomes the one constant in her life.
As with many if not most slice of life films, Every Day a Good Day doesn't have any conflict or major dramatic hook; if there's anything close to an "antagonist" in this film, it's time - as it inexorably goes on, Noriko sometimes feels left behind. Her various circumstances in life - and the way it goes to places she'd never imagine - does not traverse a straight line.
And while most of the movie goes on its gentle way, the ending (one that involves a substantial timeskip) feels a bit rushed. But maybe that's just my desire to have the movie keep on going. I guess it's just that relaxing.
In the Philippines, I've heard of crime victims sometimes describing their ordeal as being hypnotized, compelled to do things that they wouldn't have done otherwise. The most successful criminals are the charismatic ones who owe their success to their ability to control and manipulate others in order to evade accountability, or to do their dirty work for them.
The first dozen or so minutes of Kazuya Shiraishi's Lesson in Murder pulls no punches in showing how undeniably evil Yamato Haimura (Sadawo Abe) is. He abducts his victims, mostly in their late teens, and inflicts all sorts of torture on them before cremating them and scattering the ashes in his garden.
Haimura then contacts Masaya Kakei (Kenshi Okada), a law student and former customer at the bakery Haimura used to ingratiate himself to his victims. The convicted serial killer tells him that his last victim, a woman in her 20's, is not his doing, and Kakei investigates whether this is true.
As Kakei comes closer and closer to the truth, it's made clear that his investigation into Haimura is transforming him, molding Kakei into Haimura's image. The best parts of this come during the visitation scenes, where Haimura's reflection overlaps Kakei's face - visually similar to Kore'eda's The Third Murder (2018). In a way, we are swept in as much as Kakei is, the film trying to place doubt in what is true and what is not. It's also helped immensely by Sadawo Abe's performance. I mean, just look at that poster - he manages to create such a terrifying character even with only a picture.
The film's surprise ending only goes to show how pervasive a cancer such a malicious influence can be, digging deep into places we least expect.
Many films have been made that deal with the aftermath of the 3/11 earthquake and tsunami, a horrific disaster that led to the deaths of almost 20,000 people, the displacement of many more, and the disappearance of thousands. Takahisa Zeze's In the Wake begins in the aftermath of that disaster, with people slowly trying to pick up the pieces in the face of unspeakable tragedy.
The film then picks up in the present day, where detective Tomashino (Hiroshi Abe) is investigating the serial murders of several social welfare workers. He soon fixates on Yasuhisa Tone (Takeru Sato), who had attacked the city welfare office a couple of years ago. Through intercut flashbacks, we learn more about Tone and the family he finds in the aftermath of the tsunami.
In the Wake shows the myriad ways a disaster can impact the lives of survivors many years after cities are rebuilt. The magnitude of grief made in that short time can last people the rest of their lives. Some may think that Japan, with its robust social systems in healthcare, would have an equally robust system in social welfare. But as we see in the events of In the Wake, that's hardly the case: people fall through the cracks because of bureaucratic insufficiencies and a general lack of resources. There is also a sense of self-sufficiency and independence among the older generation that prevents some from seeking help in the first place.
The inherent tragedy of In the Wake is the fact that everyone in the film is a victim. In the face of inscrutable natural phenomena, we are all left damaged.
Films and stories about boxing haven't always followed the pursuit of victory (heck, even the first Rocky ended with him losing to Apollo Creed), instead mostly concentrating on the love of the sport and the circumstances surrounding its characters. Blue is no different, following the lives of three people who have taken up the sport. Urita (Kenichi Matsuyama) hasn't won a match in ages, but still perseveres in the boxing gym. His best friend Ogawa (Masahiro Higashide) is the gym's ace and the first real contender for a championship in ages, but it's quite clear he's showing early signs of punch-drunk syndrome. And finally, Narasaki (Tokio Emoto) is a complete amateur who joins the gym to impress a girl.
The narrative strength of Blue - aside from its heartfelt depiction of the camaraderie among the aspiring boxers in the gym - lies in the things it elects not to show, resisting the urge to dive deep into melodramatic territory. There are hints to history between Urita, Ogawa and Ogawa's girlfriend Chika (Fumino Kimura), and complex depths to their relationship. How deep are Urita's feelings? Is Ogawa attached more to Chika or the sport? But instead of merely showing us, it uses those bits of history to create great character moments between the two.
Of the three leads, Matsuyama's performance as the disarming and humble Urita stands out the most, but in many ways this is also Tokio Emoto's story, bringing moments of levity in an otherwise serious affair.
Ultimately, as matches are fought and won (or lost), Blue truly is more about the journey than the destination. The only thing (figuratively, and sometimes even literally) stopping one from getting up after getting knocked down is one's self.
Out of all the animation directors of his generation, Masaaki Yuasa feels like he has the most unique and divergent style. Perhaps that is why I felt resonance in the characters of his latest work, Inu-oh, and his own career: the musicians and artists of Inu-oh create art that, in its anachronism, clashes with the dominant (and state-sponsored art) of the day.
A little background: in the late 1100s the Minamoto and Taika (a.k.a. Heike) clans fought at Dan-no-ura in the Strait of Shimonoseki. The battle ended with a Minamoto victory, with the Taika being virtually wiped out. Accounts of the battle and the stories of the Taika that remain are controlled by the Ashikaga shogunate, descendants of the Minamoto.
It is here where we meet our two protagonists; the titular Inu-oh (real life rock singer-songwriter Avu-chan from Queen Bee), a cursed yet immensely talented son of a Noh performer who hides his appearance behind his mask, and Tomona (Mirai Moriyama), a blind biwa player who has suffered injustices from the Ashikaga clan in the past. The two meet and develop their own brand of music, far removed from the austere music of their current time. Yes, Inu-oh is a musical, one whose sounds draw from psychedelic and punk rock. Urged by the spirits of the Taira, Inu-oh and Tomona tell the stories of forgotten ghosts.
The film is a testament to the power of art, how it can be used to tell the truth in service of something greater - to remember things that would otherwise be forgotten. In performing his art, Inu-oh becomes more and more human, as if to say art itself helps us find our humanity. The ending, abrupt as it is, is bittersweet in that regard, a tribute of sorts to all the stories we have lost over the centuries.
No Japanese film fest would be complete without what I call a 'ganbare!' film - a story in which a (usually unwitting) protagonist is sucked into a niche hobby and learns to love it. For this year, the film that fits that criteria is also an anime. Based on the manga series by Kana Ozawa, Blue Thermal follows Tsuru Tamaki (Mayu Hotta), a literature student who finds herself in her university's aviation club. Here, she learns how to fly gliders and finds she's a natural at this sort of thing.
I honestly find these kinds of movies endlessly fascinating, if only for the opportunity to learn about something new. In this case, I would gladly watch 12 episodes of this, no doubt. And that's kind of the problem: condensing a five-volume manga into a feature length film is quite a challenge, considering everything that happens in the film. In the space of 103 minutes, Tsuru goes from one interscholastic challenge to another, not quite settling in one event before moving on to the next aviation activity. The narrative meat of these kinds of films lies in the training and preparation involved, and the film just doesn't have time for that.
The film tries its best to explain all the technical knowledge needed to understand the competitions, but it probably would have been better served over the course of a series instead of a film. And, due to limited time and resources, a major plot thread in the third act doesn't feel as emotionally resonant as it should.
While it's a fine intro to the manga and is very entertaining, Blue Thermal had a lot of its potential limited by the form it is in. Still, it's a decent effort.
If there's any country that has made an art of the apology, it is Japan. There are so many ways to say sorry, many phrases to use, gestures to perform, depending on the severity of the offending action and the level of guilt and regret. But apologies are not only ways to seek forgiveness from others, it is also a way to assuage one's own guilt, to forgive one's self. And as we find out in Keisuke Yoshida's Intolerance (orig. title, 空白, "Blank") sometimes forgiving one's self is the hardest kind of forgiveness.
After a horrific accident takes the life of middle schooler Kanon (Aoi Ito, in a quietly unassuming but substantial role), her father Mitsuru (Arata Furuta) seeks answers. This isn't a sappy melodrama; Mitsuru is, for all intents and purposes, a very unpleasant fellow. Stubborn to a fault, irascible and imposing, he's not the best father to Kanon (an understatment), and he drives away anyone who'd even dare to help him. Yoshida isn't new to writing very unlikeable characters; his previous film Come on Irene (2018) had one of the most unlikeable protagonists for any movie in recent memory. But in this one, Yoshida reels it in for Mitsuru: it's obvious that most if not all of his actions stem from his own grief: his actions, no matter how erratic or aggressive, come from a place of trying to process his own guilt. He has missed a chance to redeem himself as a father while his daughter was alive, and now she is dead, and he is grasping at straws, at anything really, to hold on to that idea that he understood his child.
In Intolerance, grief is an uncontrollable monster, fueled and enhanced by one's regrets and one's guilt. Yoshida shows how it can tear a small community apart, and it also shows how one event can impact the lives of others in profound ways. It also tangentially looks at how the media stokes outrage out of this grief without empathy to the parties involved. Grief is paralyzing, all-encompassing fire. No amount of apologies can make up for it. But that fire grows a little smaller over time; perhaps still as fiery, but a little easier to contain.
Mamoru Hosoda has at times held a particular fascination on the dichotomy of the real and virtual self - in Summer Wars (2009), Hosoda showed how powerful social connections are (political, societal, familial) even in the presence of a virtual world. In Mirai (2018), there is the divide between the idealized image of parents in the eyes of their children versus what parents truly are: flawed and fallible human beings.
His latest effort, Belle, is a (re)construction of the Beauty and the Beast fairy tale. Suzu (singer-songwriter Kaho Nakamura) is a talented musician... and she'd probably be performing now, had it not been for a traumatic event involving her mother's death when she was a child. She discovers U, a near-future social media app where your appearance is determined by your personality and biometrics. She takes up the online persona "Bell" (the English translation of her given name) and uses the app to sing to her heart's content. However, she comes across Ryu/The Beast (Takeru Sato,) a mysterious U outcast who is hunted down by a self-appointed police force led by Justin (Toshiyuki Morikawa).
Belle shares thematic similarities with Summer Wars, in that the characters of both films find the value of forming connections with other people - in the case of Belle, even strangers. U may be a means of escape, but meaningful connections are done with one's true self. Just as Belle in the original fairytale loved the prince lurking inside the Beast's monstrous form, communication, empathy and a true desire to understand the person behind the screen is what liberates us from the need to hide behind masks and be our true selves.
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The 2023 Japanese Film Festival ends its Shangri-la run today, but will continue in SM Cinemas and cinematheques across the Philippines. More info at: https://japanesefilmfestph.jfmo.org.ph/.
