JFF16 - Bunny Drop

うさぎドロップ Sabu (Hiroyuki Tanaka), 2011

As I wrote before, this year’s Japanese Film Festival program boasted an abundance of tear-jerking dramas and love stories. During volunteer shifts I had to opportunity to test the limits of my endurance with several of these films, but Bunny Drop was one I actively went after (as did many: it sold out), for no other reason than it stars Japan’s most famous child actress Mana Ashida. The unbelievably adorable Mana-Chan was all over Japanese TV when I was there this time last year, singing, dancing and charming everyone on variety shows and New Year’s specials. Her acting resume continues to snowball, both on TV and in film, and I was surprised to learn, she actually is a pretty amazing actress.

Adhering to the Japanese Film Industry’s now unshakeable Manga-Anime-Live Action sequence of adaptation, Bunny Drop is about a family who discovers that their recently deceased Grandfather had a six year old daughter that none of them knew about. How they failed to notice this (for six years, at that!) is either a testament to Mana-Chan’s hide-and-seek skills, or more likely, a damning comment on how we should all visit our grandparents more often. Anyway, with the six year-old Rin now fatherless and the mother seemingly out of the picture, thirty year-old, single office worker Daikichi, much to his family’s shock, volunteers somewhat naïvely, to raise his six year-old Aunty.

It’s a pretty conventional story, filled with coming-of-age/suddenly-a-parent/odd-couple plot devices and clichés, but I thought the film was a satisfying little one, thanks mostly due to the main actors, Mana Ashida and Kenichi Matsuyama. They work together very well, but it’s Mana-Chan who steals the show. Her performance, growing from quiet, shy orphan to bright and lively youngster is a strong and quite believable one, which for me, was never too sickly sweet (although I’m sure some would argue against that). The film was however, surprisingly free of conflict. It feels very “Safe” the whole time. It’s made clear that Daikichi makes sacrifices at work, but these don’t seem to affect him negatively at all. In fact, giving up his desk job to work in the shipping warehouse results in him making friends who are more fun and reliable than the suits upstairs. Rin has trouble making friends at kindergarten, but it’s almost an annoying inclusion, as we know that no-one could resist that face for long. And if that wasn’t enough, Daikichi even manages to get reasonably cosy with a young model love interest, without even trying! It’s almost like this movie comes equipped with a free safety net. Sub plots that would normally carry huge weight, including a visit from a Child Welfare worker and the tracking down of Rin’s biological mother are dealt with quickly and without mess, and surprisingly even without tears. The underdone nature of such sub-plots results in an exceedingly linear film with very few peaks and troughs. Rin and Daikichi’s relationship is one of unnaturally constant understanding, with little to no scolding, discipline or even “I’m never speaking to you again!” or “You’re not my real father!” moments, which could easily be expected in this type of film.

While this might all sound like huge criticism, I never actually found myself bored while watching the film. It’s definitely not perfect, it’s not particularly original, and it won’t change your life, but it’s just an easy, nice, heart-warming story. And it is for these reasons which I’m sure just as many people will hate it as those who love it. Maybe I’m just star struck by the pint-sized Mana-Chan, whose screen presence is undeniable, but I still enjoyed this movie and I don’t care who knows it.

JFF16 - Rurouni Kenshin

るろうに剣心 Keishi Otomo, 2012

Rurouni Kenshin is without a doubt, THE blockbuster of JFF16. The first screening in Sydney quickly sold out, with a second announced to meet demand. And wouldn’t you know it, the exact same thing happened in Melbourne. There is some serious buzz around this movie, most likely a combination of the fact that it was a huge smash hit in Japan and is also an adaptation of the Manga and Anime series. As usual, I had never read, seen or in this case even heard of the source material. So I went along to watch it just to see what all the fuss was about… And I’ve gotta say I have no problem whatsoever in dumping this one in the “Big, Boring Blockbuster” category, along with other 2012 entries The Dark Knight Rises and The Hunger Games (that’s right, come get me).

Himura Kenshin (Takeru Sato) is an assassin of legendary skill who leaves behind his violent ways upon the advent of Japan’s Meiji Era. Wandering the land as an itinerant samurai, Kenshin offers protection to Kaoru Kamiya (Emi Takei, who we last saw in Takashi Miike’s For Love’s Sake), a young girl whose Swordfighting Dojo is being threatened by a bunch of local bullies. Other characters then start turning up, including Megumi Takani (Yu Aoi) who has managed to escape evil villain Kanryu Takeda’s clutches and opium manufacturing operations. The underdeveloped and uninteresting characters come thick and fast; with Kenshin the quiet, softly spoken hero at the centre. I had to look up their names again, because they really weren’t interesting enough to remember. The main story however, is centred on Kenshin, who is haunted by the violence of his past, in the form of a big violent bad guy who is out to kill him for some reason.

Maybe if I had read the Manga or seen the Anime, I would understand the story better, or appreciate some of the inclusions of characters that otherwise felt completely unnecessary. But if this adaptation can’t stand on its own merit, then as far as I’m concerned, it’s a failure. Two or three characters in the supporting cast offered a few desperately needed laughs, and even received an uproarious applause from the sold out crowd, but I found the acting to be completely bland across the board. Takeru Sato was clearly cast for his good looks, as close ups of his handsome yet emotionless face and impossibly perfect skin are frequent. I found him completely unbelievable as a samurai, and he seemed to wander through the film dazed and confused, like he’d walked onto the wrong set. Teruyuki Kagawa as the cigar-smoking criminal mastermind is agonizingly bad, letting his lower jaw carry him through his scenes, and pretty much everyone else isn’t given enough screen time to actually do anything, thus resulting in a cast of pretty faces and not much else, in a film that takes itself way too seriously.

The fight scenes also failed to deliver for me. Some of the jumping and spinning around in was fun, particularly in the scene with Kenshin and the swaggering Street Fighter, but frenzied camerawork ensured that I tuned out almost completely until the fight ended. Although I quite enjoyed some of the dark, more modern music that underscores the action scenes, the swordplay would have been much more effective had the camera simply stayed in one place. The storming of the villainous estate in the film’s final act was the most successful part of the film, due to being one of pure spectacle. Like a classic kung-fu film or video-game, Kenshin and co’s progression through each room and villain, until they finally reach the big boss at the end, was a reasonably exciting ending to a film that is otherwise constantly flat-lining.

I don’t have much else to say. What you’ve got here is just a classic case of shiny but lifeless blockbuster. Of course the huge budget ensures that the locations, sets, costumes etc. are all perfect, but you can’t hide a shit movie behind that. I really was quite bored by this film. It didn’t make me want to read the Manga or watch the Anime, and there are plenty of “Lone Samurai” films out there with much more interesting characters, more heart and better action. Maybe if the film had spent less time trying to squeeze in all the characters I’m assuming have big fan bases thanks to the Manga, they could have created a film more accessible to causal viewers. But of course, this film’s success will no doubt ensure we see a plethora of equally dull sequels. Unless you’re a fan of the original stories, I wouldn’t bother with this one.

JFF16 - Tenchi: The Samurai Astronomer

天地明察 Yojiro Takita, 2012 

When I first looked over this year’s film festival program, one film jumped out at me before any of the others. Tenchi: The Samurai Astronomer. The reason being that it is Yojiro Takita’s latest film. Takita directed the hugely popular and successful 2008 film Departures, which ended up winning the Academy award for best Foreign Film. It’s a brilliant movie, and one that has become something of a fail-safe recommendation for me. Everyone I know who has seen it enjoyed it, thanks in part to its combination of universal themes as well as its insight into less-seen aspects of traditional Japanese culture. After such a runaway hit, I was very interested to see how Takita’s next film would fare.

The film is set in 17^th century Japan, during the country’s period of self imposed isolation from the world. This relatively peaceful time means that our hero Yasui Santetsu (The titular “Tenchi”, a name by which he is never referred…confusing) is a samurai in name only. Santetsu prefers to spend his time solving puzzles; studying mathematics and playing Go (think Japanese Chess). His mathematical prowess sees him selected by local Shoguns/retainers/other political types (I’m clearly not an expert on Japanese feudal hierarchies) to help reform the calendar, which despite being in use for over eight hundred years, has gradually revealed discrepancies in its predictions of lunar cycles.

Santetsu is not without his detractors however; as smug political bigwigs in Kyoto make it their business to stifle Santetsu’s efforts, because challenging the emperor and his decisions is just not on. As far as I can tell, the film is based on a true story, and it’s quite interesting seeing a more scientific and political side of feudal Japan. However the peaceful era results in a film that is just a little bit too cute. Smiling and sighing is an annoying mainstay throughout, and the vast majority of the characters are polite, hardworking noblemen. Very few swords are drawn here. I realised not long after the film started that I had seen main actor Junichi Okada playing a very similar not-quite-samurai role in Hana Yori Mo Naho, an almost unbearably boring film by the otherwise proficient Hirokazu Koreeda. Okada has a bit more to do here, but I fear his typecasting may have already begun.

Highlights of a large supporting cast were prolific, veteran actors Takashi Sasano and Ittoku Kishibe. Their roles as mentors to Santetsu on his first expedition to chart the stars were for me, the most memorable of the entire film, capturing a real camaraderie of old mates out on a camping trip, bantering along while ensuring their job gets done. This section of the film is shot on some of the most amazing locations I’ve ever seen in a film; an untouched, rural Japan that will take your breath away. The “boys on a mission” style of the film is maintained quite well, with developments and discoveries concerning the mysteries of the calendar often quite exciting. Takita’s use of montage for these scenes is also brilliant. Simple, classic Hollywood style montage- the kind you don’t see very often anymore, is suddenly new and exciting again when applied to an obscure chapter of history and accompanied by Joe Hisaishi’s score, which is nice, and as usual, effective, but just sounds exactly like Joe Hisaishi (someone buy this guy a synth or something).

In between these effective “business” moments, there is unfortunately quite a bit of dead time. My aforementioned favourite characters didn’t make a further appearance in the film’s two and a half our run-time, and quite a few of the supporting actors felt unnecessary. Aoi Miyazaki is fine as the token female in what certainly is a Man’s world, giving a good performance as Santetsu’s devoted partner and love interest. But I think many small subplots could have been removed in order to tighten this picture up. The political oppression from Kyoto never really feels like a threat (thanks in part to their outlandish yet historically accurate makeup), and the resolution of the film’s final scene can be seen coming a mile off. Santetsu is just too nice a character in a representation of the past just that bit too rose-coloured, for us to believe that anything truly bad will happen to him. I was glad however, that even though the film was quite long, it at least ended where it should have, rather than churning out epilogue after epilogue as is so common in historical films.

It’s an interesting story, and a Takita remains a strong director, but unlike Departures, this is the kind of movie you’ll only need to watch once. Some melodramatic moments will make you wince, and while glimpses of beautiful humanness are achieved, Tenchi: the Samurai Astronomer doesn’t reach the emotional heights or life affirming beauty of Departures. Which is fine really, as it’s a completely different style of movie, but I daresay Tenchi won’t receive a general release here due to his more limited appeal.

Wolf Children

おおかみこどもの雨と雪 Mamoru Hosoda, 2012
Reel Anime 2/4

Mamoru Hosoda is the most exciting director currently working in animation. His two previous films were incredible, and have proven his ability to merge impeccable visuals with creative concepts while still being entertaining. His anime adaptation of The Girl Who Leapt through Time managed to breathe new life into a classic Japanese story that has been adapted countless times since the 60s, while his previous film Summer Wars, which was shown at ReelAnime 2010, is a modern masterpiece, overflowing with colourful and creative ideas. Earlier in the year I was doing some internet trawling, trying to find out if he would making a new movie anytime soon. I stumbled upon a Japanese “coming soon” style page for his next feature Wolf Children. Ever since then I have been eagerly awaiting it. And thanks to the good ol’ folks at Madman, we haven’t had to wait too long, bringing it to Australia a couple of months after its July premiere in Japan.

Hosoda’s works so far present characters and situations that are firmly grounded in reality, until extraneous circumstances see the arrival of strong fantasy elements. The Girl Who Leapt through Time deals with the use of time travel for a young girl living in contemporary Japan, while Summer Wars presents the internet as an alternate reality, the vastness of which threatens to eclipse the real world. Wolf Children is similar in that it remains very much a film set in the now, but the fantasy elements succeed in creating a world in a magic realism style. Hana is a young woman studying at university. Living alone, she works part time at a dry cleaner’s to support herself. One day she notices a mysterious man in her class who seems quite reluctant to engage in social interaction. Over time she pursues him and they fall in love. One night, the man (he is not given a name) reveals to Hana his secret, he is actually a wolf man. Not a savage, howling, human killing werewolf, just a man who happens to have the ability to transform into a wolf. This revelation does not alter Hana’s feelings, and they remain together, and soon Hana becomes pregnant. After their two children, Ame and Yuki (Japanese for rain and snow, given the weather that accompanied their birth) are born; things take a tragic turn when the wolf man is found dead in a river. Left to raise two young wolf children on her own, the devastated Hana decides they will move to the countryside for a new start.

The first small section of the film is dedicated to Hana and the wolf man, and plays out like a fairy tale love story, until their time together is cut short and the film’s focus widens to explore the children growing up. While watching, I was interested to see just how many of these children’s years Hosoda would track. Ame and Yuki as tiny little kids just may be the most adorable thing I have ever seen in a film. They run around their tiny city apartment, chewing books and table legs, transforming from child to wolf to somewhere in between at will. Hana’s frustration and confusion at these two unique children is played both for laughs and tears. Quick jokes such as Hana puzzling over whether to take a sick Yuki to a vet or a doctor are contrasted with prolonged, overarching themes of family, with Hana constantly giving of herself to protect the children she knows society will never understand or accept. When the setting changes from the city to the country, the film opens up in environment and character development, Yuki soon begins school, while Ame begins to explore the woods that surround their house, discovering his wolf side. The development of these children is beautifully realised. Their changes of heart and personality as they go though life and encounter new people, along with their secret wolf nature is not in the least bit contrived. Of course, the film follows Hana just as much as her children. Her journey from city living Uni student to rural farmer mother of two serves as the foundation from which Ame and Yuki’s stories flourish. There are a few melodramatic encounters, and even Hosoda can’t resist a few howling from mountaintop scenes, but really, all his works have an undercurrent of sentimentality. Interestingly, looking at The Girl Who Leapt through Time to Wolf Children, each of Hosoda’s works is set increasingly further from the city, seemingly favouring an agricultural lifestyle over the alienation of the urban environment.

Hosoda studied oil painting at university, which is no doubt the reason why all of his works are imbued with his own distinctive visual style. The country setting of Wolf Children, along with its surrounding forest and the changing of the seasons, allows Hosoda and his team to go for broke visually, as they ride opportunities to create moments of animated bliss. The arrival of winter is a beautiful and spectacular segment, approaching Fantasia-style levels of cinematic transcendence, while the film’s visuals as a whole is enough to make a glass eye weep. Fluid movement is animated masterfully, Ame and Yuki change from human to wolf in a matter of seconds or small physical movements, conveyed through various visual representations of human-animal hybrid, much like the Tanuki in Isao Takahata’s Pom Poko. Computer animation is also made use of in a few scenes, mostly for point of view shots of the wolf children bounding through the forest, but these are included seamlessly, adding new, dynamic visual possibilities and doesn’t create a jarring distinction with the more traditional animation style visuals at all.

The fact that Hosoda’s films, for me anyway, give an overwhelming sense of awe not present in the majority of the more mass produced style Anime, or even recent Studio Ghibli films is enough to make me hail him as “The new Miyazaki”. But that might be a bit unfair, given they do have their differences. Hosoda doesn’t get as preachy or environmental as Miyazaki sometimes can, and where Miyazaki laments the soullessness of contemporary life, escaping into more surreal or historical places, Hosoda seems much more comfortable or in harmony with it. Interestingly, Hosoda was originally attached to direct Howl’s Moving Castle, but left the project early on, leaving us to torture ourselves imagining how he may have treated that material. Maybe if Hosoda (and indeed others, as I’ve heard Makoto Shinkai’s Children Who Chase Lost Voices, also screening at ReelAnime, is a strong Ghibli de-throning contender) continues making such amazing work as Wolf Children, Ghibli will stop resting on their laurels and Miyazaki will come out of retirement.

It's hard to talk coherently about a movie that so immediately grabs you, I really feel as though I haven't said much at all in this post and have failed to accurately convey just why I loved Wolf Children so. But all I want to do is see it again. This film is like a breath of fresh air, and that makes it a hat-trick for Mamoru Hosoda: Three incredible movies in a row. Funny, moving and visually mind-blowing: I was grinning like a maniac from start to finish. The characters are just so well developed and the story so involving. Movies like this are the reason I go to the movies, and animation like this is the reason I love animation. I loved every minute of it, and while I still think Sumer Wars might be Hosoda’s best to date, Wolf Children is similarly deserving of the title “Masterpiece”. Possibly the best movie I’ve seen all year; Animation or otherwise.

MIFFburger #8 (Final): HIMIZU

 ヒミズ Sion Sono, 2011

And so my MIFF comes to a close for 2012 with the final film on my list, Himizu. As it is a Sion Sono film, a director who has been getting a bit of attention in previous posts, I really was looking forward to this one, especially since it has been a bit of a wait. The film has been available on DVD overseas for quite a while now, and info on it has been popping up in my facebook feed from UK's Third Window Films for what feels like ages. What is also interesting is that we have another Manga adaption on our hands. And even though I have never read, nor ever even heard of the original series (not a big manga fan here) the original work seems to have been reworked quite a bit, becoming very topical in its contemporary setting and themes.

The disastrous March 11 earthquake and tsunami prompted Sono to rewrite his script and change filming location to the destroyed Tohoku region, the result of which is a bleak atmosphere, in a film which is often very overwhelming. The opening scene is beautifully powerful; a female voice recites French poet François Villon's Ballade, while Mozart's familiar Requiem accompanies restrained shots surveying the devastated landscape of Ibaraki Prefecture. What struck me first of all was Sono's use of such a well known piece of classical music. Like many other famous pieces (Debussy's Clair De Lune or Grieg's Mountain King... ugh, every film trailer ever) Requiem's place in the global popular consciousness has resulted in it acquiring so much baggage, that I would have thought of it as a bit of a no go zone. How could you possibly use such a "Greatest Hits" piece that has been included in some form or another in everything from Amadeus to The Big Lebowski?? But somehow, Sono pulls it off. His tongue may be in cheek, but it is definitely less so than when Ravel's Bolero turned up in Love Exposure. Samuel Barber's Adagio For Strings is also included later on in the film, a piece that is arguably even more loaded given its cinematic history, yet Sono creates beautiful scenes that function as cinema and documentary at the same time, using repeated musical motifs that, particularly in this first scene, approach the kind of effects Spike Lee and composer Terence Blanchard achieved with When The Levees Broke, the amazing documentary about Hurricane Katrina.

But anyway, onto the story.

After his abusive and neglecting parents abandon him, fourteen year old Sumida (Shota Sumetani) finds himself having to fend for himself in this harsh and still very real environment. Filled with emotional turmoil in an environment that seems to only repress him, he assumes the role of manager of his family's lakeside boat rental shack and ends up dropping out of school. Over time, the mentally poisonous world around him has strong affects, and Sumida employs more drastic and violent methods in order to cope. Perhaps the most interesting role Sumida plays is that of caretaker. The area around Sumida's shack serves as a camping ground for some of the local inhabitants who lost everything, literally pitching tents in the backyard and looking up to him with great admiration and thanks. This also ensures that for the most part of the film, there is a supporting cast of weird and colourful characters, acting not unlike a chorus in a stage musical. The sense of community these people embody works on more than just a cinematic level too. A very large number of regular Sono collaborators make appearances, whether large or small, creating a sort of internal star system. Seeing Mitsuru Fukikoshi and Megumi Kagurazaka living together again after Cold Fish and also Denden in a variation on his terrifying gangster style is like a great big in-joke from Sono to his audience. A same-but-different or "What If?" kind of world, which I think is straight up genius.

Despite this large cast, we are always focused on the leading teenage couple. I have mentioned Sumida above, but the film really belongs to Fumi Nikaido, who plays Keiko, a young girl from Sumida's class, who has a manic and unashamed crush on him. A self confessed stalker, Keiko follows Sumida around, hanging off his every word so she can write it on her bedroom wall later. Nikaido’s smile just glows off the screen, a perfect counter to Sumida's simmering angst. All she wants to do is look after him, even if it means having to endure his mood swings and playground style beatings. These teenagers represent the kind of confusion and angst all fourteen year-olds go through, but of course, they convey it in the often-bordering-on, at-times-full-on caricature style melodrama to be expected of Sono. They are at the mercy of almost all the adults around them, parents can't be relied on and teachers don't understand. When the Yakuza turn up, things get even more complicated. Add to this the wasteland that is Tohoku, the most important element in the film in that it grounds it in reality, Sumida and Keiko are reflected perfectly in the Villon poem they recite:

I know the rosy-cheeked and the pale
I know death who devours all
I know everything but myself

As I said, the film is based on a manga. Knowing nothing about the original story, I'm wondering where the manga ends and where Sono begins. Is the change of setting the only difference? In any case, we just have to accept the film as a work in its own right, and this tale of disconnected youth battling with reality and their sicknesses fits the tsunami aftermath in an eerily perfect way. As I am discovering is typical of Sion Sono's films, Himizu is also very long and a bit repetitive. But its length is partly justified with some great subplots which allow for changes in scenery and exploration of other characters, creating a film that has moments of colourful escapism in contrast to its grim reality. A run in with a Neo-Nazi is bizarre, scary and exhilirating all at once.

Sono doesn’t shy away from the politics of the disaster either, including footage of TV interviews and directly referencing Japan’s post tsunami rebuilding campaign slogan “Ganbare Nihon!” throughout the whole film. I found it hard to decipher just what this was saying about Sono’s feelings though… Is he angry and bitter? Depressed? Hopeful? I think the answer may be all of the above, at times simultaneously. Hope seems to win out in the end however, with the film’s emotional climax arriving in its final scene, an astonishingly powerful cinematic moment that weighed down on me long after I left the cinema.

Tohoku doesn’t make the evening news anymore; too much time has passed for it to warrant international concern. And it is partly for that reason that I think this film is something that should be seen by many. It has definitely stayed with me, and I believe that its reputation and acclaim will grow in time, until one day it be considered quite an important work.

And so ended MIFF 2012!

MIFFburgers #5&6: Momo and Mishima

Film festivals can be dangerous. There is so much on offer, you're bound to pick a few duds. So here they are, two in one day no less! (Note how the posters make the films look much more interesting than they are)

A Letter to Momo

 ももへの手紙 Hiroyuki Okiura, 2011

I mentioned in a previous post that this was the only Japanese Anime screening at MIFF 2012, at first I thought I would skip over this film, as it really didn't look all that appealing. I watched the trailer, which didn't help either, as it was very boring. Yet for some reason I booked a ticket. Bummer.

The film follows the main character Momo, a young girl, probably about twelve years old, who has recently lost her father. She has just moved to a small town near the sea with her mother, where they will be living in close proximity to their Aunty and Uncle. Momo and her mother both suppress their grief at their recent loss, and with her mother keeping herself busy, Momo finds herself often all alone in the new house, pondering an unfinished letter from her father that she found after his death that reads only "Dear Momo". The appearance of three magical goblins who only Momo can see triggers the start of a very unoriginal story about self discovery and dealing with grief.

As I was watching this film, all I could think of was, "This has all been done before, and immeasurably better". I know it might be unfair to compare this film to Ghibli Movies, but how can you not? Let's have a look at some of the film's major plot elements. A young girl moves to a new house with a single parent, magical creatures who only the girl can see, and older grandparent figures offer advice and clues to the mystical creatures are huge elements lifted straight out of My Neighbour Totoro. The seaside location, which is beautifully realised and animated, echoes Ponyo. The weird and wonderful cast of spirits with origins in Japanese mythology and folklore recalls Spirited Away. A Letter to Momo retreads all of these ideas, which have all been explored in more artistic and inspired films.

Little kids might enjoy this, but with so much better Anime on offer I'm not sure why you'd go out of your way to see this one. I only found a couple of moments funny and found it hard to believe that fart jokes were actually included. Films still do that? The animation is absolutely beautiful though. The colours are vibrant and the character designs are quite good, in particular the little goblin you can see on the poster above. In spite of this, the film is definitely a minor work and I would probably say don't bother with this one, even if you're a die hard anime fan.

11/25: The Day Mishima Chose his Own Fate

11・25自決の日 三島由紀夫と若者たち Koji Wakamatsu, 2012

Prior to seeing this film, I knew two things about Mishima. One, he was a famous Japanese novelist, and two, he ended up killing himself, hara kiri style. Also, the only thing I knew about the director Koji Wakamatsu was that he was quite prolific in the 70s with his erotic, or pink films. Given my love of trashy films, I would probably enjoy his earlier work much more than this "biopic" of Mishima, which was an absolute shambles.

Despite the inclusion of much archival footage, photos and newspaper headlines, I still had great difficulty fully grasping the political climate of 1960s Japan and just who this Mishima character was. References are made to his successful books and ideologies, yet little to no light at all was shed on his political motivations and reasoning behind his actions. Communists, student riots, the emperor and patriotism are all talked about, but I just couldn't make head or tail of what these angry young men were on about. And I'm pretty sure it wasn't just me and my general indifference to politics. Mishima just seemed to change tack from writer to militant political activist, recruiting young men who shared his views and patriotism for Japan. This resulted in huge homoerotic overtones throughout the whole film. The men sit and talk in saunas, gaze lovingly into each others eyes and profess their devotion to each other and their cause with some of the campiest acting and overdone facial expressions I've seen in a long time. The whole film just screamed "zero budget made for TV (perhaps NHK?) production". Particularly in the scene where Mishima delivers an impassioned speech to a crowd comprised solely of crowd sound effects and blurry archival photos, accompanied by a bizarre and just audible enough to be annoying soundtrack of someone noodling on an electric piano, in desperate search of a melody.

I'm a stickler for details. If you're setting your film in the 60s, set your film in the 60s. Slapping a few headbands on females' slightly coiffured hair and a few houndstooth jackets on males does not give a 60s atmosphere. The scene where Mishima and his mates drive to meet their fate in an automobile of clearly modern production, gaily singing a patriotic song would have been unbearable if it wasn't so (unintentionally?) hilarious. Cameras attached to the ceiling capture shots with a bird's eye view, resulting in some of the most bizarre camerawork this side of Tommy Wiseau's The Room, while a dinner party in what looks like an empty display home is filmed with handheld camerawork that makes it look like an episode of Cops. Indeed, many people in the cinema could not contain their laughter at the ludicrousness of this production. One bloke even got up and yelled "Good riddance!" as he stormed out of the cinema.

In the end, I left the cinema knowing not a whole lot more about Mishima than when I entered. I'm still trying to work out whether Wakamatsu set out to create a hammy pisstake of a historical Japanese icon, or earnestly tried to represent his one of his heroes, and just failed miserably. I had some huge laughs though!

MIFFburger #4: I Wish

奇跡 Hirokazu Koreeda, 2011

I was a bit concerned to be writing about another Hirokazu Koreeda film so soon after discovering his work on DVD, mostly because his style is reasonably similar across each one of the movies I have so far seen. I didn’t want to rehash talking about his trademark style, which I probably already did a bit of in the previous two posts about him. But luckily, Koreeda’s MIFF 2012 entry I Wish is a bit of a departure, in that I have yet to see anything of his with this much humour.

Koichi and Ryunosuke are brothers who have recently started living apart after their parents’ separation. Ryunosuke lives in Fukuoka with his slacker musician father, while Koichi lives in Tokyo with his mother and grandparents (Kirin Kiki returns, slipping effortlessly into the grandmother role yet again, see Still Walking). In this case, the large ensemble of adults act as the film’s supporting cast, either in parent or teacher roles, with the film focusing primarily on the distance between the brothers and how it affects their relationship.

The completion of a new bullet train railway line brings with it schoolyard rumours of trains passing each other at such speeds that the excess energy is enough to create miracles, granting wishes to whoever should happen to witness the exact moment the trains meet. With this promise of wishes granted, the brothers decide to meet in Kumamoto, the town where the trains should pass.

In addition to the two brothers, played by real life brothers Koki and Oshiro Maeda, Koreeda augments his child cast with a number of newcomers, and what a perfect bunch they are. Koreeda once again achieves performances that transcend notions of acting with their realism. Ryunosuke is overflowing with energy and bounces through the film with a non-stop exuberance bordering on ADHD, while Koichi is more reserved and serious. However, it is Ryunosuke’s two girl friends that absolutely stole the show for me. The standout scene sees each of the young children discussing their wishes or what they want to be in the future. The children face the camera in a talking heads interview style shot, and quietly pour their hearts out. It would not surprise me at all if this scene was completely unscripted, as it really seemed to cut through the limitations of the screen and convey a youthful innocence in an almost New Wave style. We can see a young generation, not yet influenced by the realities of modern life that so burden their parents, as they dream of being actresses, artists, baseball stars or even cartoon superheroes.

The children and their dialogue supply most of the comedy, conveying their youthful invincibility remarkably, and often drawing them as much more mature than their elders through their astute observations on life in a sort of “stuff kids say” way. It falls upon the adults to provide the film’s few moments of truly moving drama, and once again, Koreeda knows exactly how much is enough, never over-explaining or lingering unnecessarily upon strong emotions, always cutting to the next scene before it becomes to much, with his less is more approach fine tuned down to the second.

Unfortunately, the soundtrack contained a few missteps. Some of the country/western inspired pieces really grated on me, but luckily there aren’t enough of these inclusions to really damage the film. The cinematography is beautiful as usual, with Koreeda’s now familiar close ups of hands, scenes of food preparation and static shots of tiny details, which have been referred to by critics as “pillow shots” which Koreeda uses as a cinematic grammar; poetic full stops or closing cadences to scenes, which help to convey the world as seen from a child’s perspective.

All the classic childhood tropes are here, teacher crushes, faking illness to get out of class and parents with forgotten dreams struggling to cope with reality just as much as their children. Japanese popular culture references abound, and may be a bit confusing to viewers who don’t understand who Ichiro is, or other references to pop stars and comedians, but these are mostly only passing references. The film’s early scenes also proved to be a bit confusing, as it was unclear as to which city the action was taking place in as it jumps back and forth between Koichi and Ryunosuke. While titles are shown to identify Tokyo and Fukuoka, these were not translated into English subtitles, and I really only knew what was happening because I could read the Kanji. And even then, it was hard to keep track.

This film is a charming paean to youth and innocence, a brilliant variation on the traditional coming of age tale. Both magical and honest, favouring comedy over drama, a nice change of step for Koreeda, who continues to set new standards for unpretentious drama and whose child actors continue to set high benchmarks in acting. I don’t believe there is a director working today who can coax better performances out of children. This is the kind of film most people will have a hard time disliking. My mum loved it too.

MIFFburger #3: HARA KIRI - Death of a Samurai

一命Takashi Miike, 2011

Two Miike's down, one to go.

Hara Kiri: Death of a Samurai is a remake of Masaki Kobayashi's 1963 film, which I was unable to get my hands for viewing before seeing this new version, which I was pretty bummed about, as it is often talked about with the same awe and respect masterpieces from Kurosawa or Mizoguchi receive. But anyway, that will be high on the post MIFF to-do list.

At MIFF 2011 Miike well and truly proved that he could create a modern day Samurai film with an immense respect for the history of the genre as well as being wildly entertaining for contemporary audiences with 13 Assasins. It was one of my highlights of the entire festival and another feather in the cap of one of the most productive directors working today. Hara Kiri can definitely be seen as a sort of companion piece to 13 Assassins, both are remakes, both share a beautiful visual style, and both are period dramas. Yet their stories are quite different. Before I get into that, a very quick history lesson may be in order. The film is set in 1600s Japan, The Edo Period, a time when the houses of many feudal lords were being abolished by Tokugawa Ieyasu who had come into almost absolute power within Japan. Basically, if you were a Samurai and your master was killed, or his house fell, you became a Ronin; a masterless wanderer who would either commit Hara Kiri to save face/avoid shame or you wandered around looking for other work.

Hara Kiri is the story of Hanshiro Tsugumo, a disheveled ronin who has arrived at estate of the House if Ii. He has but one request: allow me to commit hara kiri within your courtyard in order to regain some measure of honour. But the master of the house, Kageyu Saito, is not convinced. The advent of the Edo Period has brought with it countless fallen Samurai, with many requesting the same thing at various estates across the land, either with genuine intent to commit suicide, or in an attempt to appeal to Lords' good nature, use their supposed death wish to veil their hope for employment, or at least some money to tide them over. Kageyu then goes on to warn Hanshiro by way of the tale of a young man named Motome, who arrived not long ago with the same request, only to meet his grisly end due to their clan's refusal to tolerate suicide bluffs. With their strict adherence to codes of Samurai honour, Kageyu sees to it that anyone who requests suicide, bluffing or not, will be accommodated.

The cautionary tale of Motome forms the first of the film’s two long flashback sequences, which alternate between this backstory and the present. Through these flashbacks, the mysterious Hanshiro character is developed and explored, with his true reasons for calling upon Kageyu slowly revealed. And I do mean slowly. I was quite surprised at how slow this slow burn is. Miike is in full-on classical mode here. The camera work is amazingly beautiful, the composition and framing feels like a stage production, and actors sit talking while glaring into each other's eyes with burning intensity. Visually, the film is flawless. Traditional Japanese estates and courtyards are recreated with a deep, rich colour palette, as are the countryside villages and costumes, which Miike uses to draw distinct differences between the different levels of the feudal hierarchy. On top of all this, the film is in 3D. Now, I usually make a point to not see 3D films, one, because I don't want to spend the extra few dollars and two, because it's pretty much always a headache inducing gimmick. Unfortunately, Hara Kiri falls into that ever growing category of "unnecessarily 3D movie that would be just as enjoyable in 2D". It does add an interesting, although slightly disorienting, layer of depth to the interiors of the film's beautiful sets, but ultimately it just reminded me of the kind of 3D virtual tours that you can find in Japanese castles or temples that recreate the former glory and beauty of the since destroyed/deteriorated site for tourists.

The film's restraint is not solely technical though. Fans of the exhilarating swordplay in 13 Assassins may be disappointed at Hara Kiri's contemplative nature. Miike opts to critique and question the notion of honour in a changing political landscape rather than no holds barred violence and spectacle, which really, is quite an unexpected move for him. Instead, we have a bleak, drawn out, emotional story of family and revenge that approaches Shakespeare or Greek Tragedy territory. If I had one problem, it was that this family story, told pretty much entirely through flashbacks, didn't fully engage me. I realise that it was absolutely essential to the presently unfolding events of the film, but it felt a bit out of balance for me. I also felt quite sorry for Hikari Mitsushima, who plays the film's token female Miho, who was not given much to do at all. She was quite underused, and must have felt a bit ripped off, especially since she has the impressive Love Exposure on her resume. Kabuki stage performer Ebizo Ichikawa carries the entire film as the unbelievably cool Hanshiro. His performance is a mesmerising quiet storm, sitting on the floor for the majority of the film, until duty calls and he dons his best pair of crazy eyez, gets his yojimbo swagger on and takes care of business in the film's sole fight scene.

The film's focus on dialogue and story serves to imbue the rare instances of bloodshed with a palpable intensity, the aforementioned fight scene served as something of an exhale of a breath I had been holding for the entire film without realising. The scenes of ritual suicide are particularly powerful. Miike's handling and orchestration of the disembowelling from which the film takes its name are masterful. The audience's horror is heightened and teased out through what is seen, unseen and what is heard. While the violence does allow Miike's penchant for blood to shine through, it does not bear his trademark excess. It is shockingly realistic and had many squirming, gasping and even laughing out of disbelief in Melbourne Central's XTREME screen.

While the film did feel a bit out of balance for me, it really is quite an achievement, a logical next step and new challenge for Miike after 13 Assassins. It was just the reliance on flashbacks that I had a bit of love/hate for. I would be interested to see how Kobayashi handled this in the original. I just think this just goes to show that Miike may be at his weakest while directing the more domestic/family oriented side of the film. Thank goodness for Ebizo Ichikawa, his performance is incredible and made the film's weaker moments much more bearable for me. One more shout-out is due for heavyweight composer Ryuichi Sakamoto, easily one of Japan's greatest composers, or even musicians full stop. Sakamoto also takes Miike's classical approach, contributing a brooding, elegiac score that perfectly matches the film.

I think that if you accept that this film isn't 13 Assassins (and doesn’t try to be) you will enjoy it more. Yes, it is very slow and the violence is in short supply, but by the time you reach the end you will have been treated to a few brilliant plot twists and badass moments. It continues to grow on me since I saw it, and really is quite thought provoking, with its concepts of honour and justice, as well as presenting a wealth of interesting Japanese history and culture.

MIFFburger #2: Like Someone in Love

Abbas Kiarostami, 2012  
 

  Fresh out of the Cannes Film Festival, Like Someone in Love is a truly international collaboration. Directed by an Iranian, made with French funding and filmed in Japan(ese). Abbas Kiarostami is a filmmaker I am pretty much completely unfamiliar with. I am also continually getting his name mixed up with Aki Kaurismäki. If we threw in an Akira Kurosawa, Alexander McKendrick or some other A.K. initials my brain would probably start melting out of my ears. Anyway, Kiarostami is quite well known for his dramas, what I do know is that Taste of Cherry won the Palme d’Or in 1997 and he has also made no secret of his Yasujiro Ozu love and influence, even dedicating a film to him. And so it seems that Kiarostami has set himself something of a challenge in journeying to Japan to make his latest feature; a slow moving, dialogue-driven, yet visually beautiful drama.

Rin Takanashi plays the film’s main character Akiko, a young student who works an escort. She has been instructed by her pimp/manager (a small role played by Denden, who was a bit jarring to see so soon after watching Cold Fish) to travel to a client’s house; very little information is given on him apart from him being described as an important man and old friend. But Akiko has her misgivings. In addition to her usual university studies and overbearing fiancé (Ryo Kase), her Grandmother has come to Tokyo for the day to visit her, a small but moving reference to Ozu’s Tokyo Story, that doesn’t feel like a forced inclusion. The film basically follows Akiko’s movements and interactions over a time frame of a little under twenty-four hours. She meets her client, an elderly man (Tadashi Okuno) who seems to want nothing more than some conversation and someone to have dinner with and also has an awkward run in with her fiancé.

The film has very little story line and is very much character driven. Kiarostami’s actors are all very good and serve as the heart of the film, Rin Takashi’s performance ranges from immature and annoying to confident professional, to helpless victim as film’s settings change and characters come and go. Through her wide range feels a bit scattershot at first, she succeeds in aptly conveying her youthful confusion and lack of direction along with her characters weaknesses and strengths. Throughout the film she really does seem to change before our eyes, quite an interesting performance.

What I found most interesting about the film was Kiarostami’s use of camerawork; what is seen, what is unseen, and how this is achieved. As the film opens we hear Akiko, but don’t see her. A completely static shot of a dimly lit restaurant interior captures the goings on as people enter and leave the frame. It soon becomes clear that Akiko is off camera, talking on the phone. Throughout the entire film, Kiarostami obscures or distances his characters, the camera refuses to move to accommodate them (another Ozu-ism). They are hidden in other rooms, sit just out of frame, peer through windows or remain within cars. Reflective surfaces are beautifully used, one of my favourite scenes featured Akiko’s blurry figure, seen only in the reflection of a switched off television screen, charged with a certain eroticism yet disconnection. Also, downtown Shinjuku as seen from a taxi hasn’t looked this good since Lost in Translation. Kiarostami’s artistic touches are not just visual either. Characters are often heard, but not seen. Quiet, distant voices are squeezed through telephones, chatter out of radios or echo from the streets outside. It is such a quiet film, no score is used, the only music heard exists entirely within the world of the film, the jazz standard from which the film takes its name is so subtly included it could easily be missed, and rare instances of raised voices or loud noises elicited startled jumps from the audience.

For me, all these artistic elements are what make this film worth watching. It is very slow moving, with no real climaxes or turning points, and is basically just a few characters talking to each other. While the dialogue ranges from gently comedic, to a short and interesting discourse on art, it is mostly centred around the nature of relationships, and I feel that without these aforementioned stylistic inclusions, the film would probably have been quite a dry drama. In fact, I think many people in the MIFF audience saw it as just that; a few people walked out, and it received a very half hearted applause at the end, which, it should be noted, comes quite suddenly. I won’t give away what happens, but it seems to end just as the film begins to enter into new territory. Relationships are beginning to develop; complications are arising, and then the film ends, changing everything that came before it. However I though this ending as a great conclusion. It serves to snap viewers out of a film that up until now has been perfectly content with drifting along at its own pace, a perfect note for Kiarostami to end his film upon. Many people will find it boring, but I quite enjoyed watching it. I can’t see myself revisiting it any time soon, but if you like a good drama with something a bit extra, or are a Kiarostami fan (again, I really can’t comment on his other work) chances are you’ll find something to enjoy here.

MIFF Countdown

The Melbourne International Film Festival kicks off next week and there are a grand total of nine Japanese films (although some of which are co-productions). I will be endeavouring to see every single one, so stay tuned. Among the nine films showing are not one, not two, but THREE Takashi Miike films (seriously, that man is a one man film making factory) including his adaptation of the popular Nintendo DS game Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney which looks like a lot of fun.

The film I’ve been hearing about for months now, largely due to the fact that it is already available on DVD in the UK, Sion Sono’s Himizu will also be coming to town, which will no doubt continue his string of dark and disturbing films, while Hirokazu Koreeda can be relied upon to provide the kind of heartfelt drama he is famous for with I Wish. Unfortunately, anime fans will have to make do with a lone animated entry A Letter to Momo, but there is always the ReelAnime Festival to look forward to later in the year. 

Good old fashioned swords and Samurai dramas will be supplied both by Miike’s remake of Hara-Kiri (In 3D, no less!) and veteran director Koji Wakamatsu’s 11/25: The Day Mishima Chose His Own Fate, coming direct from Cannes.

 

Check out the MIFF website for info and tickets (or get the incredibly handy app) and keep checking Japachickyburgers for new posts as I bring you the Japanese side of MIFF 2012.

Still Walking

歩いても 歩いても Hirokazu Koreeda, 2008

 Soon after watching Hirokazu Koreeda’s Nobody Knows, I quickly sought out and watched his 2008 film Still Walking, which, as with much of Koreeda’s work has been likened to Japan’s master drama director Yasujiro Ozu, who I know I keep namedropping and I promise I will get around to having a closer look at one of his films soon, as I’m still quite unschooled in Ozu.

Still Walking establishes one of its primary filmic themes from the very first image: food. The elderly Toshiko and her daughter Chinami are preparing all kinds of Japanese vegetables, for what reason it is not yet known. On the other hand, Kyohei, retired doctor and head of the Yokoyama family sets the films’ title in motion and takes a stroll through his neighbourhood, revealing beautiful scenery and paths that snake through the hills in this surprisingly green neighbourhood that rests somewhere between suburban and country. It is this neighbourhood and the grandparents Toshiko and Kyohei’s home that will be the stage for the film, while the process of food preparation and walking become two important ritual-like activities, particularly when shared.

The Yokoyama house is alive with activity, Chinami, her husband and their two children, constantly running around yelling and playing like kids do, are soon joined by the Yokoyama son Ryota, who has recently married Yukari, a widow with a young son. Ryota is clearly uncomfortable about visiting his parents and introducing his new wife to them, even explaining to his wife that he wants to stay for as little time as possible. Through his trivial complaints and offhand comments such as “If we make it through today we won’t have to see them for a while” a clear sense of family detachment is conveyed. The reason for these small but accumulative tensions slowly become clear through Koreeda’s almost unnoticeable dropping of tiny hints, many of which are visual. It is only until the family and their relationships to one another have been expertly established that Koreeda gently informs us of the reason for their gathering, at which point, it is not so much a surprise as a perfectly natural revelation. Years ago, the eldest Yokoyama son Junpei drowned tragically while trying to save the life of another. Today is the anniversary of his death.

Throughout the course of the day old feelings are remembered, and tensions never forgotten re-emerge. We understand the silent pain behind Kyohei’s gruff, bitter nature, walking out of family photos and telling kids off. And we feel the guilt of Ryota not being able to live up to the promise and standards of his lost brother. Perhaps the most emotionally complex scene comes when Toshiko invites a young man over to visit, not just any man though, the man whom Junpei saved from drowning. His awkward visit is quite painful to watch, but the real punch comes upon his exit, when the family proceeds to make fun of the pitiful, overweight man in order to suppress their overwhelming grief and hurt that this is who their son sacrificed himself for. Toshiko, who is something of a beacon of cheerfulness throughout the entire film, reveals the depths of her hurt as she responds to her son Ryota’s protests that she invites him each year and will continue to do so just to put him through at least some of the pain they went through. This scene is both shocking and overwhelmingly sad; as you can completely understand the conflicting feelings of a woman whose actions paint her as evil and undeniably human at the same time.

Koreeda continues his brilliant working relationship with cinematographer Yutaka Yamasaki, who was responsible for the many shots of quiet detail I so loved in Nobody Knows. Well I’m happy to say they’re back again in Still Walking, along with use of static camera shots that capture the house and its inhabitants in such a beautifully classical way its almost as though they are on a theatre stage. Below are a few of these quiet, painterly moments that convey so much through image alone.

Last but certainly not least, the acting. Actually, I don’t know if you can even call it acting. It verges on documentary realism. It might be better just to call it real. Real life, or truth, or something. Not a single line of dialogue is out of place. All these characters seem completely and utterly real. Toshiko and Kyohei contradict each others’ stories and bicker like the old grandparents they are; the grandchildren are either hyperactive or introverted, and the adults express their exasperation to their aging parents who keep telling the same stories or have developed strange habits, “When are you going to need this many paper bags??” Once again, Koreeda has created a film that is at its most moving in its quietest moments. He managed to do it amazingly well within the confines of a single apartment in Nobody Knows, but it’s nice to get out into the fresh air and take in the beautiful landscape in Still Walking. This film is like exhaling. It just feels so real, and like all the truly classic dramas, it transcends its origins and medium. Yes it’s a Japanese film, but in the end that hardly matters, I can almost guarantee you will see something of your own family reflected in this day in the life of the Yokoyama family.

Nobody Knows

誰も知らない Hirokazu Koreeda, 2004

The breakdown of the modern family unit is a recurring theme for many Japanese dramas, from the world renowned films of Yasujiro Ozu to the novels of Haruki Murakami. Director Hirokazu Koreeda takes on similar subject matter in his quietly moving 2004 film Nobody Knows.

Inspired by actual events that took place in Tokyo in the 1980s, yet mostly fictionalised, the film begins with twelve year old Akira moving into a new apartment with his mother Keiko. Unbeknownst to their landlord, Akira is not Keiko’s only child. After carrying their luggage upstairs, we are introduced to two more children, Yuki and Shigeru, who have quite literally been smuggled in secretly within large suitcases. They are later joined by the slightly older Kyoko who waits until nightfall to sneak in. We soon learn these four children each have different fathers, and of the unconventional environment in which these children will be living. Quick lines of dialogue over a cup noodle dinner subtly reveal the family’s history, their mother reminds them of the rules of the house: no yelling, no school, and finally, so as not to be seen by others: no going outside. 

Their mother casually rebuffs her children’s curiosities and questions, with pacifying responses like “You don’t need to go to school”, succeeding at keeping them from the outside world. I felt quite conflicted towards the character of Keiko, at first she seems quite loving, and the family does seem genuinely happy. Perhaps Keiko is just a single mother doing her best in a difficult situation. However, her selfishness and immaturity is soon revealed. It is not long before she begins going away for extended periods of time, leaving the children with no more than a goodbye note and some money to fend for themselves. Eventually she runs away for good, abandoning her children and marrying another man. As the oldest, Akira defaults into the role of head of the family and comes to learn that there are very few adults on which he can rely for help, particularly his mother.

The heart and soul of this film is its actors, the then fourteen year old Yuya Yagira won the Best Actor Award for his portrayal of Akira at the 2004 Cannes Film Festival, the first Japanese actor ever to do so. His performance is assured, with small gestures and smiles revealing the depth of this difficult character, a boy thrust with so much responsibility so suddenly. The other children are similarly glowing. They are all so different, coming together to create a perfectly believable fractured family. Ayu Kitaura plays Kyoko, the second oldest, who quietly longs for her mother and to be a musician as she plays the tiny toy piano that so represents her dream. Hiei Kimura shines as Shigeru, the wild child, whose tantrums and hyperactive personality are revealed as the reason the family had to move house. These kids don’t even seem to be acting half the time, with the film approaching a documentary realism as we watch the everyday goings on. This children’s perspective is further accentuated through Yutaka Yamasaki’s cinematography. The camera becomes our eye, searching, discovering and following just as a child would, as we explore this cramped but rarely claustrophobic apartment. 

It soon becomes apparent that the apartment was never going to hold these kids forever, and as they escape and run free throughout the streets and parks of their cherry blossom filled neighbourhood, their excitement is palpable. Quiet details that could otherwise be mundane become beautiful, symbols of the passage of time. How many chocolates are left in the box, how much nail polish has worn off a fingernail, which unpaid utility bill has been used as drawing paper. The plight of the children is conveyed in the subtlest of details, making extensive use of close ups and repetition to create a completely engrossing atmosphere based on an exacting “Show, don’t tell” approach.

Koreeda treats this emotional and moving story with such delicate direction; it flows seamlessly from start to finish, the performances of the children are truly captivating and we are never bashed over the head with blatant melodrama. Koreeda knows that it is within the smallest details that we the viewers will recognise truth, and maybe even ourselves. Yes, the film is sad, but it is so quiet and gentle you may not even notice how affecting it is until it’s over.