メトロポリス - Metropolis 2002 (Rintaro)

Globalization and the world belonging to the Metropolis.

 

Over the last twenty years or so Japanese animation has seen a significant rise in popularity in the West. I personally remember dragging my parents and friends into central London just so I could riffle through the VHS  selection in the basement of Forbidden Planet. It was a rare treat. Nowadays, anime is everywhere, back home in London, Japanese animation is readily available to all those who wish to take advantage of it. Whole sections of popular stores are devoted to this particular genre and the Western world on mass essentially knows the idiosyncratic differences between anime and standard cartoons and it is no longer viewed as particular to its country of origin.

Anime is now global, and this globalization also relates to our own sense of belonging or feeling at home. As the culture of Japan (albeit primarily pop-culture) penetrates the media of the West, its nature is being gradually ingrained into our everyday lives. The false concept that anime is in-cased in a protective ‘Japanese’ barrier is slowly withering year by year.

Rintaro’s Metropolis is an interesting response to this idea. While its story may need a little fleshing out in parts the premise behind it is genuinely fascinating. This is a story that is based on another, which in turn was supposedly based on a movie poster of an incredibly popular German film. Metropolis or rather Metoroporisu (film) is based on Osamu Tezuka’s comic from 1949 that shares the same name. It is said that Osamu only used the poster of Fritz Lang’s film, also with the same name, as his inspiration. Judging from the narrative within the comic this comes as no surprise as it shares very few themes with the German film. The 2002 film on the other hand has more in common with Fritz Lang’s version due to a complete rewrite of the story; with it containing themes of class struggle, humanity and even a love story. Although these similarities do exist it doesn’t go as far as to warrant itself a remake but rather a stylish pastiche on Western films in general.

The story’s narrative is very spatially focused. The beautifully drawn, pastoral locations that are too numerous to list dominate the mise en scene of the film and become the drive behind the story. The plot outline resembles at best a film noir; a genre that is perfectly suitable to take the characters on a sightseeing tour of the entirety of the Metropolis itself. A detective and his young ward are sent out on a mission to find an evil scientist who has been accused of organ trafficking. On their way they unravel a plot that not only concerns them, or indeed the thriving city that surrounds them, but the whole of the human race at large. Once the characters locate the laboratory they discover that it has been put to the torch and the scientist they seek lies dying within. A young girl is also found within the wreckage, a girl who soon becomes the focal point of the entire film. Tima is a robot, built in the image of Red Duke’s daughter, a man who has recently finished construction of the largest skyscraper in the world. The Ziggurat, which closely resembles The Tower of Babel, is a symbol of man’s accomplishments but within this story it is also a means of domination and oppression with the ability to control the entirety of the world’s robots, characters that are portrayed as the physical embodiment of the proletariat populace. Tima’s role is to sit upon the throne of The Ziggurat and rule as the supreme being/robot that she is; a plan compromised by the detective, Hige-Oyaji and his nephew, Kenichi who inevitably falls in love with her.  . 

              The overall style of Metropolis is outstanding. The minute detail found in every scene can be individually viewed as a work of art. This beautiful use of color and movement is wrapped around an art deco backdrop and is further coupled with a groundbreaking soundtrack comprised of New Orleans-style jazz music. It’s completely and utterly cool and perhaps it’s easy to think that the storyline would finish second place to the aesthetic of the film. This is not the case. Metropolis relies on a supranational identity to capture the audience’s attention. Its stunning and sophisticated contemporary setting reflects the broader hybrid nature of the culture of modern Japan. This film is both inward as well as simultaneously being outward looking. The two protagonists of the film, the detective and Kenichi are both from Japan and they have come to a foreign land to solve a crime against humanity. They are the primary point of view of the film and it is through their eyes that the Metropolis is served to us, we are only tourists. The city thus becomes so much more intricate and its style has a profound resonance as it is the world of any city; a western city, a Japanese city, a modern city and we are being shown this through their traditional eyes. It’s rather overwhelming but utterly fantastic, a beautiful experience of looking through the looking glass.

              The additional themes that are found within Metropolis’s narrative can likewise be seen as another element of style in this manner. The idea of class struggle and the issues of humanity are two of notable importance, one leading into the other. The former being a characteristic of the Metropolis itself, almost as if the deprived classes are an ordinary appendage, a common occurrence of a thriving city. This comfortably leads us to the latter theme, humanity. What begins as satirical jab at a the faulty nature of a society and human interaction then switches to a much more literal analysis of the theme. What makes us human, the ability to display compassion? If an artificial girl can possess this, is this the next stage of human evolution or is it the beginning of our own damnation? “I am an artificial human. A machine created to conquer the world and destroy it.”

              Although Metropolis relies heavily on style it would be a mistake to consider this film solely on face value. Its use of style is intelligent and wonderfully placed. With many recent anime hitting major cinemas and entertaining the masses both in Japan and around the world this is definitely an unappreciated classic to hark back to. This is anime's reaction to its own fame, a form of cinema that is becoming absorbed into the mainstream, rather than being a straightforward alternative to it.

晩春 - Late Spring 1949 (Ozu Yasujiro)

Last weekend I visited a market where a seller was offering cups of drip coffee. Her set-up was simple and the coffee was strong and rich. Shortly after finishing my cup I purchased my own set of accessories in order to make this style of coffee myself. I found there was a homely satisfaction that one can take from making a truly delicious cup of coffee; the smell of the beans, the sound of the grind and that first rewarding sip all make the end result worth the extra time and effort.

In many ways I found myself comparing my relationship with coffee to Ozu Yasujiro and his approach to film-making. There is a concept used in all Japanese art known as mono no aware. While being notoriously difficult to translate fully, Donald Richie defines it as, “putting up with things and taking satisfaction in your putting up with things”. It is my understanding that this simple phrase defines life and this is exactly what Ozu manages to do in many of his films and most certainly accomplishes in Late Spring.

While taking many narrative structural influences from Hollywood before The Second World War, as well as deftly combining his own experiences and personal influences, Ozu Yasujiro was able to become one of the leading filmmakers in Japan. Although after the war, during American’s occupation of Japan, Ozu rebelled against this form of film-making and set out to create something that would be seen as purely Japanese. Rather than settling on a traditional film plot such as a love story or action movie, Ozu focused on the characters themselves; on their attitudes, their emotions and the feel of the world they inhabited.

 Late Spring itself tells the story of a woman in her late twenties, Noriko, who comfortably lives with her father Somiya, a widower. The two of them live happily side by side until Noriko’s aunt suggests that Noriko should get married soon and settle in a household of her own. She rejects idea and declares she is perfectly fine where she is now, taking care of her father and living an innocent lifestyle. Thus begins a series of slight suggestions, manipulative ploys and hidden agendas that force Noriko into the modern world through traditional means.

              When the movie camera was first introduced to the West it was seen as an extension of the photographic camera. Its ability to depict life as a document was exploited in the filming of a factory during closing time and a train pulling into a station. Japan took a different approach, it saw the movie camera as an extension of the stage, offering the opportunity to distort time and space to create seemingly genuine emotion through storytelling. Ozu returns to this idea and much of his work is reminiscent of the theatre.

The world that is depicted in Late Spring is a bright and sunny place, powerfully lit and combined with the low camera shots that show the entirety of the characters’ bodies nothing is hidden from us. The action that is presented is as if it is performed on a stage with the camera filling the role of audience. This is further demonstrated with the positioning of the characters during one of the many two-person conversations. The character don’t face each other but rather stand or sit side by side, directing their focus on empty space toward the direction of the camera. The characters are in harmony with one another and the composition of these scenes show the intricate detail of Ozu directorial talents.

All of these techniques allow for the emotional context of Late Spring to shine through. There is a notable scene where both Noriko and her father are sharing a hotel room in Kyoto and Noriko is talking about her future with a characteristic smile lying listlessly on her face. Her father falls asleep and her words fall on deaf ears. A shot then directs the audience’s gaze to a vase in the corner of the room. When it cuts back to Noriko the smile has faded and she appears on the verge of tears. After another lengthy shot of the vase the scene cuts to the next day. There has been much discussion over the meaning of the vase in many texts concerning Ozu Yasujiro. Many believe it to be symbolic of Noriko’s impending nuptials; others think it to mean a void that dominates not only Noriko’s life but all the characters in the film and indeed our own lives. Now perhaps I’m over simplifying things, but I took it be a wonderful use of a point of view shot for Noriko. She’s a character that we have utter empathy for. She does no wrong and her only vice is that she wishes to stay in the life she knows, living with her father. She’s a character trapped in tradition, fated to serve those that believe they know best and it in this scene that her obedience wanes and she succumbs to her true feelings.

              Late Spring is a beautiful film; it depicts the pain of passing from one stage of life to the next. Noriko, under the pressures of tradition and obedience, is compelled to enter the modern world by becoming a married woman. A father is left alone as a result and each character feels abandoned in their own way. The time and effort that was poured into this film becomes completely apparent if you have a little patience and put up the little things in life.

人情紙風船 - Humanity and Paper Balloons 1937 (Yamanaka Sadao)

The humanity viewed through a doomed P.O.V.

It’s difficult to watch Humanity and Paper Balloons without feeling complete empathy for the director, Yamanaka Sadao. This film has been regarded as a premonition of the director’s own untimely death and what lies behind this dark and dreary jidaigeki are his true feelings for a society that lacks the humanity it sorely needs.

     In a time when the politics of Japan were becoming increasingly militaristic, Yamanaka Sadao had surrounded himself with leftist sympathizers and continued to make films that subtly satirized those in power. Humanity and Paper Balloons itself was adapted and filmed by Yamanaka with the knowledge that he would soon be shipped out to China to join the war; one may argue, after watching this film that he also knew he would never return. When he was saying his farewells at Kyoto station he gave no indication of national support or encouragement of the war, his last words were, “it’s all over”. Knowing this story prior to your first viewing of Humanity and Paper Balloons will make those words haunt you throughout its entirety.

      The film tells the tale of Unno, a cowardly ronin (masterless samurai) who tries to use his father’s reputation to gain employment and a crafty barber, Shinza who attempts to raise his status in the neighborhood. Both characters are examples of the lower classes that Yamanaka clearly sided with and each faces their own trails concerning their lot in life, namely concerning their attempts to challenge the upper classes. Unno directs his efforts into shadowing and stalking a samurai, badgering him on every occasion into taking him into his employ and consequently is shunned and lied to in every attempt. Shinza on the other hand arranges gambling events behind the local oyabun’s (yakuza boss) back and is repeated scalded and punished for his attempts.

Unno is eventually murdered by his wife, a woman that he lies to constantly, who then kills herself in turn. The very fact that he did not take his own life, a supposedly noble death for a shamed samurai, but rather let his wife perform the task only gives further emphasis to the image of a failed man. This death is also reminiscent of a suicide at the beginning of the film, an old samurai who had to sell his own blade to pay for food commits suicide by hanging himself in his house. As he had no sword he was unable to perform seppuku correctly and thus the film’s end is securely bookmarked with Unno’s death and comes full circle.

Shinza, as opposed to the apathetic character of Unno, is driven and motivated to seek what he believes he deserves. He challenges the so-called authorities with his gambling events but when he goes as far as kidnapping the local money-lender’s daughter it is no longer himself that he is concerned with but rather removing the power from those who deem themselves his betters. He shames the oyabun, and gives hope to the neighborhood that the men at the top are only human. This does not end well for the tragic hero and he meets his fate during a fight with the yakuza in the outskirts of town, once more crushed by the authority that controls all.

     The issue of humanity, the namesake of the film, is raised through the interactions of those in power and those who are not. A traditional view of an upper-class member of society is said to possess both humanity and a sense of duty. It is clear that the figureheads of the upper class seen in Humanity and Paper Balloons hold neither of these traits in high regard but are rather presented as shallow, deceitful, selfish and treacherous. Although that’s not to say that these characteristics are non-existent in the film. Shinza shows on more than one occasion to hold such qualities. At one point he steps in when Unno is being savagely beaten and his very need to displace the local yakuza boss is for the benefit of the neighborhood rather than the individual. It would appear that in Yamanaka’s world the vestiges of humanity are present in regular people that are in no way privileged in their position.

     Yamanaka’s filming techniques drive home the emotion of the film. The humor that the director has shown in other pieces is pulled back for Humanity and Paper Balloons and in its stead are dark scenes of alleyways, drab mud surroundings and melancholic weather. Another noticeable withdrawal is the lack of visual action. A common chanbara film would be filled with scenes of the hero fighting bravely but Yamanaka makes a point about removing such scenes from this piece. Why are we not shown the main actions of the film? What are we shown instead? The fact is the visuals of fighting, kidnapping and deaths are not important; what we see is society’s reaction to the actions. Deprived of actually seeing these hidden scenes in the privileged seat of the voyeur we become part of the small living quarters of the townspeople and thus understand the injustice depicted on an emotional and personal level.

     The mortar of this film runs deep with Yamanaka Sadao's mental state. It is true that many others put a lot of their own personal input into Humanity and Paper Balloons but all those involved were in consensus of its purpose. Humanity may very well weigh as much as a paper balloon and human life can be blown away just as easily.

コクリコ坂から - From Up On Poppy Hill 2011 (Miyazaki Goro)

The children are the future, but is this true for Miyazaki Goro?

After I read a number of reviews put about by critics on the internet, there seems to be a consensus that this film is a solid improvement on the director’s first piece, Tales From Earthsea but is still a long way from the dizzying heights that his father, Miyazaki Hayao has set the bar of animation in Japan. Perhaps the comparison is unavoidable; but I feel like there’s a lot to From Up On Poppy Hill, both within it’s intrinsic themes as well as the very nature of the film’s production.

              The film is set in the rarely visited world of Japan prior to the Olympic games, in the year 1963. The narrative centers around two high school students, Umi and Shun, who inevitable fall in love. Both are strong, independent characters that are presented as ideal role models for both the friends and family that surround them as well as the audience itself. They meet and fall for one another through the shared attempt in restoring an old clubhouse attached to the local academy, a building that would have invariably been torn down due to the ‘clean up Japan initiative’. The challenges that they face they do so together, which is fortunate, as right from the start it would appear that each has a phenomenal amount of pressure resting on them, both personally and socially.

              A running theme through this film is that the character’s attitudes are remarkably anti-adult; it is the mistakes of those that came before that the children must make amends for. From Up On Poppy Hill is not alone is making this statement; there is a whole wealth of Japanese film that centers directly on this subject. Other notable anime would include Neon Genesis Evangelion and Serial Experiment Lain, with live actions films including Battle Royal. Each of these pieces placing the youth up on a pedestal to fight back against the previous generations that have done them wrong or simply cast them aside.

In From Up On Poppy Hill’s case it is the lack of support and general apathy of the majority of adults that surround Umi and Shun that motivates them. Umi’s mother is away and has seemingly left the lion’s share of the responsibilities with her daughter. Her father was killed during the Korean War and so Umi is left with a full house of relatives to look after. Her strong desire to have a male presence in her life drives her actions. Each morning she raises a flag outside her house to signal safe passage home for the parent she lost at sea. It is this yearning that leads her to Shun. Shun is the apparent son of a tug-boat captain and has taken it upon himself to lead the uprising against the demolition of the club house. It is Shun’s physical appearance as well as his leadership qualities that first attract Umi. The similarities that connect Shun to Umi’s father are not overly played upon but they are notable. The matter is further complicated when Shun discovers that they may in fact share the same father and be related by blood.

An incest theme is never one I thought I’d encounter in a Ghibli film. Other directors within the company have tackled some serious and/or realistic issues before, but never this shocking. Ocean Waves told the fairly ordinary story of two teenagers that fall in love in Shikoku and Grave of the Fireflies dealt with the lives of two children as they struggle to survive in Japan during World War 2 but this is something else. When they first discover their possible parentage connection Shun attempts to withdraw all emotion from their relationship; an act that appears to be too difficult for Umi who declares that she does not care about their blood relation and will love him forever. They decide that they can not be together and the blame is directed at the adults once more. Of course the fairy tale ending is upheld and it is made clear that they are not siblings. While I personally believe it would have made the whole film a lot more daring than the average if they were in fact brother and sister, it was certainly brave of the director to even broach the subject in such a piece in the first place.

The clubhouse itself is another catalyst to the whole affair and it’s incredibly easy to become completely enamored with it and its consistency throughout the entirety of the film right from the start. The attention to detail from the smallest of trash that festoons the highest reaches of the ceiling to the filth ridden corners where anything could live, gives the viewer a real chance to ‘smell the earth’ of the location. The passion shown by the students that study there compliment the visual aspects of the building perfectly. During the film there is a heated debate held by a student committee where two sides argue for and against the destruction of the clubhouse. Those that wish for it to remain state that the past should not be so easily forgotten and the heritage of Japan should be preserved within its walls. Those that are against keeping it standing argue that it is an old and tired building and should be removed to make way for the new. It is clear that this is an obvious metaphor for the whole nation of Japan at that time especially during the clean up initiative. The students that lead the charge to renovate the clubhouse, namely the two main characters, are powerfully driven and their characters contain qualities reminiscent of period dramas. Giri (duty) and ninjo (humanity) are behind their personalities and the message it gives is clear; Japan is a country with a rich and wonderful culture and the good cannot be wiped clean so easily.    

One may believe that many of the characters in From Up On Poppy Hill were not fully realized and a lot of potential content was wasted as a result, although perhaps this was Miyazaki Goro’s intent. All of the supporting characters are very much black and white. They all fit stereotypical roles without much imagination. There’s a book smart friend of Shun’s that helps guide his actions, a distant father who offers minimal advice and Umi’s household is filled with a wise grandmother, self involved children and even a withdrawn artist. While it is true that these characters could have been fleshed out and given another dimension this was not their purpose. They simply act as tools to aid the development of Umi and Shun and provide the cushioning they require to let the emotion of their lives become apparent, something I think Goro does extremely well. Despite not being loved by all, Tales of Earthsea has at least one fan in me, and I believe the raw emotions that he was able to transcend within that story are much the same within this one.

Miyazaki Goro is a director with a lot of potential. I personally have enjoyed both of his films and will continue to do so. The only flaw that I would like to mention is that his attempts to emulate his father’s films are too obvious and sometimes a little clumsy. There were many stylistic techniques within From Up On Poppy Hill that almost seemed like vague references to his father’s work, as if he were trying to create a pastiche rather than something purely independent. He’s an exciting director and although I’d like to judge his films without bringing into question his relationship with his own father, I fear that it cannot be helped.

浪華悲歌 – Osaka Elegy 1936 (Mizoguchi Kenji)

What drives an erotic, grotesque and nonsensical woman in a patriarchal society? This is the subject of Osaka Elegy and it is presented with a grounding sense of realism, forming a criticism that challenges a society on the brink of a militaristic up rise.  

After watching this film for the first time, it is easy to imagine Osaka Elegy as a well preserved glimpse into the past. The realism that was insisted upon by Mizoguchi, coupled with innovative cinematic techniques allows a modern day viewer to witness for themselves everyday life within an urban Osaka household from the 30s. “The smell of the earth”, holds a strong presence throughout the film and this is achieved in a number of ways. Tracking camera shots, the lack of close-ups, and the frequent use of non-diagetic jazz music all play their part but the most obvious being the distinctive use of the regional dialect of Osaka, known as Kansaiben. With its sprightly tempo and comedic nature, Mizoguchi uses its connotations to engage the audience immediately on an intimate level with the characters.

              Osaka Elegy centers on the trials that face Ayako, a young woman working in a pharmaceutical company, throughout her day to day life. She is quickly established as a Moga or modern girl as we witness her berate her fiancé, an act that declares that she is the dominant member of their relationship. Although this dominance is quickly striped from her in the next scene when her employer, Mr. Asai, makes a sexual advance and reduces her to nothing but a pretty face and an object that is subject to exploitation.

             We are soon introduced to other male oppressors that conspire to keep Ayako in her proper place within society. Her father, who is being hounded by his former company for embezzlement persists in denying Ayako any acknowledgment or gratitude for her attempts in keeping the family afloat. Her brother who is kept in the dark of her sacrifices and condemns her at every opportunity and, of course, other senior members of her place of work that only see her as something beautiful to possess.

It is my understanding that the typical view of women in Japan at this time was that they must be the backbone of the family; obedient in nature and ultimately resourceful yet submissive to their male peers. This is a misogynistic view but fortunately not one that Mizuguchi shares. Early in his career he worked as a director at Nikkatsu Mukojima, a studio that specialized in new school films or shinpa productions. A shinpa film would often tell the story of strong female protagonists that would sacrifice themselves for the sake of the family. This style of narrative is extremely evident when looking at Osaka Elegy. Ironically, while refusing to be the obedient creature that is essentially bestowed upon her sex at the time, Ayako remains the backbone of the family and extremely resourceful in nature. This, as it turns out, is the very thing that damns her in the end.

The period of modernism or modanisumu that erupted in the Japanese film industry in the 20s brought along new attitudes and a wave of youth into the cities. Traditional values were being challenged with confident attitudes and the latest fashions from the west. Those that still held dear to tradition saw this movement as corruption and thus viewed Moga as sordid and promiscuous. It was around this time in film history that the ero-guro-nensensu or erotic grotesque and nonsensical themes were introduced into film scripts. In the 1930s, this essentially equates to something as timid as Ayako wearing a short skirt coupled with a strong independent attitude. Nowadays, this can mean something entirely different, something that is both incredibly graphic and vile. Still, it is Ayako’s erotic and grotesque nature (in the 1930s standard) that gives her strength and sets her aside as the powerful feminist protagonist.

As her father fails to correct his financial problems, Ayako takes it upon herself to save her family. In an age of a newly redefined ‘commercialized sexuality’ she takes the only option that seems available to her and accepts her boss’s advancements, thus becoming his mistress. An action that allows her to pay back her father’s depts. As well as securing him a job within a good company. As sexual as these deeds may appear they actually act as a catalyst that de-sexualizes Ayako. Her motivation is not driven by lust or even the need to preserve the image of herself as a woman, her motivation is money.

This money-driven motivation is clear when the affair is revealed to her boss’s wife. When confronted about her actions Ayako is remarkably nonchalant. She declares that she does not care for Mr. Asai and that his wife can keep him. This is a very notably change of character from the young woman that was once imposed upon at start of the film. It would appear that the pursuit of money, or rather power, has made Ayako into a Shokyugyou Fujin, a professional woman with her own interests and drives.

With her new sense of pride she becomes determined to no longer prostitute herself to save her family; instead she chooses to manipulate men in her own fashion. She targets another senior member of her old offices and coaxes him into offering her money, at which point she runs but not before telling her beneficiary to, “go find himself a nice geisha”.

Her next move, in an attempt to secure a proper place in society, is to find herself a decent husband. This leads her back to her former fiancé who has previously shown himself to be very devoted and yet completely spineless in character. Although, when the theft from her boss comes to light, they are both taken in by the police where he renounces her and removes himself from her life. He leaves because he now understand the truth about her former actions and lovers.

The film closes on a suspiciously upbeat image. She is taken back by her family but she is denied a position at the dinner table. Her father damns her for the theft of the money and the resulting consequences; although he was guilty of the same crime, the irony seems lost on him. She flees the household and makes her way to the Ebisu Bridge, a symbol of modernism within the new landscape of Osaka. It is here that she meets the family doctor of the Asai family. She tells him that she is sick with the disease know as ‘delinquency’, and asks what she must do to rid herself of it. The doctor explains there is no cure and turns his back on her. What follows is the first close up and the last image of the film. The screen is filled with Ayako’s determined face as she walks into the unknown.

As I watched this film I couldn’t help but imagine what would have happened to Ayako’s family if she had acted the way that was expected of her. Her father would have been taken to prison, her brother would have been forced to leave university and her sister would have lost further face within the neighborhood. Her actions have benefited her loved ones in a remarkable way yet all she receives is damnation. Ayako is a character that is, “living within the eternal struggle of female confinement”. Somewhere between the traditional past and the promiscuous future; it is a cruel and unforgiving place with nowhere to go but forward.