Love Exposure

愛のむきだし Sion Sono, (2008),

At the Melbourne International Film Festival last year, two films by director Sion Sono were screened, Cold Fish and Guilty of Romance unfortunately I didn’t get to see either of them, something I now regret. Even now I still haven’t seen them, and as far as I know only Guilty of Romance has seen a DVD release in Australia as yet. But over Easter I watched one of his previous works, Love Exposure from 2008. My only experience with Sono up until then had been Suicide Club, a cult favourite from 2002. After watching the trailer for Love Exposure I decided to give it a shot. And I am still am unsure what it was exactly that I subjected myself to.

 

The film starts of simply enough, teenager Yu grows up in a seemingly ordinary Catholic household, until the death of his mother results in his father Tetsu’s decision to become a priest. Over time, Tetsu urges his son to go to confession. Yu, having never really thought of himself as a sinner, finds that his confessions of not helping an old lady across the street or stomping on ants just aren’t good enough for his father. So, with the best of intentions and only wanting to please his father, Yu falls in with a band of delinquents in order to learn how to really sin, and soon becomes a ninja-like master of upskirt photography, pornography being the one sin no priest can excuse. If this sounds like some kind of twisted sacrilegious attempt at comedy, I can tell you,  that’s exactly what it is. Yu is trained by an old Mr. Miyagi style character in the ways and techniques of upskirting in a particularly hilarious training montage, with Yu cartwheeling and backflipping through the streets, covertly stealing photos of girl’s underwear. The whole Catholic angle is very interesting, it feels like a satirical comment on Christ based religions in Japan, particularly exploring the concept of sin, which plays a huge part in the film. Catholicism isn’t the only thing critiqued though, a cult “Church Zero” is introduced, and its members are just as crazy and even more manipulative. One of its leaders, Aya, sets a complicated and malevolent plan in motion to convert Yu and his family to their church, and this is where the movie starts getting really freaky.

One by one, Sono throws rules out the window, as what first seemed purely comedic film becomes a mind bending psychodrama. The characters’ personalities undergo so many changes and relationships become so complicated that it’s hard to keep track. Yu falls in love with a girl called Yoko (a very impressive and sustained performance by Hikari Mitsushima), who he believes to be the one he has waited so long for, but Yoko falls in love with a woman named Sasori (yes, that Sasori!) who is actually Yu in disguise, while the psychotic Aya continues to infiltrate their family and turn them against Yu. Phew. Most of these particularly confusing plot developments take place in the film’s second half.

Did I mention that this film goes for four hours?

This film tackles so many themes and gets into such bizarre territory that I find it quite hard to talk about, or even form an opinion on. Religion, sin, perversion, love, sexuality, brainwashing... The gang’s all here, and it does get exhausting. I loved the aforementioned reference to Meiko Kaji as Sasori, and also the inclusion of such non Japanese elements like Catholicism were very interesting to see represented, particularly in such a critical/comedic way. The use of Ravel’s Bolero was a cheeky addition to Yu’s upskirting escapades, his perverted pastime becoming a beautiful ballet of sin. Moments of bloody violence and sexuality are peppered throughout, with the characters going from one extreme to the next in a matter of scene changes. Some of the shooting locations are so beautiful, particularly the beach where Yu and Yoko hide from Church Zero in an abandoned van, and inside the eerie, minimalist Church Zero building.

This film is bizarre, funny and freaky. The four hour running time will definitely test, if not completely repel you. It is not a film I loved as a whole, but parts of it I really enjoyed and I couldn’t help admiring its unbridled ambition, as many film festivals also seemed to, it received various prizes for directing and acting. It’s a film I feel like I would be reluctant to recommend, but at the same time, it’s the kind of film I would want people to see so it can be discussed and unpacked. Weeks after I watched it, I’m still puzzled and intrigued by it, but not fully understanding seems a part of its strange appeal. Sion Sono has created an epic vision so jam-packed full of ideas that it’s ridiculous… and I feel I shall have to give myself a long break until I tackle another of his films.

Kamikaze Girls

下妻物語 Tetsuya Nakashima, (2004)
Tetsuya Nakashima is one of the most exciting directors working in Japan today. His visual style is absolutely amazing and he has proven himself capable of working with a wide range of material (often adaptations of novels) that continues to push him into different styles of storytelling and filmic genres. His latest film Confessions (2010) saw him win the awards for best picture and best director at the 34^th Japan Academy Awards. That film was my first introduction to Nakashima, and I have since worked my way backwards through his earlier works that I have managed to get my hands on.

Kamikaze Girls seems to have been Nakashima’s first major film, and established his focus on female characters, something that was to become a habit that has continued with Memories of Matsuko and Confessions, his work becoming increasingly darker with each new film. But Kamikaze Girls contains almost no trace of the hardships and unrealised dreams of Matsuko or the intense psychological revenge drama of Confessions. Instead, it is a light, entertaining comedy in which two young girls who, despite their completely opposing subcultural styles; Lolita and Yanki, become unlikely friends. This collision of two different worlds, so based on image, takes the kind of jokes that have become cliché in this kind of movie and puts a new Japanese spin on them. Momoko is a friendless, lone Lolita in a small country town who fantasises about being born in the Rococo era, while Ichigo is a hard talking, head-butting, delinquent biker girl who rides a bright pink scooter. Their worlds and personalities could not be further apart:

“What are you listening to?”

“Johann Strauss.”

“I don’t know that band.”

The setting of the film, Shimotsuma, Ibaraki, is almost like the third main character of the film. Nakashima has made great use of its beautiful green landscapes and isolated roads, coupling them with his glowing, colourful style while also including the flashing lights of pachinko parlours and the cartoon-like restaurants and shops. Momoko’s opening monologue describing the town and its inhabitants could even stand on its own as a hilarious short film! The whole film seems to be bathed in a beautiful hyper-real light, which, along with the brilliant costuming and candy-store visuals, creates a fantastical daydream of a film. Nakashima seems to bend the rules of reality almost to breaking point, characters fly through the air on a whim, appear on television in interviews that act as dramatic asides, and even some short animated sequences are included. One of my favourite scenes sees the locals of Shimotsuma lapsing, Broadway musical style, into a tongue in cheek advertisement for local clothing store Jusco, complete with superimposed text and prices.

While the story isn’t earth shatteringly original, and does follow the buddy movie kind of formula, it is entertaining enough to make sure that it doesn’t become simply an exercise in art direction, and does contain some hilarious moments and particularly creative gags that toy with bleeping of copyrighted words and pointing out of Kanji spelling mistakes. Music plays a very important role in Nakashima’s films (I think he has directed some music videos for Japanese bands), Memories of Matsuko was something of a musical, while Confessions boasted a soundtrack quite close to perfection. However, the Kamikaze Girls soundtrack was a bit hit and miss for me, some of the original compositions by film and anime scoring legend Yoko Kanno (Cowboy Bebop, check it out) are beautiful, (as has come to be expected from her) the wide range of which serves the movie quite well, but other inclusions of pop music I found hair pulingly annoying. The acting is great throughout, and not just from the two female leads. Momoko’s mother and father are hilariously juvenile, and just about every other character seems to be an extravagant caricature, just waiting with some funny one-liner to help propel this hyperkinetic film along. Momoko in particular has developed some quirky and interesting philosophies about life, informed and shaped by her hopeless parents and obsession with Lolita clothing.

Kamikaze Girls is a film about friendship and fashion, and while I’d say it’s more a film aimed at girls, but I still found plenty to enjoy thanks to Nakashima’s visuals and offbeat humour. I found it particularly interesting to continue exploring Nakashima’s work, particularly to track the changes in his visual style, overall tone and characterisation of principal female characters. I will most definitely be writing about his other work in the future, so stay tuned.

Jiro Dreams of Sushi

This post marks a new step, the first time I will be looking at a Japanese movie that is currently screening in cinemas, rather than just watching a DVD like I usually do. Hopefully there will be many, many more of these in the future, but it all comes down to what receives a local release. The film is a documentary, Jiro Dreams of Sushi directed by David Gelb, and is currently screening at Cinema Nova in Carlton.

Jiro is an eighty-five year old sushi chef who has dedicated his entire life to his career, making sushi. Operating a tiny ten seater sushi restaurant in a subway underpass, the sushi he creates is world renowned and has earned his restaurant three Michelin stars; the only sushi restaurant in the world to achieve this. The film features extensive interviews with Jiro and his sons as they explain their craft and personal philosophies toward life and most importantly, work. We learn of Jiro’s largely fatherless childhood and how it influenced his work ethic and subsequent upbringing of his own sons, seeing many bittersweet similarities in this decidedly old school and very Japanese approach to life and work. Upon opening his own branch of sushi restaurant, Takashi, Jiro’s youngest son, was told the words his own father had heard many years before, “Should you fail, you have no home to come back to” a harsh yet somewhat rousing push into the real world, Jiro speaks of his own thoughts of the Japanese youth, (most likely the current wave of ambivalent part timers) who want fewer work hours and more free time. Yet the workers we see in the film remain so firmly committed to their work that it is almost scary, apprentices are subjected to rigorous training the likes of which many of us may never experience. One of Jiro’s employees recalls crying the day he finally mastered making egg sushi, after several months of failure. While Jiro’s eldest son Yoshikazu recalls an apprentice who hardly lasted a day.

Even Jiro’s suppliers are on a higher level, acquiring and providing the finest fish and rice with a great loyalty and respect to their friend and his incredibly high standards. The film’s excursions to the Tsukiji fish market work very well in terms of breaking up the film and getting us out of Jiro’s tiny restaurant, showing us yet another microcosmic community’s characters and inner workings. In one such scene, Yoshikazu, buying fish on behalf of his father, casually asks a fishmonger how he has been. The small, elderly man replies “Not good. I want to retire.” Yoshikazu does well to hide his possible surprise at such an honest response, quickly making his exit, yet it really fascinated with me. Like a Yasujiro Ozu film come to life, this man’s simply stated response becomes a quiet confession filled with layers of truth and emotion, only to be flippantly brushed off. A similar moment takes place in a scene where Jiro and Yoshikzu visit the grave of Jiro’s parents. After observing the dead flowers near the headstone, Jiro remarks, painfully casually “I don’t know why I come here. My parents didn’t look after me”. Is this what created such a consuming work ethic in this man? In contrast to the aforementioned fishmonger, Jiro speaks of not being ready to retire and, despite his often cold disposition of absolute professionalism, explains that everyday, making sushi, he feels ecstatic and is completely in love with his job. Jiro admits were he to retire he would be driven insane with boredom. The film makes it clear that his work really is his reason for living.

Towards the beginning of the film, one of the employees explains that the techniques that the chefs are using are “no big secret”, and we hear about many of these in fascinating detail, including the differences of depth in flavour in tuna and also the forty-five minute massage an octopus receives before being served. All of this is wrapped up neatly in a film that runs under an hour and a half and never feels long-winded. Many sections of interviews and conversations are juxtaposed with beautfiul slow motion sequences of the sushi’s creation, likened metaphorically to a musical symphony with its different movements. It is often said that the mark of a good documentary is one that can be entertaining and accessible to people who may have no interest in the actual subject. Jiro Dreams of Sushi is one such documentary. Even though I am not the world’s biggest sushi fan and will probably never eat in Jiro’s restaurant (bookings a month in advance are essential and prices start at $300) the film provides not only a fascinating insight into Jiro and his restaurant, but the network around it and a uniquely Japanese approach to one’s career. 

Noroi: The Curse

ノロイ Kōji Shiraishi, (2005)

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

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

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

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

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

The Castle of Cagliostro

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

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

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

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

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

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

Female Prisoner #701: Scorpion

女囚701号:さそり Shunya Ito, (1972)

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

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

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

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

Akira

アキラ Katsuhiro Otomo, (1988)

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

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

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

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

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