Noroi: The Curse

ノロイ Kōji Shiraishi, (2005)

Over the years, Japanese made horror films, or J-Horror, have gained international notoriety as being some of the scariest and most cutting edge horror films ever made. The truth is, I have only seen a handful of truly great ones, and it seems to me that much like the horror genre anywhere else in the world, the bad ones outnumber the good by a ridiculous number. Films such as Pulse and One Missed Call didn’t really do anything for me; in fact, they almost put me to sleep. Upon a friend’s recommendation, I recently watched Kōji Shiraishi’s The Curse, a found footage style documentary which has drawn inevitable comparisons to The Blair Witch Project. Which I am a bit embarrassed to say, I still haven’t seen. I am happy to report though, The Curse had moments that genuinely spooked me.

The Curse is presented as the final work of Masafumi Kobayashi, an expert paranormal investigator who travels Japan in search of unexplained phenomenon, writing books and producing documentaries. This chubby, slightly bumbling character’s exploits form the body of the film, with Kobayashi conducting interviews and piecing together clues in a sort of tabloid private detective way. We follow Kobayashi on a house call to visit a woman who has heard strange noises emanating from her strange next-door neighbour’s house. It is here that the curse begins… Sharing the cameraman’s point of view, we are positioned as an onlooker, a part of Kobayashi’s production crew. This sets up a parameter of distance yet involves us at the same time, drawing us into the atmosphere of the film quite effectively, with the camera as our eye dictating what we see; the film’s terror comes from careful inclusion and omission and is divided into clear, often short sections. For example, the aforementioned house call is followed by footage of a television variety program, the relevance of which is not apparent at first, yet provides information which later falls into place. The film seems full of these red-herring type clues, but this wide range of media, such as newspaper headlines and archival footage, was for me, the films greatest strength, retaining my interest throughout the bit-too-long two hour running time.

These various sources succeed in creating a kind of trashy TV exposé style, accurately recreating the loud enthusiasm of Japanese variety TV shows and also the kind of true crime investigation shows that exploit eerie music and inter-titles to create clichéd late night TV trash. Director Hiraishi has recreated this kind of TV show style so well that I actually forgot I was watching a movie and felt a bit queasy watching what seemed like such a lowbrow show. In that respect, his film is a resounding success. Another of the film’s strong points is its cast. There are so many characters in the film that it would be hard to keep track, and it is the film’s convoluted nature that has attracted much criticism. But the film focuses closely on Kobayashi and a select few who remain present throughout the investigation, the majority of the actors are really quite amazing. Kobayashi at first seems like a pitiful little man with a bogus occupation, but becomes quite endearing over time. The character of Hori-san is pretty over the top and annoying, but particular attention should be paid to actress Marika Matsumoto, who gives a great performance (and scream) as a TV personality with some psychic ability.

For me, the large cast of characters coupled with the abundance of clues added to, rather than detracted from the overall mood and style of the film and its perplexing happenings. The slow burn unravelling of the curse and its increasing creepiness helps to convey Kobayashi’s role as investigator in a believable and engrossing way. We learn of the relevance of certain information as he does, following him through this maze of fear.

The film contains many textbook examples of the found footage style, including its low budget aesthetic, and is by no means a masterpiece, but it is a horror film that is definitely worth a look, and as I mentioned, does contain some scary scenes and truly terrifying imagery, much of which stems from the ancient demon ritual that the film explores. The last scene of the film was one of the scariest things I’ve seen in a while, the perfect payoff to a slow moving and yes, at times complex, but overall entertaining horror film.

The Castle of Cagliostro

ルパン三世 カリオストロの城 Hayao Miyazaki, (1979) 

The films of Studio Ghibli, particularly those of director Hayao Miyazaki are renowned throughout the world, and have a strong following in Australia. More recent Miyazaki films such as Spirited Away and Ponyo have many fans and it is quite rare to find someone who hasn’t at least heard of these modern masterpieces of animation. In my opinion, Miyazaki is the greatest living storyteller in the world today. For me, his films are a never-ending fountain of creativity and inspiration. For this entry, I decided to look at one of my favourite Miyazaki works (it seems all my favourites are linked by one major element: Castles) Lupin the Third: The Castle of Cagliostro, which also happens to be one of his earliest works and due to its being made prior to the founding of Studio Ghibli in 1985, is much lesser known in Australia, with more popular Ghibli films eclipsing it.

Miyazaki has proved himself as a master of not only creating his own filmic worlds, but also at adapting the stories of others, often of non-Japanese origin. The Castle of Calgiostro’s hero, Lupin, is based on a character originally created by French author Maurice LeBlanc as a sort of French Sherlock Holmes in 1905. In the late 60s, a descendant of Lupin (the 3^rd to be exact) was created by Kazuhiko Kato (pen name; Monkey Punch) as a Manga series, which was then followed by anime, video games and films. So, after all this convoluted history, we arrive with Miyazaki taking the helm of the Lupin the 3^rd franchise for its second filmic interpretation in 1979.

The film begins with Lupin and his long-time partner in crime Jigen making their getaway from a casino they have just robbed. From the get go, Miyazaki sets the tone of his film as a freewheeling adventure, with the film’s animated nature essential to its spectacle and escapism. Lupin and Jigen leap with superhuman ease across obstacles, cars are sliced in half and a sea of money cascades from their getaway car as they drive away. As they realise that the stolen money is counterfeit, Lupin decides to set out to crack the international conspiracy of this “Goat Money”. They travel to the independent nation of Cagliostro, where they discover a plot involving an Evil Count, a damsel in distress and a search for lost treasure. This simple adventure story is balanced with action and its tongue in cheek, slapstick humour perfectly, never taking itself too seriously. The characters, Lupin in particular, seem to know they are in an animation devised purely for entertainment, and have no problems defying gravity by driving cars up the side of cliffs or clearing impossible distances across castle turrets in a single jump. Even everyday actions like eating spaghetti or swimming are brilliantly stylised, with the colourful cast of characters an absolute treat to watch. Lone samurai Goemon and fellow burgular Fujiko make appearances, who along with Lupin’s long-time pursuer (and long suffering) Inspector Zenigata, complete the classic Lupin gang.

The film is not all rollicking action and fantasy plot though. Despite it being Miyazaki’s directorial debut, there are many instances in the film in which bear his own distinctive visual and thematic stamp. Frantic action sequences are countered with lingering shots of the beautiful surrounding landscape, and sequences in which the characters explore or more simply, are present within these spaces. The nation of Cagliostro itself is a beautiful, fictional place, drawing on Miyazaki’s European influences. We see small villages, farming lifestyles, moss covered ruins and of course the titular castle, complete with dungeons and aqueduct. This kind of European romanticism would return in later works such as Kiki’s Delivery Service, Porco Rosso and Howl’s Moving Caslte.

I love this film because it fully embraces its cartoon-ness. For me, it’s a bit of a cross between Inspector Gadget and Indiana Jones. Classic cartoon tropes abound, with hokey disguises being used on not one but three separate occasions and also the kind of self awareness that make cartoons so much fun. After a stealthy midnight attempt on their lives by a band of the Count’s armoured minions, Jigen observes what the audience is thinking; “Things are getting interesting!!” Miyazaki is in full adventure mode, and this film rates amongst his best work, even when compared with more successful Studio Ghibli works. The story is brilliantly simple, and even though they are not his own, the characters just exude cool, like a band of jazz musicians each playing their own unique part as they roll through this wonderfully entertaining riff of a film.

Female Prisoner #701: Scorpion

女囚701号:さそり Shunya Ito, (1972)

Meiko Kaji is one of the most famous actresses of Japanese exploitation films of the 1970s. She is well known for her revenge seeking heroines, and her death stare ability is unrivaled throughout cinema history the world over. So when I learned that she starred in a series of 70s exploitation films that fall into the “Women in Prison” (!) sub-genre, I eagerly sought them out. I was not disappointed. Despite being his filmic debut, director Shunya Ito’s Female Prisoner #701: Scorpion, is an exploitation classic that, like so many other genre films of the era, delivers everything the title implies, and more.

Nami Matsushima (Kaji) agrees to help her lover, narcotics squad officer Sugimi, infiltrate the nightclub headquarters of a drug ring. Deeply in love with him, she complies with his plan and doesn’t for a second consider that she is being set up. She is subsequently raped by the drug dealers and abandoned by Sugimi. Enraged, she tries to kill him outside the police station where he works. This flimsy back story, serves only to place Nami in prison and establish her as the revenge driven rape victim, but is shot in a fascinatingly artificial style. Nami’s setting up is quite literally staged on a minimalistic theatre set, with garishly expressive coloured lighting and even a revolving stage. This kind of artificial excess lends the flashback a surreal nightmarish quality, but it is conveyed in a strangely beautiful way. Nami’s rape is filmed from below her through a glass window, one of many delirious camera techniques employed throughout the film. Soon after, red and green lighting beams onto her face, her hair re-arranging in a jarring stop motion sequence, signifying her change from victim to hunter. This transformation is mirrored in a later scene with a fellow prisoner who attempts to murder Nami in the film’s inevitable nudity-filled shower scene. The striking change in appearance; hair and eyes particularly, seems to reference traditional Japanese folklore regarding demons and the kind of dramatic changes of character and disposition traditional Japanese stage drama is known for.

These stylistic inclusions are just a few examples of what is ultimately a sensationally excessive film, and I’m not just referring to the copious amounts of gratuitous nudity. Scenes are filmed upside down, camera shots spiral out of control, blood flows like fire hydrants and trippy synthesiser sound effects augment the films visuals like a 70s film only can. Of course, this excess is conveyed through the story itself, which features many outrageous and explicit scenes, most of which take place in the prison warehouse when a number of the male wardens as hostages by the women. In a frantic orgy of role reversal, the female prisoners assert their power and dominance over their sadistic male imprisoners by tearing their clothes off and raping them. What were once men are reduced to caged sex objects for the enjoyment of these women, imprisoned for so long. In another scene, chained and hanging from the ceiling, Nami is sexually tortured with a burning hot light bulb. These sadistic themes permeate the film even in its quietest moments, and no one is quieter than Nami herself. Meiko Kaji has become famous for her almost completely silent protagonists, conveying her character almost entirely through body language alone. Female Prisoner #701: Scorpion keeps with this tradition, with Kaji uttering only a handful of lines throughout the film, the majority of which narrate her flashback scene. Her most memorable line in the film; “To be deceived… is a woman’s crime.” is the kind of delightfully nonsensical pseudo-philosophical stuff we’d expect from a mindless action film.

Despite her near muteness, Meiko Kaji and her character’s quest for revenge is the driving force of this film. Keeping with the conventions of the rape/revenge film, Nami of course gets her man. Upon finally escaping from prison, dressed in black, she glides through a string of murders, like a raven of death. Today, this level of overt theatricality is dated yet fascinating at the same time, with many beautiful and creatively composed shots and staging of characters. The story is as pulpy as they come, but it is great fun, with remarkable visuals and the mesmerising avenger Meiko Kaji in one of her most iconic roles.

Akira

アキラ Katsuhiro Otomo, (1988)

In Japan, anime is a multi billion dollar industry. The amount of films and TV series being produced, and those already in existence is so overwhelming it’s hard to know where to start, let alone sort the good from the bad. In Australia we receive a reasonable sized portion of this huge industry, with more and more anime films being screened and released locally, but it seems the majority remains in Japan for their domestic audiences. But every now and then, an anime film comes along that becomes an event. That takes the world by storm. That forces the world to take another look at Japanese animation and in some cases, shifts the world’s conceptions of the possibilities of animation in general.

Katsuhiro Otomo’s Akira is one such film. Based on his epic manga series, Akira is an incredible vision of the future, whose place among similarly themed live-action Sci-fi works such as Blade Runner, Star Wars and The Matrix is well and truly assured. I realised this last night, when after a gap of who knows how many years, I revisited Akira at a special screening at the Astor Theatre. The story concerns a biker gang of delinquent youths who, after a run in with the government discover a secret operation researching the nurturing of psychic powers in humans through scientific experimentation, and a mysterious, messianic power named Akira

Up until now, I had only experienced Akira by way of DVD. Seeing it on the big screen for the first time was nothing short of a revelation. It was like seeing it for the first time all over again; in fact, it was better. I enjoyed it more than I ever had before. Although, I still feel I appreciate the film’s cultural importance and subsequent influence more than the film itself, as I know that there are many more die-hard fans all over the world that helped Akira receive its title of ‘cult film’. It’s the kind of movie I can watch only every now and then, purely because it’s so damn intense. From the minute the movie starts, right up until the closing credits, we are hardly given a minute to breathe and take stock, as we are thrust into the sprawling metropolis of Neo-Tokyo. A bleak city seemingly plagued by perpetual night.

The film is overflowing with visceral energy. We are subject to a near constant barrage of violence, explosions, and screaming. In addition to this, many nightmarish scenes of hallucination and mutation, in particular, the film’s now famous climax, take the film into more unsettling psychological areas, enabled and conveyed visually through the boundary pushing animation and strong unwavering direction of Otomo. Even the motorbike chases are framed and conveyed in such a dynamic style and are imbued with such a sense of weight, that they become truly exhilarating. The film’s soundtrack, performed by Geinoh Yamashirogumi, perfectly incorporates primal, driving rhythms and even traditional Japanese instruments, while twisting them into an aural feast of a futuristic soundtrack, perfectly complementing Otomo’s stunning aesthetic.

I seem to have just barely touched on the plot of the film, focusing instead on its style and direction. I think the plot is the one place this film falls a bit short, as it progresses so quickly and frantically, I personally would have preferred a bit less screaming and a bit more story background. Then again, most of the context is conveyed visually or through interesting inclusions such as the “Old town” section of Tokyo or the upcoming Olympic Games. And considering it was adapted from a 2000+ page manga, it is quite an achievement. This film is an absolute must for anyone with an interest in animation, as it remains a touchstone of the medium and Japanese cinema in general, the influence of which is still felt today both in Japan and beyond. After seeing it on the big screen I have become convinced that this is the ultimate way to experience it in all its overwhelming glory, so if you are able, seeing it at a cinema is definitely worth it.

Dark Water

仄暗い水の底から Hideo Nakata, (2002) 

In 1998 director Hideo Nakata’s critically acclaimed film Ringu reignited the horror genre in Japanese cinema, and also proved to be hugely influential on a world scale. A few years later, Nakata returned to the horror genre with Dark Water, which has many themes in common and follows a similar structure to Ringu, but unfortunately, the film ends up being more an uninteresting and clichéd family drama than horror film.

Yoshimi Matsubara’s life is in a state of change, working through a divorce, returning to work and beginning a new chapter of her life as a single mother are challenges she has to face seemingly all at once. In order to start anew, she decides to move into the creepiest apartment block she can find with her six year old daughter Ikuko (quite a good performance from young Rio Kanno). Over time, the apartment reveals itself as something of a haunted house, with mysterious leaks appearing in their apartment and a worrying red handbag that won’t stay in the bin. Over time we learn that this water phenomenon is linked with a case of a missing child who used to live in the apartment. As Yoshimi and Ikuko become suspect to the strange goings on and learn of the history of the apartment, Yoshimi’s already hectic life begins to fly even further off the rails.

Nearly the entire first hour of this film is dedicated to setting up the relationships between Yoshimi and those around her; her lawyers, daughter and estranged husband. Amongst all this family drama, we are only shown the tiniest of glimpses of anything supernatural or out of the ordinary, most often, as the title would imply, of mysterious water appearing throughout the building. Nakata has clearly gone to great lengths to create the atmosphere of the bleak apartment block and its labyrinthine corridors, but it pales in comparison to the palpable atmosphere of dread that was so perfectly created and sustained in Ringu. The whole film feels like it is building up to a great big horror climax, but it takes so long to get there, with the missing girl plot so slowly pieced together, that when I finally reached the final half hour, to find it hastily wrapped up, I was almost completely disinterested.

There are some interesting effects, mostly based around the water, but so much more could have been achieved with this concept. There really only are a few pure horror movie moments, and even they are failry uninspired and un-scary. The film relies too heavily on the family aspect, which includes every divorced family cliché in the book, and presents a rather dull main character Yoshimi, who just can’t seem to hold anything together. Even the biggest of horror fans won’t find much of interest here, which is such a shame, as Nakata’s Ringu handled the similar themes of broken family and malevolent curse in a much more an interesting way and with an atmosphere so many horror movies fail to deliver.    

Battle Royale

バトル・ロワイアル Kinji Fukasaku, (2000)

Madman Films have recently released a reissue of Kinji Fukasaku’s notoriously controversial cult classic Battle Royale, quite possibly to coincide with the release of the film The Hunger Games, which, from what I understand (which really isn’t all that much to be honest) is a borderline rip off of Fukasaku’s modern classic.

Based on Koushun Takami’s novel, Battle Royale is one of my favourite films of all time. A short prologue sets the scene; at the beginning of the new millennium, Japanese society collapsed, with thousands of people out of work and students boycotting school. This state of emergency quickly led to the passing of the government sanctioned “Battle Royale Act”, in which a class of students is selected each year to fight each other to the death on a desert island under adult supervision. The last one alive wins. While I do wish that this economic and societal context was established a bit more, it hardly matters. It is just the kind of vague B-movie set up that serves to get us into the meat of the story. At first glance, Battle Royale is nothing but a pulpy exercise in gratuitous violence, however, there is much more beneath the surface. Characters are quite well established, often through flashbacks, and come across as very believable Japanese schoolkids, often confused and clinging to their school crushes and grudges. Fukasaku creates a world not so far removed from modern Japanese society and reflects the breakdown between youth and adults. The two are often shown in absolute opposition to each other, unable to connect, with familial or pedagogical relationships often strained or downright bizarre.

A scary psychological aspect also comes into play through the behaviour of the students. Upon hearing the rules and premise of the battle, some refuse outright to participate, killing themselves in defiance, while others jump at the chance to settle old scores amongst classmates. Fukasaku appears to condemn the modern Japanese society that has brought about this state of affairs, taking sides with the youth, portraying them as resourceful, loyal and strong, while the adults appear as weak authoritarian figures, unworthy of and unable to gain the youth’s respect.

Each time I watch this film I realise more and more how melodramatic it is, but it is perfectly justified, as it remains in keeping with the film’s overt B-movie premise and aesthetic. In fact, it is this unashamed pulpiness that elevates this film to something far beyond a B-movie. You can expect dreamlike flashbacks, awkward teenage professions of love and over the top death scenes (splattered generously with blood throughout). These melodramatic elements could easily prove to be too much, but Fukasaku’s cast of youths, (many of whom have since gone on to much larger success) create a wide range of interesting characters that collectively create the film’s all important “Class B”. Takeshi Kitano fills the position of the main adult role, as the class’ cold and brutal teacher. It is this negative portrayal of the adults and their society which often creates much of the film’s black humour, one example that comes to mind is the video the students are forced to watch, which explains in a stereotypically overenthusiastic Japanese game-show style, the rules of the game.

This prolific director Fukasaku’s final film. And what a note to end on, summing up his distrust of adults and authority, commenting on modern Japanese society and providing an amazing film that seems intended to speak directly to the youth of today, urging them literally to “Run!”. On top of all this, it is a deliriously violent and exciting wild ride. Madman’s reissue appears to be of the Director’s cut, which adds a few extra scenes and epilogues to the film, however in my opinion, these are largely unnecessary and I would recommend the original cut. Finally, don’t go anywhere near Battle Royale II: Requiem, Fukasaku directed only one scene before his untimely death and the film was completed by his son. It is not a patch on the original.