I am sure everyone can remember a particular teacher during their high school days whose popularity was known far and wide throughout the student body and faculty. They were the “cool” teacher who had a great sense of humor and didn’t really take their classes too seriously, often being lenient and fair towards disciplining any of their students. They were the teacher whose classes were also the envy of the remaining school faculty as well, with many teachers attempting to mimic them so they too can be as well-liked and favored. Now imagine if that teacher was also a murderous psychopath who would do anything to keep their violent past a secret from those around them. It is this stark dualism where we find director Takashi Miike’s Lesson of the Evil as a vivid exploration of mental illness coupled with absolute sadism, establishing a film that is certainly one of Miike’s most unsettling works in recent years.

Adapted from the mystery novel by author Yusuke Kishi, Lesson of the Evil opens with a discussion shared between the parents of a young Seiji Hasumi – superbly played as an adult by Hideaki Ito – as to his increasingly disturbing behavior, subsequently showing the young Hasumi grabbing a knife and entering the room of his parents. It is a dark, strangely alluring scene that establishes the tone of the film from the very beginning and offers a premonition of events to come. We then enter a group of teachers discussing how to address the dilemma of students cheating on exams, with Hasumi now an adult and employed as a teacher. What initially starts out as a simple exploration of faculty and student corruption at an elite high school soon develops into a character study of an individual that could only best be described as being a functional psychopath. He is seen continually positioning himself to have others take the blame for his devious actions, brilliantly devising plans that leave others unsuspecting of him being the true culprit.

It is a character study that works so well primarily because Hideaki Ito’s excellent performance in conveying the calculating and brutal Hasumi. Known primarily for his work in the Umizaru film series, Ito has often been typecast as the morally upstanding hero, free from being negatively influenced in any fashion and delegated to the role of being the ‘good guy’ in a lot of his previous performances. Lesson of the Evil both deconstructs this image of him as well as inverts it, utilizing Ito’s natural good looks to mask the dark psychological framework of his character. Hasumi is obviously viewed as an individual suffering from some sort of dissociative identity disorder, perhaps even leaning towards having a severe case of schizophrenia. His perceptive ability to switch from being a likable teacher to that of a vicious killer truly showcases Ito’s immense talent as an actor to essentially play two roles in one, balancing between them with ease. The casting of Ito is roughly spot on and it certainly adheres to the nature of the Hasumi character envisioned in the novel.

In many ways, the structuring of Lesson of the Evil is akin to Miike’s previous, immensely popular film Audition (1999). Like that film, Miike brings about a sense of eery suspense that slowly builds throughout the film, both from a purely aesthetic perspective as well as narrative wise. While the first half of the film primarily plays out as a tension-filled thriller as we are introduced to a host of characters that begin to realize that Hasumi is not exactly who he appears to be, the second half of the film consists of pure, unadulterated butchery that is relentless in showcasing that Hasumi is unquestionably a lunatic. Exploding with a furry of chaotic violence that would make even the most harden viewer squirm in their seats, it would appear that Miike is reveling in the countless slaughtering that ensues. This approach should come at no surprise for those familiar with Miike’s previous works though, including most recently that of the finale of 13 Assassins (2010), a film whose body count amounted in the dozens. But here the savagery of the killings seems more profound and meaningful in many ways, primarily due to the individual who is performing such brutality and who he is exacting it upon.

It would be wise to suggest that Lesson of the Evil is a film that is more a visceral experience through and through due to what it chooses to show – or lack thereof. Miike certainly knows when displaying too much can be a negative aspect of a film, allocating much of the early scenes of violence offscreen before practically going overboard during the film’s final half. And the cinematography of the film is where it hits a high mark in terms of being visually complementing to that of the film’s nightmarish tone. From the jarringly surrealistic and perplexing scenes of Hasumi’s early first taste with murder – all which seem oddly befitting given the fragmented mental landscape of his character – to the film’s closing massacre sequence that paints Hasumi’s barbaric actions as outlandishly comedic given the festive setting in which the rampage commences, the visuals of the film is quite reflective upon the dark recesses in which it explores.

One could view Lesson of the Evil as Miike’s celebratory return to the horror genre, but one could also view the film as Miike simply showing his capability to return to a genre with much more directorial experience under his belt. He has certainly improved upon his craft, as evidenced here, bringing about a psychological study of a man gone horribly awry that easily hints back to some of his earlier, horror-centered works. And while the film may be deemed entirely too gruesome some viewers, Miike still elicits some of his trademark black humor throughout that alleviates some of the film’s more horrifying moments from becoming rather unbearable to watch. While the film’s last half may appear too discordant for its own good, Lesson of the Evil is undeniably one of Miike’s most polished films to date, offering an experience that is as unsettling as it is surprisingly audacious considering the sensitive material it chooses to explore.

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As mentioned in my previous reviews to this series, many of the Lone Wolf and Cub episodes follow variations of other cult film genres. White Heaven in Hell is the Lone Wolf and Cub horror movie, where Ogami becomes the object of a spiritual attrition as the result of being targeted by Hyoei, the son of Retsudo and a concubine who was abandoned at the age of five to become a part of the Tsuchigumo Tribe, a mountain dwelling group right out of a pre-Romero zombie movie.

The Tsuchigumos have amongst their arsenal three undead warriors named Mujo, Muga, and Mumon, the ability to crawl under the ground to attack like earthworms, and various illusionary abilities appear and even float around like ghosts. With these tactics, the Tsuchigumos become something of a curse that follows Ogami with the promise that any innocent bystander he interacts with will be killed, resulting in Ogami becoming even more isolated from the Japanese countryside he traverses than ever before.

However, the course of political intrigue within the movie is not so simple, as Hyoei’s targeting of Ogami is not motivated by Retsudo’s request so much as an attempt to undermine Retsudo’s stature as Head Executioner to the Shogunate in revenge for his abandonment at youth. Meanwhile, Retsudo is driven to new extremes after Ogami dispatches Retsudo’s daughter Kaori, last remaining legitimate heir to the Yagyu clan. Also, political pressure is exerted on Retsudo and Ogami both as the Bakufu (high officials of the Shogunate) grow impatient with the long running cat and mouse game and appeal to the Shogun for a sanctioned manhunt for the Lone Wolf and Cub assassin.

With such a build-up, White Heaven in Hell is surprisingly anticlimactic and in fact as the final feature length of the series, lacks closure. Whereas thematically Ogami and Daigoro are pushed further along, narratively the movie ends with little more accomplished than in any previous episodes save the fourth, which again sticks out from the series due to having a different director and what seems to be a more fatally final ending. Viewers eager for closure here are either on their own or invited to continue with the television series.

As such it’s more interesting to look at White Heaven in Hell as an opportunity to appraise the series as a whole. I feel the series is best viewed as a serial homage to popular cult genres, while Ogami himself stands as a morality tale. His character is through politics and through conspiracy set at the margin of a lost and chaotic Japanese society, where he decides to live as a ‘demon.’ However, despite that constant claim of his enemies and his own, at every turn he intervenes in Japanese life to remind viewers of the good and appropriate social traditions of Japanese culture, as well as in combat he represents the height of Bushido.

Because of the changing stylistic approaches in each episode and the cliffhanger ending, the series is not necessarily completely coherent or self-contained. A lot of that can be fixed by the relatively simple procedure of putting episode 4 after episode 6. That way there is closure and only one minor continuity error in the damage done to Retsudo’s eye. Luckily, since each movie mostly stands alone in terms of separate characters, it isn’t necessary to watch the series in exact order save that White Heaven in Hell needs to come either last or second to last, as the motivations of Retsudo do not make any sense without much of what has happened in the series previously.

A note on translation: the Japanese title for “White Heaven in Hell” translates more closely to “Daigoro!  We are off to Hell!”

Given his impressive track record, Sion Sono is certainly one of Japan’s most courageous contemporary directors. With the likes of such films of his as Strange Circus (2005), Cold Fish (2010), and Guilty of Romance (2011), Sono is one to continuously push past the the visceral limitations that cinema can offer, often exploring the deep-rooted psychological ramifications that arise along the way. Similar to his previous film Himizu (2012), Sono presents The Land of Hope as a careful examination on the various aspects of hope amidst the dilapidation of the family unit. It is no surprise to also see that both films are set to the backdrop of the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami, with The Land of Hope taking it one step further to explore the controversial Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster and its emotional connection to that of the Japanese populace, in turn providing a narrative framework in which to explore the devastating effects that such a disaster has had on the individual and the respective family structure.

Considering the film’s particular focus on a similar event to that of the Fukushima nuclear debacle, Sono presents the film primarily as a social commentary on the state of the Japanese citizenry and their relationship to that of their government. He continually paints a vivid picture of the mounting distrust that people have developed towards the Japanese government and their numerous promises to keep them safe from the harmful effects of radiation. Whether this is seen in the character of Yasuhiko, an elderly man who meets government assurance regarding safety with a strong sense of cynicism given their past failures, to Izumi, a pregnant woman whose increasing paranoia concerning the effects of radiation entering the government sanctioned “safe zones” taking a toll on her personal wellbeing and relationship with husband Yoichi, Sono does not shy away from portraying the Japanese government as a strong catalyst for expanding the problem surrounding a nuclear plant disaster rather than providing much of a viable solution towards it.

Besides offering a rather harsh critique of the administrative powers within Japan, The Land of Hope also provides psychological exploration of how disasters can separate family members from one another, with each individual also developing a different conclusion as to what is the appropriate way to handle such as situation. This is most apparent in the character of Yoichi and his parents Yasuhiko and Chieko, with the latter two deciding not to evacuate and choosing to stay at their home. This decision inevitably brings about confusion and despair for son Yoichi and daughter-in-law Izumi, as they continuously advocate for both Yasuhiko and Chieko to come with them and seek shelter. Sono’s use of imagery throughout the film plays a significant part in respect to the parents’ defiant nature, mostly presenting such images as a metaphorical representations of the characters themselves. For example, the frequent shot of the tree within Yasuhiko and Chieko’s yard is seemingly reestablishing their ability to stay firm amidst a time in which practically the entire region is attempting to escape the effects of radiation. Like the old tree, they are not going to be unwillingly uprooted and moved, choosing their own destiny rather than trusting in government officials to dictate it. It is also seemingly a metaphorical representation of the resilience of the Japanese people as well, with Sono suggesting the power to remain optimistic in times of hardships and making an effort to rely on family and friends to get through such tribulations.

The Land of Hope is definitely one of Sono’s slower, less startling films to date, spending much of its narration on the how each character interprets the dire situation at hand. Considering the film’s backdrop to that of real world events, this approach offers a viewing experience that is easily as unsettling as Sono’s previous, more eccentric films, especially since it focuses primarily on familial distraught that arises when faced with national disasters. The global acknowledgement of the earthquake and nuclear plant catastrophe lends the film a universalistic quality that practically any viewer can relate to in some capacity. Some might even suggest that it may be a little too soon to be making a film that is critical towards the Japanese government and their handling of such national disasters, but it is also refreshing to see directors such as Sono unafraid to do so. The Land of Hope may not follow in the steps of Sono’s other, more distinct works, but it is a film that fearlessly raises earnest social inquiries that, like Sono himself, boldly explores the taboo amidst a time of national tragedy.

Stemming from the light novel and manga series by author Yuji Yuji, Ore no Kanojo to Osananajimi ga Shuraba Sugiru’s title literally translates to “My Girlfriend and Childhood Friend Fight Too Much”, an intriguing description that will surely pique the interests of many viewers as to what it actually entails. But as a title that can be classified as falling into the often uninspiring romantic comedy genre, OreShura is a series that starts out on a rather promising note considering that it initially offers a tale surrounding suppressed emotions that derive from a legitimate philosophical stance practiced by protagonists Eita and Masuzu. This practice sees them promising never to fall in love, both viewing such an act as simply an unnecessary obstacle that hurts those around them. But for all the refreshing qualities that OreShura showcases, it does not quite reach the emotional level as one would hope for.

From the outset, OreShura does look like a series that is trying to be different though, attempting to invert the entire romantic comedy genre by subscribing to a premise of “anti-love” by its two central characters. With both Eita and Masuzu sharing a dislike for romance, the two embark on a shallow relationship that is merely viewed as conforming to the social pressures that surround them. Masuzu simply wants to have a boyfriend so that other males will stop gawking at her, with Eita really getting sucked into the whole ordeal without much say. Of course, Eita has his own reasoning for not wanting to fall in love, with the two developing a strange, but plausible connection. If the series just focused on these two individuals, OreShura would have offered a refreshing take how love can be interpreted, but it unfortunately introduces a whole slew of other characters that simply bog the series down, ultimately transforming it from being a romantic comedy to that of another uneventful harem series.

It obviously does not take a rocket scientist to conclude that Masuzu and Eita start to develop true feelings for one another as the series proceeds, but the narrative never truly seems to want to focus on the development of these two characters and their relationship in a manner that genuinely questions their stance on being anti-love. Instead we receive a myriad of female characters that all eventually like Eita as well, in turn forcing him in due course to have to select the one that he truly loves. One can see the potential of the series reaching considerable heights if only they focused solely on Masuzu and Eita as two seemingly opposite characters who slowly break down each other’s emotional barriers, helping one another to grow into individuals who can in fact love. It would have been nice to see this take place, but the series continually resorts to tired motifs that go against the strength of the series’ first several episodes. Whereas the narrative of the series started out showcasing the peculiar relationship shared between two characters, we soon find ourselves enveloped in mediocrity as banality the norm.

Coinciding with this unfortunate approach, the female characters all increasingly become harem stereotypes as the series progresses. They each stand out like a sore thumb, whether this is seen in the shy Himeka, the tsundere-like Ai, or the tomboy Chiwa, each of the girls show very little if any originality or distinction as convincing characters. The only really saving grace here is Masuzu, a character that remains a focal point in Eita’s life as his technical, current “girlfriend”. Even then, Masuzu’s presence is largely reduced throughout the series as the narrative struggles to keep up with all the the characters vying for Eita’s attention. As for Eita, we at first see that due to his parents’ divorce and subsequent abandonment of him that he never wants to hurt others through the act of loving. But throughout the series we slowly see him play around with practically all the hearts of the female characters, never having the courage to simply tell them he does not like them so they can stop bickering over if he does so or not. It is actually kind of cruel when you think about it, considering that for a majority of the show Eita knows that every girl likes him – it simply can not be avoided given that they constantly remind him every opportunity they get. He is rather oblivious to the entire matter, going against he own code of ethics in order to appease them.

While the premise of anti-love makes OreShura an appealing series to say the least, it just does not do enough with that premise to really stand out on its own. It is like the series just gives up attempting to be a reasonable examination on the particulars of romantic relationships, instead wanting to focus more on the female characters and their attention getting schemes to get Eita to like them. This approach does work at times, but we have all probably seen such an approach done before and much better than what is shown here. It it unfortunate – and largely regrettable – to see OreShura turn into yet another harem series devoid of much originality, but then again, most of the series that derive from this genre do start out relatively well before they stumble. In the end, OreShura is a series that had significant promise that sadly befell to the hackneyed tropes that removed much of what made the series engaging in the first place.

Those viewers looking for a niche title that is really unlike many other series out there will find Yama no Susume to be a refreshing experience to say the least. Taking place within the span of twelve 3-minute episodes, the series focuses on the venture of mountain climbing and all the intricacies that accompany it. It is a series that definitely pertains to the more adventurous viewer who enjoys the outdoors as well, and although Yama no Susume dedicates most of its narrative to the various facets surrounding mountain climbing, it also offers a subtle metaphor regarding to need to be bold and try new endeavors in one’s own life, in turn essentially overcoming the proverbial “mountain” of emotional challenges in order to become a better individual.

But as an exercise in showcasing a rather niche activity such as mountain hiking, Yama no Susume works out extremely well. With practically each episode dedicated towards examining the tools and mannerisms needed for a proper and successful hike – from purchasing the right backpack, setting up a tent, and preparing food – the series often emphasizes the minute details of preparation and subsequent trekking that somewhat situates the series more along the lines of being a simple instructional video on how to properly traverse a mountain more so than an actual anime series. This approach can provide an interesting viewing experience for many, but also can be extremely demanding – and tedious – for some viewers expecting the series to be more than it really is. The series does offer slight instances of comedy that break up some many of its how-to-like moments, allowing us to see that the series does not really take itself too seriously.

Continuing with this notion that Yama no Susume is a series that is easygoing in nature, the “mountain climbing” that is portrayed in the series is not as hazardous as one would think, instead showcasing that such an activity can in fact be as easy as a stroll in the park. Breaking down numerous misinterpretations surrounding recreational mountain climbing, the series elicits the character of Aoi as the uniformed participant who is simply learning along the way, working as an outlet in which to inform the audience as to the orientations of climbing as well. This approach allows the series to nicely bring about its focus on such a little known activity as mountain climbing without being entirely too complicated or going through the rigorousness often associated with explaining such things to a general audience.

This less strenuous focus on a recreational hobby provides Yama no Susume with a casual atmosphere that complements its condensed structure. Niche titles such as this one do not always work out, with many of them easily becoming to focused on appeasing the followers of such an activity rather the general viewership. Yama no Susume may lean that way at times as well, but it streamlines the process of understanding mountain climbing so that practically anyone can comprehend it. It also helps to see that the series interprets such an activity as one that can be reflective upon the individuals partaking in it as well, with special attention to that of Aoi and her willingness to open up to others and overcome her fears with each ensuing climb she participates in. It may not be a series that viewers will remember years from now, but Yama no Susume is one that delivers a comical and compelling view on a subject that rarely receives attention within anime.

Falling within the realm of the mahou shoujo (magical girl) genre, Vividred Operation brings about a nostalgic flair that many viewers who prefer a more traditionalistic narrative structure will surely appreciate. Offering a rather simplistic tale exploring the power of friendship and its ability in overcoming the most arduous of obstacles, the series does not necessarily attempt to break any innovative ground in regards to its story or characters, but it is a series that remains strictly adherent to the elements of the magical girl genre itself. Those viewers who favor oversimplified explorations of thematic elements such as friendship and teamwork to coincide with their magical girl shows will take pleasure to know that Vividred Operation is just that and does not truly extend far beyond it.

From the point of being strictly entertaining, Vividred Operation does offer a fine example of a series that plays up the tropes of its genre to considerable success. From its vibrant and elaborate character transformation sequences – which pays homage to popular series such as Sailor Moon (1991) – to the series’ characters espousing the importance of camaraderie and being there for one another in times of immense challenge, it would appear that Vividred Operation is simply a rehash of bygone magical girl series – which for the most part is a true but positive notion. A majority of the thematic elements that have made such series as Sailor Moon, Cardcaptor Sakura (1998), Pretty Cure (2004), or Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha (2004) such prominent entries within the magical girl genre are present within Vividred Operation.

But considering Vividred Operation’s extensive homages to other series, it often finds itself struggling to rise above a strong sense of its own superficiality. Whether this is visible through the extensive focus on the gluteus maximus – or more plainly, the butts – of the young female protagonists, to the friendships between the same protagonists often awkwardly leaning towards homosexual tendencies that just seem entirely out of place here, the approach that the series takes will probably leave many viewers rather perplexed as to what demographic it is trying to reach. For the most part, this is directed primarily towards how the series deals with the growth of its characters and their relationships to one another. Outside the cliched philosophy that the series ascribes to that “friends are always there when you need them”, Vividred Operation also does not provide many opportunities for character depth let alone development, instead having the characters espouse vague rhetoric without much genuine action to support it. Yes, we know friends are important…so how can we expand upon that premise? The series hints at possibly exploring the idea of friendship as a fundamental attribute to a healthy human existence but unfortunately refrains from fully doing so, instead choosing to safely stay put within the confines of the genre.

For those viewers who are even remotely familiar with previously, more well-known series within the magical girl genre, Vividred Operation may be a blessing or curse depending on the degree in which those particular viewers can be appreciative of the simplicity – and conventionality – that the overall series subscribes to. For those viewers who enjoy this particular genre immensely, Vividred Operation is a series that does not negate any of the traditions upheld by the genre thus far. In fact, it does strive for some sense of creativity by having the girls in the series have their abilities derive from the use of futuristic technology rather than magic. While not a significant step in regards to being innovative, it does make the series somewhat more plausible considering that they are using technology over the supernatural to combat enemies. The series also explores the possibility – and ramifications – of a world wide reliance on an exclusive energy source and the importance of maintaining such a source from ever disappearing. It provides a unique touch to a genre that rarely ventures into such territory.

But Vividred Operation is nonetheless still an engaging experience despite its inability to push the boundaries of the magical girl genre like so many series before it have successfully done so. While it is certainly no Puella Magi Madoka Magica (2011),  the experience is really one in which viewers familiar with previous, similar series may see this series as either a timeworn exercise in unoriginality or as a nostalgic ode to superior series of the past, it is really dependent on their stance on the genre itself. The suggestion that the series is a throwback to earlier series does linger heavily in the air though, reminding us of just how influential those endeavors were. But as a notable reflection of such previous series, Vividred Operation remains considerably grounded due to its strict adherence to the magical girl genre, never really standing out on its own but nevertheless respecting and reinterpreting many of the elements that made those previous series so memorable.

Based on the manga series by Enokizu, Kotoura-san is a series that will perhaps take many viewers by surprise. This impression no doubt derives from the delivery of the show itself, with its first episode consisting of being both highly dramatic as well as comedic, a combination that will persist throughout the remainder of the series. It is this alternation of emotions that produces a series that may be difficult for some viewers to watch considering that it constantly juggles between wanting to be a serious drama or an ecchi-esque comedy, featuring abrupt shifts in direction that occasionally lessen the overall quality that the series offers. It is a confusing approach for sure, but is it truly a series that is severely hindered because of it?

For the most part, Kotoura-san is far more successful when it deals with the dramatic struggles of its characters more so than anything else. The series works particularly well when it explores the tribulations faced by Kotoura, a girl who has extrasensory perception – otherwise known as ‘ESP’ – with her continually wrestling with such an ability amidst family, friendship, and societal tensions. The series focuses on delivering a reasonable examination of the proverbial social outcast, looking at the psychological ramifications that Kotoura experiences as an individual who can unwillingly read people’s minds. Her ability makes her estranged to her parents, inadvertently ending their marriage by exposing their infidelity to one another, and leaves her friendless at school as well. Kotoura especially becomes estranged to her mother Kumiko, who left a younger Kotoura on extremely harsh terms. Kotoura is seen as an individual confronting daily obstacles in a world that simply will not accept her due to her ability, correlating her to that of a monster more than a human being.

Due to the reasons above, Kotoura-san establishes a sincere character study of an individual who is outside the norm, not quite fitting in with their surroundings or peers due to some rather extraordinary circumstances. Kotoura is viewed as a reflection of such circumstances, in turn placing us into her world of uneasiness as she attempts to relate to those around her and simply be an ordinary girl. Given the complexities of her arduous family situation, her characterization is elevated even more so and the series develops into a fantastic statement on acceptance. This expression is also allocated to the other characters in the series as well, and although not as candid as Kotoura’s emotional growth, they still offer character development that is satisfying and complementary to Kotoura’s search for acceptance. The series brings out a sense of honesty concerning the characters and their willingness – and at times unwillingness – to understand Kotoura and her ability, encompassing a great need for us to see Kotoura continually strive to overcome the emotional hurdles she faces.

But given all the strengths Kotoura-san showcases surrounding its character development, it is also a series that seemingly throws in an unreasonable amount of humor that makes the series – at least in its first half – seem rather uneven. While the anime medium is often known to considerably blurring the lines between genre types, for every dramatic moment within Kotoura-san that further signifies the plight that Kotoura faces, there is an equally comical – and often lightly perverted – scene usually focusing on Kotoura and other male characters. Individuals such as Yoshihisa, a classmate of Kotoura’s and one of the main characters of the series, is often delegated to being that of the deviant pervert, even though there are times where he stands out as a highly influential friend within Kotoura’s life. It is kind of unfortunate to see characters such as Yoshihisa depicted at times as yet another sexually aberrant teenager, considering that a series such as this one shows a keen appreciations towards its characters, characters who strengths are somewhat diminished with the inclusion of such lowbrow humor. But it would also appear that Kotoura-san is a series that embraces such a fluctuating approach that constitutes in a narrative that is highly sentimental and that only slightly benefits from its unsophisticated humor.

Considering that Kotoura-san’s narrative is one that consistently challenges expectations as the series progresses, it is a series that is emotionally involving and surprisingly touching. While the first several episodes of the series may be a challenge for some viewers given that it does not seem to know exactly in what direction it wants to go, one will slowly begin to see that the series, in the long run, takes itself quite seriously. With the series stemming from a yonkoma manga series – or four-panel manga – the humor found there is unsurprisingly shown here, but much of the series’ considerable character development shines as well. While the execution and direction of the series will certainly be susceptible to criticism or dislike – ultimately losing many viewers due to its adherence to its unexpected interchanging genres – Kotoura-san is a series that, despite its comical flaws, brings about a spirited narrative concerning overcoming personal obstacles and being true to oneself.

One of the world’s most renowned modern Japanese directors, Takeshi Kitano returns once again to the yakuza underworld with his sequel to 2010’s Outrage, with the prior film not exactly do too much to elevate Kitano’s craftsmanship as a director, let alone prove his skills as a writer. It was a film that was plagued with a strange combination of dark humor and senseless displays of violence, which could have easily worked if its script was only improved. With Outrage Beyond, Kitano luckily brings about a crime drama that removes much of what made its previous installment somewhat of an oddity to watch, instead focusing intently on the political maneuvering and spiraling effects that past decisions have in the yakuza. It is also a film that provides a more coherent narrative as well, which is certainly a relief considering the previous film but also presents Outrage Beyond as a rather conventional take on the yakuza genre.

While the nature of Outrage’s narrative was marred by its unusual execution, Outrage Beyond’s narrative is handled with the utmost care as to not completely confuse the viewer with all the internal strife, murder, and power struggling that takes place between the film’s characters. Taking place several years after the first film, Outrage Beyond starts out as a rather standard exploration of two rival yakuza clans being manipulated by the corrupt detective Kataoka, played here by Fumiyo Kohinata. Kataoka’s presence within this film is even more prominent than before, alluding heavily to him as being the proverbial man behind the curtain controlling both gangs for his own opportunistic gain. Once Kitano’s character of Otomo enters the picture – a surprising move by Kitano to have his character make a return – Outrage Beyond essentially transforms into that of a no holds barred brutal war between the two rival clans, with Otomo once again being at the epicenter of all the chaos.

For those viewers who are only slightly familiar with other films centered on the yakuza, Kitano’s approach towards the material in the film has all been seen and done before, even within many of his previous films. But Outrage Beyond does attempt to tie up many of the loose ends left over from its predecessor, providing a story centered on Otomo and his need to correct the misfortunes in his life. It also explores how old yakuza members are unseated by younger, more inexperienced members of the clans and the influences they have in a contemporary world that is focused more on increasing their income rather than retaining their honor. But considering these elements of the film, Outrage Beyond never truly reaches the emotional nor cerebral heights of Kitano’s other films. For all the quirks found in the first film, that film seemed more emotional involving due to the systematic destruction of the Otomo clan and its members, whereas here it is really a battle between two rather despicable clans and an equally despicable detective.

But the political structuring of organized crime is nonetheless a compelling facet of Outrage Beyond, if only for its exacting focus on how such a structure can easily be manipulated by outside forces. It would appear that Kitano is making a statement on the ruthlessness – both in the underground and civilian world – that transpires as individuals are constantly situating themselves in positions of power to gain even more power, becoming trapped within a vicious cycle of personal destruction. It is certainly a more subtle examination over the previous film, remaining grounded and rarely overstating the obvious. Going along with its subtlety, the film is far less stylistic this time around as well, particularly when it comes to showcasing violence, which is often left off screen entirely and only showing us the devastating aftermath. Those looking for Kitano’s trademark violence will have to look some where else, as the exuberant violence is rather minimal compared to the previous film.

It is also a film that seemingly confines its characters within a brutal world of distrust, dishonor, and eventual murder, exploring more of the dynamics of the yakuza. This is not to say that the film is a complete departure from that of Outrage – where escalated violence took precedence over a lot of the character development – but here we learn much more about the characters and how they continually coerce the situation to work out in their favor. Kitano is seemingly aware of the complexities that can arise with directing a film concentrated on the devious and intricate criminal underworld, but he does a proficient job at streamlining the narrative compared to its previous installment. Outrage Beyond is a film that provides a superior examination of the yakuza lifestyle more so than the first film, even if it does not establish itself as one of Kitano’s best films. As a stand alone film experience, Kitano does offer a satisfying – and suitable – conclusion to Otomo’s quest for revenge.