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.

Cold Fish

冷たい熱帯魚 Sion Sono, 2010

Cold Fish is the second film in Sion Sono’s “Hate trilogy” and this post also marks another look at an “inspired by true events” film. In this case, a husband and wife serial killer couple who owned a pet shop in Tokyo. When I watched Love Exposure I hadn’t realised that it was the first in a trilogy, but upon viewing Cold Fish I see that it probably wouldn’t have mattered to watch them out of order. Sono continues to explore themes of broken families, cults, sex and violence, with his strong contemporary vision and outlandish characters.

 Nobuyuki Shamoto is the beleaguered owner of a modest tropical fish shop, passing through his uneventful existence with his second wife Taeko and rebellious teenage daughter Mitsuko, whose feelings of angst and unacceptance toward each other create a rift in the family. Sono establishes their bleak life through a great opening scene: the preparation of a dinner comprised solely of microwavable convenience store food and its subsequent silent consumption. It is not until Mitsuko finds herself in trouble at a local store for attempted shoplifting that this family’s life begins to change. As though out of nowhere, Yukio Murata, owner of the much larger and more successful “Amazon Gold” tropical fish store approaches Shamoto and his family. What ensues is the rapid forging of a strange relationship. Murata imposes himself upon the weak willed and softly spoken Shamoto, offering, or basically forcing, his delinquent daughter a job and lodging at his fish shop, promising to set her straight, and taking Shamoto on board for certain business ventures that quickly get out of hand. Being too afraid to speak out or decline the at once charismatic and terrifying Murata, Shamoto soon finds himself embroiled in a world of crime, murder and rare tropical fish, with his family collapsing even further.

The fish shop is really quite a bizarre and fascinating setting for a film. It has that aquarium wonderland appeal with its glowing fluorescent lights, dark yet vibrant blues and greens, creating a eerily beautiful day-glo noir feel. On the other hand it has a real kitsch-ness to it, as Murata dances down its aisles to the kind of Hawaiian slide guitar music to be expected in an episode of Spongebob Squarepants, and also serves to render scenes of the most intense variety with ironically comical edge. Driving Gene Krupa style Jazz drums also feature prominently; highlighting Sono’s eccentric treatment of what would have likely become a run of the mill serial killer movie in the hands of another director. The atmosphere of the fish shop is established as equal parts lair and sanctuary, the perfect place to harbour serial killer couple Murata and his wife as they draw in their prey. From here Shamoto and his family are drawn into Murata’s whirlpool and things only get stranger. Murata soon reveals his true psychotic nature, which is no big surprise; his larger than life character is like a combination of your annoying uncle at a family barbecue crossed with Joe Pesci in Goodfellas mixed with a bit of classic Japanese style perversion. Murata’s wife is equally as disturbed, their business and its array of young female employees appears increasingly cult-like (a theme also explored in Love Exposure) and the gore flows freely when they begin eliminating the competition. 

I actually had a bit of a problem with the gore. It’s not that I couldn’t handle it; it’s just that it was treated in such a cartoonish way. It’s so over the top that, along with its completely insane characters, it pushes the whole film into a completely melodramatic, borderline comedy realm. I think that if Sono had toned it down only a few small notches, this film could well have been something approaching a masterpiece. But, that’s just not Sono’s style. However, I think if you consider the tone Sono has taken, and the parameters established; i.e. this is not a conventional serial killer film, then the film really is quite interesting. Cold Fish really is carried by its two male leads, Shamoto, played by Mitsuru Fukikoshi, and Murata, played almost too well by Denden (yes, that’s his name). Fukikoshi delivers a slow burn performance, conveying a quite pathetic man in way over his head until eventually erupting into the antithesis the character we knew previously, while Denden is a non stop assault. Cloying faux concern, vaudeville and hardened gangster are all on display, falling under the shadow of complete psychopath. The supporting cast, Asuka Murata and Megumi Kagurazaka, are also brilliant in their femme fatale style roles. In the end though, it is the theme of crazy upon which each of Sono’s characters play.

Watching Sion Sono’s films, I really get the impression that he is a truly contemporary director. His films just feel very now. They are unsettling, over the top and really seem to push boundaries in terms of characterisation, themes and just how much you can cram into a film. Sort of a Japanese Lars Von Trier, especially when you look at his unconventional female characters. It’s just the slightly over the top cartoon elements that I find kind of beguiling, in an “I’m not sure if I like this” kind of way. But then, there’s something about not really getting it that I do like! Cold Fish is by no means a perfect film, but there were many elements that I really enjoyed. It is a bit long, but it is definitely an interesting take on the whole serial killer/crime film, focusing largely on its characters, which walk a fine line between captivating and just plain too much. Add to that the ridiculous amount of blood and guts, this film will definitely be challenging to some. Nevertheless, Sion Sono remains a very exciting filmmaker and I look forward to getting my hands on a copy of Guilty of Romance, the final instalment in the “Hate Trilogy”.

Zero Woman: Red Handcuffs

ゼロ課の女：赤い手錠 Zero Woman: Red Handcuffs. Yukio Noda, 1974

It's time for another unbelievably trashy exploitation film, so leave your notions of good taste behind and strap yourselves in as I introduce you to yet another queen of 1970s Japanese genre cinema, Miki Sugimoto. Quite possibly the baddest, babein’est chick the screen has ever seen. While she was often paired with other bankable genre stars, particularly Reiko Ike, who we last saw in Sex and Fury, Zero Woman: Red Handcuffs is a vehicle all of Sugimoto’s own. And what a monstrous vehicle it is.

Sugimoto plays Rei, a secret agent cop whose character is not only left unexplained, I even had to search the web for her character’s name, as I really can’t recall it being mentioned in the film at any point. After breaking protocol in order to exact her own gruesomely cathartic revenge on a disgusting European diplomat (Where exactly is Almania anyway?) who was responsible for the death of a girl I’m assuming was a friend of Rei’s. Her license is revoked and she is thrown in prison. At this point I felt a bit disappointed, as I was hoping for something more than just another “women in prison” film. Well, I got more. Almost too much more. It was at this point that the film’s real story develops, and I use the term “Story” in the loosest possible sense, as it is the simplest, pulpiest thing I’ve come across in a while: The prime minister’s daughter has been kidnapped. Retrieve her and kill those responsible using any methods necessary and you’ll get your old life back. So there you have it, the barest bones of a story, the likes of which still get used today (Luc Besson’s La Femme Nikita comes to mind) which, in the case of this film, serve as the perfect foundation to build a gratuitously wild ride upon.

Rei's tools of the trade... Is that a water pistol?

 The vast majority of this gratuitousness is not conveyed through the central female role however, this duty is entrusted to a gang of disgusting male criminals, who never pass up a chance for a bit of senseless violence or gang rape. Even as a fan of these kinds of films, I did find there was a bit much too much pointless violence, most of it brought about by the almost completely one dimensional male characters, when really all I was hanging out for was for Rei to get down to business with her titular red handcuffs as she did so well in the film’s whirlwind opening four minutes. Instead, Rei quietly bides her time, infiltrating the gang to take them down from the inside occasionally taking part in the kind of spectacular set piece deaths we look forward to. Falling backwards into a bath seems to be a popular way to go in this film. The artistic flourishes of the 70s are also present, with the surrounding environment invading and adding to the violence through naturalistic sound an image, whether of a series of planes taking off, or in a more surreal way with colours and lights filling empty background spaces to accentuate Sugimoto’s largely silent performance, in a way similar to visual effects used in Female Prisoner #701. Sugimoto does however deliver some great Dirty Harry-esque one liners though, “I’m not from any section. I’m from section Zero”. Also called into question, although quite offhandedly and without any real analysis, is a question of morality surrounding cops who act like criminals. It’s a throwaway line, but does put the film into some kind of (slightly) deeper territory, as pretty much every character is shown as having a complete lack of morals. Backstabbings and bungled plans abound, and the cops, all males of course, are shown as being particularly incompetent.

Around halfway through the movie I found myself thinking, “This movie could be so much more.” It was probably because I just wished Sugimoto would quit lurking in the background behind these vile crooks. But then my prayers were answered when the plot takes a turn. After the prime minister realises his reputation will never recover from the scandal, he orders the cops to kill his own daughter and Rei. Thus, with all bets and gloves well and truly off, the last thirty minutes of the film are pushed completely over the edge into non-stop mayhem. A huge shootout ensues between the criminals and the cops, with Rei caught in between. But it is the location that is the most baffling element. The whole thing seems to have been filmed in some kind of abandoned American military camp turned Wild West ghost town --IN A RAGING HURRICANE. Paper is blowing around everywhere, cars are destroyed, villains burnt and scarred and Rei throws her red handcuffs around like Spider-Man, and tells the chief of police to enjoy the promotion he will no doubt receive upon arrival in hell. Wow.

If that wasn’t enough, I think I may have also picked up on a bit of Anti-American sentiment. All throughout the film there are visual cues to Americana, particularly the military. In one particular scene some of the criminals even piss on an army sign. And in a more sinister turn, the U.S Navy is symbolically implicated as a perpetrator in the rape scene! I’m really not familiar with director Yukio Noda’s work at all, but could this film be one huge America bashing exercise? Is the senseless violence, particularly the head villain killing his own brother in a fit of rage some kind of damning Vietnam allegory? On the other hand, there seems to be clear American filmic influences at work here. Documentary style surveillance shots of cops staking out the gang coupled with costuming directly references film noir and American Police procedurals, while a terrifying and bizarre home invasion could be influenced by American horror films such as Wes Craven’s Last House on the Left. Even Scorsese would be proud of the hand in a vice torture scene and shallow grave in a wheat field murder. The more I think about it, the more this film seems so well informed and transcends its label of throwaway trash exploitation. There actually seems to be a lot more going on here… 

 

Manhattan, Pepsi and the U.S. Navy as a brutal rapist of an innocent and defenseless Japan??

This film is worth watching purely for the magnetic Miki Sugimoto, who can easily be placed among other 70s Japanese Queens like Meiko Kaji, Reiko Ike and even internationals such as Christina Lindberg and Pam Grier. On the one hand, this film is standard exploitation fare, but also, it’s not. The violence has an explicitly brutish nihilism that until now, I had not seen in Japanese 70s cinema. The overabundance of disgusting male characters is this films weakest point, but they all die in spectacular ways by the end of it anyway. This was the first in a series of Zero Woman films, and I’m not sure whether Sugimoto starred in any of the others. The film is a mixed bag, and could definitely have given its star a bit more to do, but keeping in mind it is the first in a series, it certainly gets it off to a explosive start.

Pom Poko

平成狸合戦ぽんぽこ Isao Takahata, 1994

As I have touched on previously, the famous works of Hayao Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli seem to go hand in hand, to the point where they are almost synonymous. However, the lesser known director Isao Takahata is something of a best kept secret of Ghibli, quietly creating films that are often released without the kind of fanfare Miyazaki’s films recieve. Takahata’s most well known and acclaimed work, the harrowing war story Grave Of The Fireflies has drawn much praise from critics including Roger Ebert, however it is the film Pom Poko, which even know remains something of an oddity in the Ghibli catalogue, especially outside of Japan, which I think is his best work and perhaps even my favourite Ghibli film.

The Tanuki is a type of raccoon native to Japan, which according to Japanese folklore, are playful creatures that have the power to shape-shift. The film focuses on a forest of Tanuki who have long since abandoned their shape-shifting ways, as they never really had any use for them. But the bubble economy of the early 90s changes all that, and soon they find their woods being destroyed by human developers to create a Tokyo housing area of unprecedented scale, New Tama Town. And so begins the Tanukis’ re-learning of shape-shifting, as taught by their forest’s elders; Preparation for the imminent showdown between man and beast. The film’s simple storyline is established within about the first ten minutes of the film, Takahata wastes no time, employing a narrator and a host of colourful Tanuki personalities to propel the film along at a swift, at times dizzying pace. Some Tanuki want to attack the humans directly, while others want to hone their skills from legendary elders of other regions of Japan. Either way, we are soon presented with hilarious scenes of shape-shifting training, and an explanation of what will soon become a running gag throughout the film, the importance and many uses of the Tanuki’s testicles. 

Takahata uses this folkloric element to its absolute fullest potential, drawing on Japanese tradition and superstition to create a work that is very Japanese. Takahata is able to play by his own rules as he crafts this meeting of mythology and contemporary society, explaining away minor details such as the Tanukis’ use of energy drinks to keep up their human shape-shifting act. The Tanuki’s attacks on the humans are also a display of mind boggling creativity. In one scene, the Tanuki stand on each others shoulders and shape-shift into a tree that falls on the road, causing a truck to veer off a cliff. Over time, they begin to exploit the Japanese superstitions and catalogue of folkloric ghosts, which eventually culminates in their final attempt, “Operation Goblin” an otherworldly tour de force of apparitions, dragons and ghouls (Keep an eye out for the Totoro cameo) parading through the centre of town. Most people I know that have seen this film respond with a “That movie is so weird” or “I just didn’t get it”, most likely due to this huge amount of content that non-Japanese simply won’t understand. I can’t really comment objectively, as I never saw this film completely unaware of Japanese culture, and while I understood a lot of the references in the film, most of them are either explained or made obvious through characters responses in the film. Having some knowledge of Japanese culture may make it slightly more enjoyable or funny, but I really don’t think it’s necessary in order to enjoy this outrageous adventure. Think of it as The Animals of Farthing Wood, just with a smaller variety of animals, more shape-shifting and completely crazy humour.

Some of the more militant Tanuki bashing cops with their balls

Aside from the story, the film is a veritable free for all in terms of visual techniques. What quickly becomes apparent is Takahata’s visualisation of the Tanuki themselves, as he draws them in three distinct styles: A realistic on all fours style, an anthropomorphic cartoon style, and a super stylised comic strip style. Each visual is used in different situations to highlight different feelings, perceptions and interactions between characters. When the Tanuki borrow an old TV out of the trash, the cooking show they are watching appears briefly as live action, a short and jarring, but nonetheless brilliant inclusion. Takahata creates a perfect balance of realism and nature; the forest, the development site and the town, and the surreal; Buddha watching over the forest, construction diggers eating a leaf like insects and even a short 8-bit style section. Music also plays a major role in the film, with its opening moments greeting us with what I’m guessing is a traditional children’s song about Tanuki. Throughout the rest of the film, the Tanuki also sing a range of cute songs. Sometimes for rousing morale or in celebration, sometimes just to pass the time while bouncing a ball with a friend.

While the film is largely a comedy, Takahata’s environmental concerns really come to the fore towards the end. As the Tanuki realise they are no match for the humans, they make a reluctant appeal on a television program. This is one of the films most beaufitul scenes, as fireflies light up the night sky and the Tanuki’s sadness in the face of defeat is strangely human. Takahata succeeds with flying colours in making us side with the animals and seeing the humans as the antagonists. Of course, Miyazaki shares this same environmental yearning, but has yet to convey it in such a comical, off the wall way as Takahata does here. The film is just under two hours long, but it flies by perfectly paced, with its combination of humour and seriousness resulting in there never being a dull moment. This is the wild card of Studio Ghibli, the curveball, a uniquely Japanese breath of fresh air for animation and storytelling in general, and the perfect film to counter some of Ghibli’s more mature or heavy handed works.

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.

Sex and Fury

不良姐御伝 猪の鹿お蝶 Norifumi Suzuki, 1973

Last time I went to Japan I had the good fortune to meet a very interesting man who was a director of the Kanazawa film festival. After talking at length about our favourite films, we ended up on the topic of 1970s grindhouse/exploitation films, which it quickly became apparent he was a die hard fan/expert. His immediate response to my request for recommendations of that era was Norifumi Suzuki’s Sex and Fury. At that time I had already seen his 1974 School of the Holy Beast, which was undoubtedly the most outrageous movie I had seen to date, and after watching the equally subversive and delirious Sex and Fury, I realised Suzuki’s importance as an auteur of Japanese cinema of the 70s, not just for his ludicrous stories or cult influence (Tarantino is a fan) but also for his flat out gorgeous visual style.

Set during the Meiji era, Japan’s period of rapid economic growth and Westernisation due to the acceptance of European influence, Sex and Fury follows the exploits (quite literally) of a female gambler/pickpocket Ocho, played by Japanese erotic film/sexploitation superstar Reiko Ike. A wanderer whose father was killed when she was a child, she is embroiled into a plot of international political intrigue when she witnesses an assassination at a gambling house. It seems that those darn Americans are planning to get on Japan’s good side in order to set the scene for a profitable drug war. If that wasn’t enough, they have Christina Lindberg on their side, a Scandinavian porn actress playing a world class gambler/dancer who has gone undercover (quite literally) as a spy to curry favour with important Japanese politicians. However, her heart is not entirely in the right place, as she has a long lost Japanese lover, Shunosuke, fighting against the corrupt individuals she has shacked up with (quite literally). Still she hopes to reunite with him, all the while speaking hilariously broken Japanese AND English. But I’m forgetting about our heroine Ocho. After realising the people who killed her father are also in cahoots with this whole political operation, Ocho sets out for revenge, her only information on who she is after being their tattoos: Boar, Deer and Butterly.

Sex? Check. Fury? Check.

The film certainly lives up to its name, with Ike and Lindberg using everything their mammas gave ‘em and then some in order to get exactly what they want. Seriously though, this film has a ridiculous number of gratuitous sex scenes, including a cross-cultural lesbian interlude and the rape of a young virgin. On the other hand, we have generous doses of bloody violence. The award for best scene in the entire film goes to the much written about bath scene, in which a completely starkers Reiko Ike dispatches a gang of assassins in the snow with a sword, after being ambushed in the bath. The scene is in slow motion, with a soundtrack of a distinct Wild West/Flamenco guitar flavour; in other words, a pulpy, artistic triumph. Bright red blood is sprayed by the bucketful, and an obligatory woman chained and tortured scene is included. I think I’ve seen one in every Norifumi Suzuki movie so far.

The film was made in 1973, and as such, is a sensory feast. Even the opening credits, making great use of colourful Japanese Hanafuda cards (something of a plot device throughout the film) and kaleidoscope effect are dizzyingly enjoyable. Expect in no particular order: plenty of extreme back and forth close ups of people staring intently at each other, pop art visuals, garish coloured lighting, funky music, a hilariously overblown death scene set to supermarket muzak and seemingly shot in a wind tunnel, and YES even a gang of Nuns armed with knives. Whatever stars that preside over the production of completely bonkers cult films were well and truly aligned for this wild ride.

I like to watch films in order to see things I wouldn’t normally. To be challenged. This is why I particularly enjoy horror and exploitation films. Every one of Suzuki’s movies that I have seen succeeds in delivering this kind of challenge, in that I often find myself laughing in disbelief, mouth hanging open and just generally not believing what I’m seeing. This is the thrill of cinema that so many people can’t bear! Sure, there might be a little too much sex and not quite enough fury and the acting is pretty woeful throughout, but this movie is fun, fun, fun. Imbued with the energy and spirit of the 70s, Sex and Fury is, like all of Suzuki’s best work, wonderfully subversive, attacking notions of good taste and high art by creating unashamed TRASH. It is this trash however, that continues to grow in reputation, influence and popularity, and armed with Suzuki’s powerful, almost hallucinatory visual style, Sex and Fury takes the term “cult film” to a whole new freaky level.

Note: This film is NOT a porno. It is a legitimate subgenre of Japanese cinema known as the Pink Film (Erotic film), however this one contains much more violence, “Pinky Violence” as it is now known. Yes there is nudity and plenty of sex, but it is strictly softcore, with no actors’ junk on display at any time, as dictated by Japanese censorship laws of the time (pubic hair wasn’t even allowed). Just thought I’d make it clear that I’m not COMPLETELY perverted.