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.

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 #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.

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.