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 #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.

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.

Tokyo-Ga

Wim Wenders, 1985 

I have just watched german filmmaker Wim Wenders’ documentary Tokyo-Ga and I am angry. I found the film self indulgent, disrespectful and even offensive. From what I understood, it was a documentary celebrating Wenders’ love for famed Japanese director Yasujiro Ozu, in which Wenders travels to Tokyo in search of the city he came to know and love through exposure to Ozu’s films, which he describes as “a sacred treasure of the cinema”. This quickly gives way to a meandering culture shock video diary of a foreigner in a big city.

Wenders manages to open his film reasonably well. He eloquently describes not only his feelings toward Ozu’s films, but succinctly sums up their message, influence and importance, setting up a filmic contention that promises what could be a very interesting documentary based around a filmmaker’s personal journey. However, his inclusion of an overly long clip from Ozu’s Tokyo Story, complete with puzzling French subtitles, seems an odd one. Wenders explains his hope to discover Ozu’s Tokyo, or at least what is left of it, even in images or feelings.

Unfortunately, the vast majority of images Wenders offers fall into the category of a “Look how weird and backwards Tokyo is!” travelogue, with Wenders largely abandoning his Ozu documentary in favour of hanging out ALL DAY at Tokyo’s golf driving ranges, and ALL NIGHT  at pachinko parlours obsessively documenting the people and their activities within them. Wenders must have told his Tokyo location manager to tell whoever walked into the frame not to talk to him or interact with the camera in any way, resulting in Wenders successfully distancing himself from every citizen in Tokyo, and “Othering” them at the same time as they are condescendingly depicted as socially disconnected drones wasting their lives in the shallow modern life in the metropolis of Tokyo. Wenders seems to make it clear that he is much more interested in the technology and machinery of Tokyo than its citizens. One particularly awful scene includes Wenders’ delivering via voice over a tirade against the nature of television and its false depiction of the world in his hotel. It is completely unnecessary and is very off putting, serving only to familiarise us with what will become Wenders' constant and intrusive voice over throughout the film. 

This voice over is perhaps the films biggest downfall, Wenders has no qualms with vocalising every one of his inane thoughts and philosophies, none of which are even remotely interesting, which is made sure of through his forced, deadpan delivery. The only time Wenders has anything interesting to say is when he is talking about Ozu, which, it becomes quickly clear, he didn’t really plan on doing much of at all, which is a shame, as this is the one topic he was able to convince me he knew about, as his respect and admiration for the director was so apparent. I can only imagine how vastly the film would be improved if the narration voice over was removed completely.

When Wenders manages to pull himself away from his Tokyo oddities tour (a trip to where the fake plastic food for display in restaurants is made recieved considerable screen time, with Wenders again somehow able to drain it of most of its possible appeal) he interviews two important Ozu collaborators, actor Chishu Ryu and cameraman Yuharu Atsuta. These interviews are far and away the most interesting scenes of the film. I found myself wishing that the film only went for half an hour and consisted solely of these scenes. Yet Wenders handles them with unbridled clumsiness. The main problem is that instead of the interviewees’ answers being subtitled; we are left to rely on Wenders’ emotionless voice over paraphrasing what they have said. This downright rude treatment of his subjects becomes strikingly apparent in the interview with Ozu’s good friend and longtime cameraman Yuharu Atsuta. After a very interesting segment in which he explains Ozu’s camera techniques, a humble Atsuta reminisces about his career in film, explaining how after his mentor Ozu’s death, he never really worked to the best of his ability ever again. This scene carries a huge emotional weight, with Atsuta, overwhelmed, breaking into tears upon recalling such fond memories. But of course, Wenders’ disgusting voice over succeeds in belittling the most interesting and powerful scene in his silly “Documentary”. (Fortunately these highlights are available for viewing on youtube as stand alone scenes.)

If that wasn’t enough, Wenders’ old pal Werner Herzog turns up to add his two cents in, delivering a rant on some subject or another at the top of Tokyo Tower. This scene is not translated, and Wenders is quick to sum Herzog’s German language monologue up as something about “Pure images”. French filmmaker Chris Marker also makes a three second cameo, with Wenders mentioning his then recent film Sans Soleil, much of which was also filmed in Tokyo and is by far a much more interesting, beautiful, heartfelt and respectful documentary tackling the same city. These superficial inclusions of backslapping among directors should have been left out, as they only serve to highlight Wenders’ self indulgence and lack of filmic direction, and disconnection with his subject..

If anything, Wenders’ documentary sheds light on the illusion of cinema. Wenders went to Japan in search of the Tokyo he came to know through the films of Ozu, not surprisingly, he didn’t find it. I am of the opinion that he just didn’t look hard enough. Indeed, there are instances where redemption does seem possible for the film, including a scene in which Chishu Ryu accompanies Wenders to Ozu’s grave, yet Wenders prefers to dwell in nostalgia, clinging to his unnatainable cinematic illusion and focus on the neon metropolis, the footage of which, serving as a veritable time capsule for the look and colours of the 1980s are often quite amazing, perhaps the films strongest asset, if one can overlook the negative attitude they seem to be conveyed with. 

Wenders comments, “In spite of everything, I was impressed by Tokyo.” This can hardly be believed, as he has portrayed the city as a vapid and faceless, distorting it into something unsettling, particularly for those familiar with Japan and its culture. Wenders further achieves this through a bizarre choice of soundtrack, an incongruous mix of avant garde 80s Jazz, which, when juxtaposed with the films visuals, many of which are quite beautiful, is very jarring. The final twenty minutes or so are the strongest in the film, for the sole reason that it is actually about Ozu. The music is finally appropriate, and archival photographs and testimonies from collaborators give us a glimpse into what this film could have been, but instead Wenders has created a self indulgent diary of a film where his hero is pushed aside to make room for himself.

Upon realising Ozu’s Tokyo is nothing more than a memory, preserved forever on celluloid alone, Wenders creates his own. Thus is Tokyo-Ga. I have been to Tokyo four times to date, and while I also may not have found Ozu’s brink-of-modernism postwar Tokyo, I certainly didn’t encounter anything as bleak or lifeless as Wenders’ Tokyo.