Akihabara Geeks presents an endearing look into the life of the people that occupy the lights and glimmer of the town known as Akihabara. What this documentary does exceptionally well is that it overlooks the superficialities that we often times associate with a town such as Akihabara, and delivers to us a more detailed look into the various facets that contribute to town’s foundation—in a sense showcasing a realistic look into how it operates on a more personal level. While we still see the familiar elements such as maid cafes and otakus, the film delves deeper to show the often times unacknowledged individuals such as computer over-clockers and electric part storeowners. The film uniquely showcases these people throughout a 24-hour period, which really gives the viewer an insightful look into the daily lives of the individuals who occupy Akihabara. The film intersects to show the various individuals as they perform their duties throughout the day, ultimately telling us what Akihabara means to them personally.

And that’s what primarily makes this documentary so appealing. The people viewed here really showcase some of the more interesting elements that contribute to Akihabara—as well as show the town’s immense diversity. We are first shown Ryukishi07, the creator Higurashi no Naku Koro ni. He got his start in Akihabara, and we follow him through the process of both creating and self-publishing his own games. We then take a look at probably the most common representative associated with Akihabara—the otaku. 20-year-old Ikki Motohara is what you would describe as a hardcore otaku, here shown as having a huge desire to collect items associated with cute female anime characters. He collects an abundance of items, which leaves him sorely having to reduce buying food in order to spend money on items such as posters, pillows, and figurines. We are then shown 51-year-old Kouichi Shimayama, an electronic storeowner. Giving up a high paying job to work his family business, Kouichi spends his days within a small confined space offering electric parts that aren’t normally found in bigger retail stores. We then have 35-year-old Katsumi Ohashi, the world-record holder for the creating the fastest computer—otherwise known as overclocking. We follow him as he attempts to break his own record, traversing Akihabara in search of parts to perform the attempt. And finally, another famous element of Akihabara is shown—the maid waitress. 22-year-old Miss Ichika is a prestigious law student who is also a maid café employee, and we follow her through her job as a waitress.

Akihabara Geeks does an excellent job of showcasing Akihabara as a town with numerous outlets for people to better express their talents, habits, and passions. The film showcases not only the pop culture element the town is famously known for, but also for bringing the viewer a more intimate look into the daily lives of the workers, shop owners, anime enthusiasts, and game developers that contribute to Akihabara. The film is very aware not to fall into presenting just a general view of Akihabara, but rather as showing it as a place of diversity and opportunity. Behind all the stereotypical otaku and made waitresses—let’s not forget that people like that are still ever present—there lives a population that when combined, create a utopia of realized dreams and creativity unlike many other places of earth. All these culminate in presenting Akihabara in an entirely different light, thereby breaking many stereotypical assumptions we might have had before viewing. We also get a brief history of the town itself—from its pre-war usage as a transportation hub, to the future development plans of having Akihabara become one of the biggest tourist spots within Japan—the film presents a great look into how the town came to fruition, and its future potential.

Overall, Akihabara Geeks is an excellent documentary that really gives the viewer a truer sense of what constitutes Akihabara. From the multiple perspectives, brief history lessons, and interesting tidbits, the film truly provides the viewer with a well-rounded and intimate look into Akihabara not only as a town, but as a real place that people live, play, and work, with the film presenting a look into Akihabara free from exaggeration and stereotypes we might often associate with it. While Akihabara may cater to many interests not deemed entirely mainstream, Akihabara Geeks successfully strives to show the people who inhabit it are usually just everyday individuals just like us. While somewhat short in its running time, the film still presents a great wealth of solid, fun, and interesting information. If you are even remotely interested in what Akihabara has to offer, or plan on visiting it some day, Akihabara Geeks provides an excellent look into one of Japan’s most fascinating destinations.

An adaptation of the novel by Japanese author Ryo Murakami, Audition is a frightening exploration into the anxiety of newfound relationships, ending with the direst of results. With Audition, director Takashi Miike delivers perhaps one of his strongest films to date, all the while consciously aware of the source material and the initial impact it already has. It has been said that Murakami enjoyed the film so much, he personally chose Miike to adapt another established novel of his, Coin Locker Babies. With all the appreciation towards Murakami’s original novel, Audition is equally from the mind of Takashi Miike himself. While always one to never shy away from utilizing bizarre imagery in his films, Audition expertly provides an excellent story in which to develop around such imagery. There really is no loss of story for the sake of violent exploitation within Audition—which is an astonishing feat for Miike compared to his many other films. Each scene is meticulously shot to provide visual substance to the overall story, and Miike seemingly doesn’t want to waste any time on unwanted scenes within the film.

Another aspect to notice is the paradoxical format of the film itself. What’s striking about this film compared to Miike’s other films is its rather melodramatic first half. It is here we see the characters come into fruition, fully realizing who they are as individuals within their newfound relationship. We slowly begin to witness the relationship between Aoyama and Asami—from rather humble and innocent beginnings into a nightmarish conclusion. Perhaps this was necessary to do so, considering it deepens the impact of its finale in all it grotesque atmosphere. The slow and deliberate buildup to its climax is what’s truly haunting about Audition, mainly because we as viewers have no clue as to what to expect to come from the relationship between Aoyama and Asami. The deconstruction of its characters are what truly elevates the film during its second half, making sure to surprise the viewer with its reversal of conventional romantic elements. This is seemingly brilliant of Miike to do so, mainly because the juxtaposition is so jarring when viewing it that it completely rearranges the entire first half and brings into question what we just previously viewed.

The performances viewed in Audition is what really established the films somewhat humanistic approach in dealing with the characters relationships. The main character of Aoyama—played by Japanese rock star Ryo Ishibashi—delivers a great performance of a man who feels a sense of insecurity deriving from the loss his wife, and is slowly attempting to find love again. It’s this insecurity that really forms Aoyama as a character that we can relate too and sympathize with, but also acknowledge that he might be striving too much in his quest for love. We see Aoyama as an individual who will go to great lengths in order to find love, even witnessing moments of regret about going through with the rather shameful actions he took in order to find it. His fear towards actually finding a woman by himself is showcased, and it’s here where we begin to notice that he not only wants to remedy this—although mostly from suggestion from family and peers—but also will take extreme measures to do so.

As for Asami—played by model Eihi Shiina—she perfectly encapsulates the cute and submissive exterior that is expressed within stereotypical views of women. She is everything that Aoyama could hope to find in a women; one could say the perfect woman for Aoyama. Perhaps too perfect is a better description, and Miike plays off this notion throughout the film. We view Asami as an individual with a trouble and rather traumatic past, also suffering with insecurity. The difference with her though is that she’s been dealing with her hardships for quite a long time, unknowing to Aoyama. But it’s this deviation of outward emotions from Asami that really provides the shocker here; the subversion of the perfect female stereotype is viewed and henceforth unleashed onto the viewers.

Overall, Audition is a surprisingly effective film. Miike has always been one to never shy away from showing the extremities within his films, and while this is still true within the confines of Audition, he’s careful to showcase an articulate story as well. The plot—while seemingly basic at first—soon develops into a horrific spiral that consumes the viewership as we slowly unravel for ourselves what is occurring. With believable acting, an enticing plot and a finale that is sure to shock many, Audition slowly envelopes the viewer into forming their own mental readings regarding what the film actually means, then—as Miike himself has put it—psychologically betrays the viewers every expectation. That alone is worth viewing Audition as one of the most prominent Japanese horror films during the late nineties.

Every musical genre influxes with that of the times, each reaching heights of pure excellence and also of extreme lows. For Japan, the early 1990’s were such a period of dominance for rock music as small indie bands came to prominence to rule the charts and sway Japanese listeners. A period consisting of creative spirits, small-town acts, and personal identity, the era personified the rags-to-riches stories of how unknown musical groups could come to eventually rule the airwaves and music stores—even if it was short lived. With inevitability rearing itself, the industry soon moved on to other forms of musical talents to fill the void. First time director Takeshi Kobayashi’s Bandage chronicles the experience of one such group during this period as they make their way from local indie band to considerate stardom, with all the potential pitfalls along the way.

Written and produced by none other than auteur director Shunji Iwai, Bandage (a playful word representing the era in which the film takes place—the “Band Age”) is an exceptional look into the music industry from the perspective of an indie band titled Lands. Considering the atmosphere of the period at the time, the film is adherent to the emotional as well as professional side of being in a band as they rise towards stardom. With plenty of time dedicated towards showcasing the performance of their music, Bandage delves quite deeper to showcase both the political and creative forces that conflict with one another concerning the direction of a band and the many elements contributing towards their future development. With heavy focus on the managerial work that goes on behind the scenes, the film highlights the importance of not only the music itself, but the business element of it as well. This presents Bandage as more than just a film focusing on a singular band and their music—like so many films often do—but as a film willing to showcase the trails and tribulations that transpire between a group of dynamic musicians as they transition towards becoming famous. Initially starting out as group of friends, the film brings forth the struggles they face with stardom, love, and the relentless industry they reside in.

With the film showing both the personal and business side of being in a band, the film interjects a sense of wild bewilderment through the eyes of Asako, played by Kii Kitano. Given her great acting ability within Eriko Kitagawa’s Halfway (2009)—not surprisingly, another film produced by Iwai—Kitano seemingly represents the eyes of the audience throughout this turbulent period within Japanese pop culture history. With the industry moving ever so fast, the rise to stardom of a band can come quite quickly—and without much time for preparation, especially concerning emotional stability. Kitano is exceptionally well here as the outsider looking—but also participating—in an industry that can be as ruthless as it is rewarding. We can slowly begin to see her relationship with that of the band’s front man Natsu (played here by Jin Akanishi, real-life member of the J-pop group KAT-TUN) as a symbolic representation of the industry itself. The tumultuous relationship they share is quite reminiscent to the situational flow of being an indie band at the time—uncertain of the future and not quite sure where they fit in. Their relationship is played out quite well, and really lends a connection towards the audience as something authentic—mostly through their fascinating portrayals of individuals caught amidst a flurry of contradicting attitudes and feelings. Considering that this is Akanishi’s first acting role, he’s on par with Kitano in presenting believable characters expressing realistic outcomes.

Characterization aside, the progressive development of all the characters was a strong point within the film. Focused primarily on their relationships—and almost familial in a sense—the film didn’t stray away from showcasing how the tide of time can affect both their personal lives as well as their music. Besides some rather jarring leaps throughout its narrative structure—whether that’d be days, months, or even years—it always remained on promoting the emotional development of both the band and its contributing members. The film’s documentarial approach seems befitting for the material at hand and it provided a sense of intimacy during many of the scene throughout the film, mostly centered on the recording and production sessions that the characters participate within. This certainly raises the subject material far beyond a mere film just about a band, therein showing us the immense struggles that are undertaken to accommodate the shared relationship between artistry and marketability.

Overall, Bandage provides a very intriguing look into an era in Japanese music history where indie rock bands made their mark. Despite taking place during this period, the film also produces a great portrait into the strenuous reality of actually being in a rising band and its numerous facets—from the price of fame to the hardships of creating material, the film gives the viewer a great insight into all of it. At its core though, Bandage tells a story about the relationships one faces within this atmosphere and the way people change and evolve along the way. For a directorial debut, Takeshi Kobayashi gives an excellent first impression, and alongside a screenplay written by none other than Shunji Iwai, the film offers a realistic portrait into the music business and all that encompasses it. With an engaging cast at the helm, great direction, and fascinating subject material, Bandage is perhaps one the best films to come along dealing with the Japanese music industry for quite some time.

While many films surrounding the Iraq War have often times been met with mixed results—usually stemming from personal opinions or views on the matter—Masahiro Kobayashi’s Bashing explores a topic rarely viewed when dealing with post-war situations, especially that of the individual. Heavily focused on Japanese society and its strict adherence towards honor and sacrifice, the film questions the nature of what honor truly entails amidst such a controversial subject as the Iraq War, remaining quite observant towards how the ideology of a nation might affect one’s living situation. Granted, while main protagonist Yuko—played superbly by Fusako Urabe—was a volunteer in conducting charitable work for the Iraqi people, the utter shunning by society once she returns is relentless. Rather than be accepted as being as heroic in her deeds, the fact that she was captured by insurgents and released alive is found to be an embarrassment by a majority of Japanese society—even that of her own parents. Her imposed alienation is not without logic though; they see her as a coward due to her not dying an honorable death. Why did she go there in the first place? Why did she put herself in harm’s way? These are all questions asked of her, in which her truthful response is never enough to justify her situation to outsiders.

As you can most certainly envision, Bashing details some very controversial material. While outside viewers not familiar with Japanese culture might view the hostility towards Yuko with much distaste, the fact remains that retaining honor is still a high priority within Japanese society. In a place where public figures are often forced to apologize openly to the remainder of the public for their inappropriate actions, Bashing explores the boundary of acceptance back into society once it’s deemed impossible to do so. The conflicting attitudes expressed by Yuko is exceptionally realized and thoughtful—her spurned presence is something she can’t fully understand, and she questions whether her heroism has any meaning within the contextual frame of her own country. Using the backdrop of the Iraq War as the film’s catalyst, the film remains ultimately unbiased concerning it, instead focusing on the aftermath of such participation. Not only is she individually harassed, but the ramifications of her actions affect her family as well. From harassment at work, going to the store, or simply meeting old friends, Kobayashi makes sure to paint a grim portrait of societal fear and dislike, effectively creating a rather claustrophobic atmosphere of hostility.

Regardless of the plot dynamics, the sheer power of the performances is what truly makes Bashing as engaging as it is. Unrelenting in her portrayal, the acting on part of Fusako Urabe is fantastic. From her timid mannerisms as she enters a convenience store knowing it will end in unnecessary confrontation, to her inability to communicate with that of her own parents, her presence is certainly an audacious one in consideration of the hostile climate that permeates throughout the film. As for the remainder of the cast, special mention should go towards Ryuzo Tanaka for his portrayal of Yuko’s father. Conflicted over his own daughter’s actions, his portrayal of a father attempting to deal with the hardships thrust upon him through external matters is emotionally challenging. Unable to grasp an alliance towards his daughter or society was a strong dynamic felt throughout the film, and it really established him as a character contending with some strong convictions.

Considering the rather harsh nature of the film, director Kobayashi easily translates the visual atmosphere over as well. From bleak and rusty landscapes, to shots of gray skies amidst escalating ocean waves, the film’s look is almost as depressing as the film itself—but it does work out quite effectively in creating mood. Perhaps Kobayashi wanted to offer a visual representation of the downtrodden nature of Yuko’s existence, but regardless of reason, the look of the film is certainly quite realized. The close shots offered by Kobayashi really delved into the emotional devastation during some of the film’s more crucial moments, with Kobayashi seemingly wanting the viewer to experience some form of intimacy regarding them. The intensity of such moments is wonderfully laid out, and engages the viewer in a fashion free of contrived emotional responses often viewed in other films.

Overall, Bashing remains a fascinating film that doesn’t shy away from showing the truthful existence of an ostracized individual. While certainly a bleak film, the realism established makes the film all the more engaging. While many films might attempt to present a broader scope considering the topic, Kobayashi decides to elicit a more personal tale. Considering the backdrop of the film’s setting—that of the Iraq War—the film delivers a unique combination concerning a nation and their participation within an already controversial war, but doesn’t delve into the subjective nature of it. This certainly frees the film from presenting a biased perspective, and allows it to explore an individual and their personal battles within themselves, family, and eventually society. It’s a complex film to digest, but it remains a truthful testament in how society is often inconsiderate of people regardless of the good they’ve done. In this respect, Bashing offers a crucial lesson in perseverance, which produces a film far beyond the typical entertainment fare. The film remains an intimate exposure into some very controversial issues, which ultimately makes it all the more challenging and meaningful as a film mainly because it’s willing to do so.

Coming off from directing the four-hour cinematic extravaganza known as Love Exposure, director Sion Sono has returned with his latest film, Be Sure To Share. While never one to be considered to show restraint within his films, Sono’s latest outing presents a very small and personal tale, which might come as a surprise to many viewers accustomed to his previous films. It’s interesting to note that while he may be known throughout as a director who takes risks, he is also known to have considerable talent in the realm of poetry, which from all cases lends a sensible direction towards Be Sure To Share. The diversity of Sono as a director is expertly showcased here, and the delicate and meditative plot explores the emotional connections we face concerning life, death, and the time we share with one another.

Given the heavy handed material displayed, Be Sure To Share is a melodrama that gives rise to question our role within family and how the time we spend together is important, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem from the exterior. Like the title of the film itself, we see throughout the film the intricate detailing of sharing time amongst one another, more particularly the time-shared between Shiro and his father Tetsuji, but also of other characters as well. The film effectively interweaves between showing the past and present and how different contextual meanings, when applied, can rearrange our emotional stance on how we view a particular scene or action. This is very much elaborated upon with both Shiro and Tetsuji when we slowly discover their precarious relationship through a series of flashbacks. These segments sporadically showcased throughout the film reinforce the familial bond between the two, as well as the notion of separation and death.

But with the relationship between the two being the primary focus of the film, Be Sure To Share slowly expands its outlook to explore the importance of interaction and sharing time with one another through various actions. Whether that be time eating with family, taking a walk with a significant other, or even fishing, the film promotes an ideal that we must cherish moments like these—mainly because we might never have the opportunity to fully share them with the people we care for again. The unexpected nature of life is a driving force within the film, and Sono is careful to not allow this philosophy to become to overly sentimental in its presentation. Be Sure To Share is a very reserved film for sure, but its important to acknowledge that like the plot in the film, life isn’t always filled with adventure. From the daily moments of Shiro jogging to work, to the quiet moments shared between him and his girlfriend, the film delegates that moments like these are not wasteful or inconsiderate. When Shiro is struck with an illness like his father, time suddenly slows down for him, and the small moments become increasingly bigger as he grapples with acceptance, regret, and promise. This is further leveraged throughout by displaying various forms of acceptance through the actions of other characters within the film, each appropriately applying their own situational stance towards a common reconciliation—which makes for some surprisingly emotional moments within the film.

Ultimately, Be Sure To Share is a film that diligently attempts to explore material that is often difficult to handle in other films due to its nature. Surprisingly, the film portrays suffering, regret, promise, and eventual acceptance in way that is very realistic—and without allowing its story to become diminished and overshadowed by any of these thematic elements. The multitude of emotions is abounding, but that’s what makes it all the more emotionally investing given the structure of the story. It’s perhaps a film that many fans of Sono’s previous works might find difficult to digest, but it ultimately showcases the versatility he has as a director to handle such diverse subjects in a fair and utterly respectful manner. And while it’s a film that might not be remembered as much as his previous films, it will certainly remain one of his most accomplished and personal film’s to date because of these reasons.

Trailer

[See post to watch Flash video] ]]> http://www.isugoi.com/be-sure-to-share-review/feed/ 0 http://www.isugoi.com/black-rain-review/ http://www.isugoi.com/black-rain-review/#comments Tue, 05 Jan 2010 03:53:33 +0000 Miguel Douglas http://www.isugoi.com/?p=338 READ MORE]]> Mr. and Mrs. Shizuma and their niece Yasuko make their way through the ruins of Hiroshima, devastated by the atomic bomb. Five years later, Yasuko is living with her aunt and uncle, and her senile grandmother, in a village containing many survivors of the bombing. Yasuko does not appear to be affected, but the Shizumas are worried about her marriage prospects, fearing that she might succumb to radiation sickness at any time.

Black Rain is an adaptation of the 1965 book of the same name by author Masuji Ibuse. The story follows the lives of a small family as they deal with the immediate and long-term aftermath of the deadly Hiroshima atomic bombing that took place on August 6, 1945. The head of the family, Shigematsu Shizuma (Kitamura Kazuo) was the only member of the family to have been directly affected by the bomb when it hit Hiroshima. His wife Shigeko (Ichihara Etsuko) and young niece Yasuko (Tanaka Yoshiko) were not in the city at the time of the bomb blast, but returned afterwards to only experience that of what was known as “black rain” at the time. It was later discovered that the black rain was actually radioactive debris that fell back onto land after the blast.

We then move forward a couple of years later to as we witness Shizuma, Shigeko and Yasuko beginning to start a new life within a small village. Living within the village with them are other Hibakusha (Hiroshima survivors), most who are facing difficult health problems stemming from the experience. Yasuko is yet unmarried, which is uncommon for her age. Her attachment to the Hiroshima bombing has made it extremely hard for her to find suitable partner. Shizuma tries to help Yasuko find a partner, but people discriminate against her because she is a survivor of Hiroshima and thus “tainted”. Shizuma doesn’t believe that Yasuko could’ve been affected by the bombing due to her not being in the city at the time of the explosion, but when various members within the village community begin to slowly die from radiation poisoning, Shizuma and Yasuko ponder if they are to be next.

Black Rain is an excellent cinematic portrayal that explores not only what the survivors experienced before, during and after the explosion of the bomb, but also addresses how the lingering effects of such a weapon can transpire throughout a survivors life. What we see is the plight of the “forgotten” survivors—outcasts within their own country, they were affected by the bomb, and whether directly or indirectly, are all still one in the same when viewed by others who weren’t involved. Throughout the film, the characters constantly refer to experiencing “pika-don” (English translation: Pika referring to the flash of light, Don referring to the thunderous blast)—and speculate its longstanding effects that appear out of nowhere and afflict those exposed to the explosion. The film expertly weaves between showcasing both the past and present to reinforce how one fateful day can alter one’s life forever, but also addresses the uncertainty that existed during that time in actually understanding the true damage the bomb had afflicted upon the survivors.

Director Imamura does a fantastic job of presenting this story in such a realistic light. While all this suffering is surrounding the characters within the film, he finds a way to showcase the rather small moments within their lives—in a sense, this brings forth the notion that these are characters who are trying to move on, but the physical and psychological effects of their experiences pervade their very existence. Having escaped the bombing seemingly unscathed, they are constantly reminded of their suggestive ailments throughout their daily lives. Imamura does an effective job of showing us how humans deal with horrific events, and asks us how does one move on after experiencing such an event?

Imamura also chose the artistic approach of having the film shot entirely in black and white. The film was released in 1989, and the choice to have the film in black and white was based entirely on artistic merits, but it seems appropriate given the subject matter at hand. During the Hiroshima scenes, the horrific nature of the content shown is only amplified because of the usage black and white film; the scenes are eerily reminiscent to the archival photos of the victims taken after the bombing. I don’t feel this same feeling would’ve been attained if the film were in color. This approach really envelops the viewer into an era that has since passed.

Overall, Black Rain is a strong and poignant film for not only examining such a terrible event as the Hiroshima bombing, but also for its intimate approach in how that one event affects an entire community years after. Imamura presents issues that really delve into the psychology that existed during a post-Hiroshima era; a psychological state that is as unwary as it is appreciative towards what life has to offer. A film free from political persuasiveness and blame, Black Rain examines how the tragic effects of war don’t suddenly end when one side is defeated. For the survivors, the effects are still experienced long afterwards.

Adapted from the semi-autobiographical novel by author Yan Sogiru, Blood & Bones presents the story of one man’s moral descent and utter obsession of obtaining wealth at any cost—even if it means losing the little humanity he has left. Played magnificently by Takeshi Kitano, the main character Kim Shun-Pei is showcased here as a ruthless Korean immigrant living in Japan, whose selfish nature is often times exerted for the sake of power and dominance within his circle of associates, friends, and numerous times, his very own family. What makes Blood & Bones stand out is that it centers entirely on a single Zainichi Korean family and their community—Zainichi being a term used to delegate ethnic Koreans who reside in Japan. It comes at no surprise then that the harsh and turbulent times of the post & pre-war era in Japan are only amplified when dealing with a foreign ethnic group such as the Koreans, who at the time were considered inferior to the Japanese. This eventually results in a people just clinging onto survival—and gives the opportunity for Kim Shun-Pei to exploit every facet of it.

The absolute brutality of Kim Shun-Pei is the prime focus of the film, and Kitano expertly portrays a man who has no sympathy for others. Director Yoichi Sai had reportedly waited six years for Kitano to take up the role, mainly because he felt he could be the only actor capable of such ferocity. He was completely right in doing so—Takeshi vividly conveys the very essence of a character such as Kim Shun-Pei. From his disastrous role as a father and husband, to his brutal domineering of the people within his community, Takeshi presents an emotionally detached individual in perhaps his most realistic and frightening role thus far. Takeshi commands the role and makes it his own, effortlessly demanding every scene he’s in as a character hell bent on obtaining only wealth and power.

For all the harshness showcased throughout the film, Blood & Bones is also a film that focuses on the effects that a character such as Kim Shun-Pei has on his family. The adverse effects showcased are ones of tragedy and despair, all provided from the causation of Kim Shun-Pei’s violent behavior. We begin to view this family as trapped within a social structure they can’t possibly escape from—while the world is changing around them, they are still stuck within the slums of Osaka. It’s this claustrophobic atmosphere that pervades the very essence of the family dynamic within the film. They are trying to break free of the familial bondage they share with Shun-Pei, but the social and economical structure sadly won’t allow it.

Blood & Bones is a film that won’t be easily accessible to many viewers, simply for its utterly brutal depiction of familial violence—more specifically that of the Korean community—within Osaka during the pre-war and post-war era. Director Yoichi Sai doesn’t shy away from showing us how generational violence and greed can ultimately destroy not only the family, but also the individual as well, and courageously showcases the devastation that follows. Blood & Bones is a beautifully directed and superbly acted film, and in many cases is Takeshi Kitano’s career-defining performance. For this alone, the film is worth viewing, as well as for presenting a disturbingly brilliant picture of the immigrant dream of prosperity gone awry.

The acting business, no matter where you are in the world, is a hard concept to digest. It’s a facet of most societies that panders primarily to the glamour and glitter over actual talent—which in itself is even more subjective in today’s modern world. With such persistent and manipulative forces that exist within such a profession, it’s hard to imagine being within such an industry that often belies creativity in order to make a quick buck, but it does exist. There always seems to be that one individual who’s attempting to become the next big star, to have that grandiose role that will make them known throughout the land and better yet the world. But, as is mostly the case, only a handful actually make it while others slowly fall to the wayside only to continually waiting for an opportunity that may never come. This happens in most other professions as well, but perhaps within the acting industry we can view this a little differently—if one can make it, they are able to essentially live their life acting the lives of other characters within a world of imagination. The ability to become absorbed within a role is often the sign of a true actor, but when fantasy and reality become intertwined, it can often lead to disastrous results. In the case of Atsushi Ogata’s directorial debut Cast Me If You Can, the latter is certainly the approach here, but is done with a most humorous touch.

While the film explores some of the intricacies of the acting world, it mostly focuses on the relationship between aspiring actress Aya and pessimistic actor Hiroshi. We essentially get presented two facets of the industry with these two individuals; in the case of Aya we get the optimistic and joyous approach towards acting that inexperienced actors find themselves in. Quite the opposite though, we view Hiroshi as a tired and impatient supporting actor who has been waiting for his big lead role to appear and sweep him into the acting spotlight. What Cast Me If You Can does well—at least for its first half anyway—is to show the humorous complexities that exist within an industry that doesn’t exactly allow for much seniority to take place. There is always the intermediate actor who gets surpassed by the novice—it’s certainly a true element of the acting industry—but here it’s laid out in a matter that lends a sense of irony towards the audience. These moments of hilarity often show up in the most ordinary of instances: for example, after Hiroshi meets Aya unexpectedly while on his way to meet his father—a popular and famous play writer—in the hospital, Hiroshi unexpectedly introduces the tailing Aya to him, which in turn warrants his father to ask Aya if she wants to star in his upcoming play. It’s moment like these that truly elaborate on the plight that a struggling actor such as Hiroshi experiences, but it’s never done to a degree that removes the film from being a humorous examination of the acting industry.

While we slowly begin to see Hiroshi as an individual still waiting for that golden opportunity for fame, the film humorously showcases that he is completely unaware that he is in fact living out a variety of lead roles in his daily life. What these roles usually culminate in is a case for mistaken identity for Hiroshi—and reluctant jail time. The exact opposite is seen with Aya who we see as the newfound actress that has opportunities literally dropped in her lap. Quite the stark contrast between the two, but it does offer some hilarious scenes of absurdity as the two interact with each other and eventually form a loving relationship. With Hiroshi wanting to land that starring role within his own career, he always ends up unnecessarily helping Aya with hers, which gives the film an ironically satisfying twist. For the most part, director Ogata maintains this sense of comedy with tinges of honesty that provide some insight into the formalities of the acting world. From poking fun at Hiroshi’s shady agent to his surprising removal from a prominent role due to bad press, the film showcases the thin line that actors—especially within Japan—must walk into order to maintain a sense of proper appearance and discourse. With a satirized approach that both explores and mocks the acting industry, the film never feels to weighty considering the nature of the story.

But while Cast Me If You Can is comical in its sternness, the film slowly falls into the trappings that have dominated most romantic comedies as of late. This is particularly prominent during the latter half of the film where we see the humor-filled atmosphere of the first half begin to decline. Replacing the satire on the acting industry with that of a love story, the film loses much of its strength as slides into a formulaic exercise of confessing one’s love at the direst of moments. Ogata can’t seem to decide how to conclude the film as he oddly decides to shift focus towards the relationship shared between Hiroshi and Aya, a relationship that seems too artificial to find believable to begin with. There is very little chemistry between the two characters and to see it essentially tacked on and promoted as an important element of the film is just too melodramatic and rather ineffective. While this wasn’t a huge element of the film to begin with, it’s almost entirely disconnected from the standpoint of viewing the narrative as one that promotes a look into the industry instead of a generic love dynamic. Not a total disappointment, the film loses much of its uniqueness it upheld so strongly during first half. Perhaps with more focus on looking into the underpinnings of the acting industry itself, Cast Me If You Can could could have remained a film that is as funny as it satirical—but sadly it doesn’t retain such a height and stumbles.

Director Sion Sono’s films have always offered a look into the bizarre, tragic and horrific recesses of the human condition. Whether this is seen in his take on a mass suicide cult in Suicide Club (2002), the shocking hallucinatory imagery of incest explored in Strange Circus (2005), the disintegration of the family structure in Noriko’s Dinner Table (2005) and his 4-hour opus on perverted relationships in Love Exposure (2008), Sono has often explored a large variety of controversial themes within his films that have established him as a director that isn’t afraid to the push the boundaries of cinema to its utmost extreme. Because of this willingness to explore such extremities, Sono has developed a considerable following as a director whose films are as creative as the talent behind them. This has often categorized Sono as a director who is able to show a grasp of multiple genres when creating his films. Ranging from action, horror, comedy and drama—and in many cases a culmination of several of them—Sono has developed a style of filmmaking that has remain distinctively his, consistently bringing forth new and interesting twists on seemingly tired concepts. With his latest film Cold Fish, Sono has once again decided to explore the dark recesses of humanity, this time loosely basing the narrative around the true-life “Saitama serial murders of dog lovers”, a series of four gruesome murders carried about by dog-breeder Gen Sekine and his ex-wife Hiroko Kazama in 1993.

Perhaps more appropriately associated with his previous films, Cold Fish provides a character study of an individual negatively influenced by his oppressive surroundings. In fact, many of the thematic elements explored within Sono’s previous films make their return within Cold Fish, whether it’s viewed in the perversion of religion, disgruntled relationships or even the questioning of societal ideals—they’re all expressed within the film. With such critical material to be found throughout the narrative, Sono once again is able to elicit a comedic stance on many of the scenes of carnage and bodily destruction shown here. This certainly alleviates the film from becoming entirely too horrific in its showcasing of gruesome disembowelments, stabbings, poisonings and slicings. Granted, the imagery in Cold Fish is extremely disturbing—perhaps Sono’s most savage usage since Suicide Club—but unlike that particular film, it never feels unwarranted here. It’s this realistic prose that garners the film a significant grounding as being an authentic—albeit somewhat humorous—examination on the notion of the “serial killer”. Many of the elements that go into being a serial killer are showcased here—whether its quietly killing an individual, disposing of the body, evading questioning from local authorities and even the effects it has on someone unaccustomed to viewing such atrocious actions, the film takes us throughout the entire process and subsequent consequences of murder. The film slowly explores the disastrous developments to the human psyche as one continually views or partakes in homicidal actions—which provide a relatively genuine look into how such exposure can turn a cowardly man into a monstrous force of destruction.

Working as a character study, the film’s narrative is explicitly shown through its lead character. Mitsuru Fukikoshi gives a fantastic performance as the timid Mr. Shamoto, a man complacent with his current livelihood and rather abnormal family situation. Never truly stepping up and being the proper head of the household, Fukikoshi’s character is viewed as an individual afraid to express his honest opinion to others and literally lets people dominate him. Fukikoshi appropriately showcases the subtle shifts in attitude and mannerisms as one would expect given his sudden introduction to murder, and the end results are certainly surprising as well as devastating. The character of Mr. Murata, played even more masterfully by Denden, encapsulates this development of destructive behavior to an almost absurd degree. Establishing a ruthless portrayal of a man seriously gone awry, Denden delivers a frightful yet comedic take as a serial killer bent on controlling the people around him for the purpose of bettering solely himself. Definitely showcasing the ego-driven and power hungry philosophy often expressed within the psychological state of a serial killer, Denden’s portrayal of Murata provides the catalyst for Shamoto’s fall from grace.

It’s this psychological juxtaposition between these two characters that ultimately makes the film intriguing to watch. As the two form a relationship grounded on fear, rejection and death, the escalating violence soon begins to disrupt the boundaries of Murata’s sanity. There is a sense of absolute dread that permeates throughout the film as we witness the unfair indoctrination of a man, and one can slowly begin to expect the worse to come to fruition. In a strange occurrence though, Sono establishes a narrative for us as viewers to sympathize with the predicament that Shamoto begins to find himself in, and in a rather strange way, we also sympathize with his actions as he begins his psychological breakdown. While the first half of the film plays out as a vehicle to showcase the calculated efforts that Murata must undertake in order to murder and dispose of his victims—in his words, to make someone “disappear”—the film’s second half spirals into utter madness as carnage is brutally unleashed in the most unexpected ways. This is where the film may become a little too eccentric for some viewers, but Sono’s unconventional approach is seemingly warranted given the circumstances that the characters have undergone throughout the film. Illuminating us to the human psyche and the perception of learned behavior, Sono delivers an unrelenting portrayal of what drives some individuals to murder when pushed to the utter edges of human depravity, where savagery seems like the only eerily plausible solution.

Ultimately, Cold Fish is another fine examination by astute director Sion Sono. Given the subtlety of his previous film Be Sure to Share (2009), Sono once again returns to the realm of the peculiar with Cold Fish, in turn delivering a surprisingly unwavering tale of murder, greed and psychological torment. It’s interesting to see Sono explore such a disturbing topics with comedic ease, but he do so quite effectively here and it makes the film all the more captivating. Inverting the stereotypical serial killer genre that is often present in other films, Cold Fish pushes further to asks us to understand the reasons that people are pushed to murder another human being—whether it may stem from money, bullying or sheer desperation. It’s interesting to see Sono tackle such serious material while still remaining relatively unique in its execution, with Cold Fish once again showcasing Sono’s presence as one of Japan’s foremost directors as of late.

Based on the novel by author Minato Kanae, Confessions is a film that at first openly appears to be a lighthearted romp concerning the closing day of a junior high class, but behind this innocent exterior is a tale burgeoning with savage violence, horrifying secrets, and devastating retribution. The film’s director, Tetsuya Nakashima, is certainly no stranger towards offering viewers of his films such uniquely odd experiences. Often presenting highly stylized worlds that seem entirely plausible, but also existing within the realm of the abstract, Tetsuya’s films have rather successfully weaved their way around a variety of genres. This diversity of Nakashima’s works are certainly interesting to say the least, especially as a director who’s helmed the joyously comical Kamikaze Girls (2004), then the darkly sincere Memories of Matsuko (2006), only to finally return to a playful atmosphere with Paco and the Magical Book (2008). These chosen works have elevated Tetsuya’s stance consistently as an innovative and imaginative director, confidently returning to the dark ambience first viewed in Memories of Matsuko with his latest film Confessions. What’s unique about Confessions though is that Tetsuya has not only focused on delivering the film’s story in a distinctively creative fashion, but is also aware of its importance in establishing critical insight into the current state of Japan’s youth—and the dreadful facets that permeate its existence.

The film is essentially divided into multiple segments that all culminate in a darkly twisted tale regarding human cruelty and despair—but Tetsuya does something quite different here. With a deliberately slow opening scene detailing Moriguchi’s confessional act in front of the class—played here by the talented Takako Matsu—we see her question the morality of a legal system that restricts judgment on the crimes committed by individuals under the age of fourteen, the exact age of the individuals who have murdered her daughter. Facing this unfortunate realization, she cultivates a masterful plan that delegates the punishment of these individuals through the manipulation of their classmates; therein creating an approach that indirectly involves her participation. This is just the catalyst though, as the film begins to explore the disturbing secrets surrounding the lives of the students who committed the crime and their philosophies regarding humanity and life. Like the narrative of the film itself, the outward expressions of the students are but a mere façade attempting to cover the hideous truths that reside within them. Moriguchi, seen as an individual who once viewed her students as honorable members of society and free from the corruptive nature that often corresponds with adulthood, discovers the cruelty that exists even within the most seemingly innocent individuals. Tetsuya analyzes this dilemma with a keen eye, questioning our very notion of innocence and how it can be easily lost at an early age through unfortunate circumstances. The film expands upon this concept of lost innocence to include a variety of experiences that these individuals endure, effectively shaping and reforming their negative outlook on life.

And it’s this exploration of loss that remains a focal point of the film’s narrative. While the characters actions are sometimes viewed as senseless acts of depravity, Tetsuya weaves a film that submits these actions as motivated from some rational cause. These causes, which become better understood as the film progresses, all stem from some form of individual loss that promoted such destructive behavior. We begin to see that the unfortunate incidents that arise within their personal lives begin to manifest themselves in the most drastic of ways within their public lives. Tetsuya isn’t being apologetic towards such behavior, but he does present them as emotionally damaged individuals. The emotional stunting they face garners a significant hatred by them towards other people, more specifically that of adults, and we slowly realize that they take no responsibility for the hideous deeds they’ve committed—deeds that we often associate with adults. It comes at no surprise then that the film primarily showcases such hideous actions through the use of these adolescent teens, effectively removing their ability to appear as faultless individuals free from the guilt of their crimes. Becoming responsible for one’s actions—regardless of age—offers up a very powerful message, and one in which the film heavily promotes. In a broader sense, Tetsuya presents a darkly tale concerning the societal pressures faced by Japanese youth to conform despite advocating for their own individuality—no matter how disturbing it may be. This dichotomy is certainly well placed within a society that discreetly promotes the former over the latter, subduing the need for distinctiveness within the realm of academics and to an even larger extent society. The extremities that the characters within the film face usually derive from the need to gain some form of acceptance, however devastating the cost is.

As with Tetsuya’s previous works, Confessions is a visually stunning film that plays exceptionally well to the backdrop the film’s themes. Mired in nightmarish imagery and a gloomy ambience, the film is aesthetically engaging, with Tetsuya’s wonderful implementation of slow motion to heighten the effectiveness of certain scenes. Tetsuya brings some very surreal images to screen, enveloping the viewer into a world that resonates visually with the pain, deceit, and suffering of its characters. Similarly, Tetsuya’s adherence for a temperate lighting scheme reinforces the bleak nature of the film, as well as perfectly encapsulates the entirety of the film’s messages. To say that the film is melancholy in appearance is an understatement—it readily captures the emotional stance of these characters as they face such dire consequences. But while the look of the film is certainly remarkable, it could also prove to be detrimental in terms of viewership. Considering that the visual quality of the film is at such a high level, Tetsuya’s artistic craftiness may prove to be over utilized to some extent, but while it undoubtedly remains a marvelous technical achievement, it may distract some viewers who may find his exercising of such technical prowess a little redundant. For other though, this won’t present a problem and it will prove to be quite effective.

Perhaps Tetsuya’s most poignant film to date, Confessions is an emotionally draining cinematic experience. It’s a film that is a beautiful as it is dark, filled with critical social commentary that never dilutes the effectiveness of its story nor overshadows it. Tetsuya presents a world where vicious intentions reign supreme and where confronting truth is the only way to escape from its devastating grasp. The visceral nature of the film expounds upon these social dilemmas quite well, making sure to present them as problems that can easily be address if valuing of one’s life takes precedence over dominance, pride, and even death. While this may be too somber of a film for some viewers to digest, Confessions still captures the insolence and despair that young individuals unfortunately face within a modern society, pressured by the steady need to not pronounce one’s problems to others in order to fit in. Like the title of the film itself, Confessions exposes the deepest turmoil’s that unexpectedly exist within such individuals, which makes for a well-crafted and devastating cinematic exposé concerning youth—and further showcases Tetsuya Nakashima’s presence as one of the most talented Japanese directors today.