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.

しあわせのパン - Bread of Happiness 2012 (Mishima Yukiko)

One rainy Friday evening a few weeks ago I set out to see a film called Shiawase No Pan at the local cinema. I went by myself but as it turned out I was not alone in this. The screening room was quiet with only a few sporadically placed, single patrons scattered here and there. This was not the first time I had come across a film with such bad attendance but in Shiawase No Pan or Bread of Happiness’s case, the mood it set in the cinema alone fits in nicely with my own discourse of the piece. Simply put, this is a nice film to watch alone or perhaps with someone you’re particularly close to. There’s a slight sadness to the film that lasts throughout but I did not leave this film feeling depressed or even remotely sad, quite the opposite actually…

            There is a childlike simplicity to this film and everything is tinged with nostalgia of a life that perhaps you, as the viewer may have never experienced although somehow it gives the impression of a memory. There’s a very good chance that this feeling is only true for a small percentage but somehow I doubt that. The elements and stereotypical images of home, whatever home may be, are delicately served to us through the entirety of the storyline. And you feel sated at its end.

            The film tells the story of a restaurant and bakery situated in the heart of the Hokkaido countryside. Owned and run by Rie and Sang, a couple with a mutual love of bread and a desire for happiness, we see the couple live their life from Spring to Winter entertaining a variety of likely characters. The seasons work well as a form of pathetic fallacy to aid the introduction of the separate guests that lodge at Mani Bakery over the course of the film. We start with a young couple who shyly fall in love during their stay, move on to a young girl who misses the attention of her distracted father and finally end with an elderly couple. While the story itself is about the bakery and the gentle couple that lives there; a lot of the attention focuses on the guests that visit, placing Rie and Sang subtly into the background. It is because of this technique that we view each problem, and indeed solution, as the bakery. Our point of view in this film is not from that of a character but rather from the building itself. All the strife and heartache that the film offers; feelings of rejection, abandonment and death we, as the audience, eventually become comfortable with because we have the four walls, the oven and the ever present smell of bread as a foundation.

              Essentially this film is a social commentary but there are no skillful jabs at contemporary Japan here, or at least none with biting intent. It is a view of life or better yet, an advert for life.

Recently, they’ve been showing the same four or five adverts before every film in my cinema for a least a year. I know their order well and I know each by heart. While I don’t usually pay much attention to adverts like this, one has made an impression. It’s an ad for a book shop known as Book-Off in which a woman is sitting in her living room, organizing a pile of old books to be sorted for recycling. The doors are open and we can see the green of the garden and hear the sound of rain as she piles her treasured possessions on the tatami floor. It is clear that we are not being sold a single product here but rather an idea, an idea that is the love of a book, an idea that Book-Off apparently shares.

Now, anyone that’s seen one or two examples of this knows this to be a common and obvious tactic for companies who wish to sell their wares. Reach someone emotionally and they’ll be reaching for their wallets. After watching Shiawase No Pan I couldn’t shake the feeling that this too was an advert for something. Every inch of this film is clean cut, including the characters; all the furniture is new and seemingly freshly assembled and Rie and Sang’s life is ideal. Each character’s singular appreciation of bread only adds to this idea. When bread is served, and it is served often, time slows; we are treated to shots of the crust cracking, steam rising and the sheer satisfaction on every single person’s face.

Perhaps we are always being sold a fantasy or at least a belief; maybe life’s troubles can’t be solved by bread alone although after watching this film it certainly gives you hope. As with all things, there’s a correct a time and a place and if you ever find yourself stuck indoors on a rainy day, possibly sorting books with the green of the garden behind you, watch this film and enjoy the advert of life.

In Kouchi

Before I came to Japan, I worked a couple of jobs in central London. Primarily I was a box office assistant which, although slightly routine, was a lovely job to have. The customers were generally in good moods and the workload was far from difficult. My second job was working part time as a PA. Both of these jobs treated me extremely well and, as an additional bonus, I was in London; and in such a city I had hoped to indulge in a little foreign cinema, to be more precise Japanese Cinema.

While I was at university, I had a brief look at Japanese films and even wrote a couple of basic essays on a few of the more obvious directors. I seem to remember one of these papers attempting to make a fairly spurious connection between Kurosawa and Isao Takahata; which, as it turned out, was just a blatant excuse to watch Yojimbo and Grave of the Fireflies again.

Since then, I’ve done a little reading and, while I was in London, I even managed to track down a number of screenings of some of the rarer films. This was not as easy as I had originally hoped and as it turns out the best place to find the choice films was at the Japanese Embassy itself, just off Green Park. If you’re a fan of Japanese cinema and the journey isn’t too much of a mission then I strongly suggest you look into it. A different film is played once a month and it’s actually screened in the ballroom. I tried to go as often as possible and I was rewarded with some amazing pieces. My favourites being Kon Ichikawa’s The Burmese Harp and Kazou Kuroki’s The Face of Jizo.

While looking into this nation’s film history I was personally struck by a particular genre known as Shoushimin eiga or a home drama film. These films draw attention toward ordinary or common people and mainly focus on the Japanese family unit. There’s a slowness to these pictures but I do not write that to put them down. I can honestly say these are the only films I would ever refer to as beautiful. Of course Ozu Yasujiro’s Tokyo Story and Naruse Mikio’s Late Chrysanthemums come to mind but there are many films of this period out there, if only they weren’t so difficult to track down.

Right now I’m currently living in Japan. In a small city to the south of Shikoku called Kochi. While it’s not a huge town it does grant me plenty if opportunities to see the latest Japanese films as well as some of the classics. Which is definitely something I plan to take advantage of… Stay tuned.