The Sky Crawlers

Mamoru Oshii is a film maker that manages to drive me nuts – in good and bad ways.  He is capable of creating superb films such as Ghost in the Shell, but he has a tendency of often going completely pretentious. Usually he relies too much on expository dialogue and ridiculous, obscure references to literature. Because of this I doubted that The Sky Crawlers (2008) could be magnificent despite hearing praise from reliable sources.

The Sky Crawlers tells the story of a “Kildren”, a boy who cannot grow up and experiences life as if it was a blur. He serves as a pilot in a meaningless war that rages on without an end in sight. Above all, it is a film that relies on mood since most of the film focuses on the pilots who hang around lifelessly at their base. Even the few action scenes are surprisingly distant: a fine line between intense thrills and alienating, unglorifying portrayal of action is somehow reached.

The CG animation of the battle scenes is marvellous, but Oshii restricts the form to make the action intentionally monotonous and gritty. The pacing is slow, but hypnotic in its own way. Kenji Kawai’s haunting soundtrack evokes a melancholic but gripping feeling – yet never falls for sentimentality somehow. It has a spellbinding effect on the viewer and especially when the main theme starts playing during the end credits you will most likely be in awe of its mysterious power.

Oshii lulled me into this intriguing world that initially seemed to offer anti-war ideas which I found fascinating (due to a personal opinion of mine). The emotionally hollow yet complex characters never failed to distract my attention from the film since they always offered something new to contemplate upon. Oshii doesn’t use dialogue blatantly and leaves most of his ideas deep beneath the screenplay’s superficial level – and thus the characters are mostly saved from the expository lines that could have destroyed the film – like they harmed Oshii’s Ghost in the Shell 2: Innocence. The only bit where he resorts to this functions surprisingly well and it causes way more good than bad in the end.

Eventually Oshii extends the story a lot further, into a complex social critique that I would love to write about, but Justin Sevakis’ review on Anime News Network is as perfect as a reflective review of the film can get. I strongly recommend reading it here. Despite its strong nihilism, The Sky Crawlers manages to be a genuinely intellectual and powerful cinematic experience that refuses to leave my mind at peace.

Kokoro, The River and A Gentle Breeze in the Village

Kon Ichikawa’s Kokoro (1955) is based on a famous Japanese novel written in the 1910’s. Now you are probably wondering why I insist on using its original Japanese title over a translated title. The problem is that the word has complex nuances that are utterly lost in the translation and many consider it impossible to come up with a sufficient English title. Even Eureka, the company responsible for Masters of Cinema DVD and blu-ray releases, decided to stick with Kokoro, simply because “The Heart” would hardly do it justice. On a basic level Kokoro means exactly that, but it is also heavily tied with the themes of isolation, guilt and psychological torment – which are explored in Ichikawa’s film.

Essentially, the movie is about the dramatic consequences of a love triangle between two childhood friends and a woman. At first it seems like a rather simple and worn-out premise, but it is approached in a refreshing and sophisticated way. It dives deep into its characters psychological state. Especially the teacher’s heavy burden is given a lot of attention, which has a devastating effect on the viewer – at least it did that to me. In terms of storytelling, Kokoro remains quite conventional until the final third which twists the chronology around a lot. However, by this time the events of the entire storyline are quite clear and the ambitious use of chronology works well to give more emphasis (and more depth) to the film’s themes. It also supports the emotional punch the climax will deliver. Haunting as a character study and tragic as a love story, Kokoro is a fine achievement in writing.

Next to the impeccable screenplay, the film’s form is rather disappointing. It might be intentionally formulaic and humble so that the viewer is distracted by nothing. However, the lighting is simply marvellous and the compositions are pleasant as well – but hardly live up to the high standards the other films from the period have set. It might be an insignificant complaint that the movie isn’t formally more ambitious or interesting, but it’s the only thing holding me from calling it a true masterpiece.

Ming-liang Tsai’s The River (1997) was the third film for the Taiwanese arthouse director. As usual, Lee Kang-sheng plays “himself” in the lead role. This time he suffers from a severe neck injury after floating in a filthy river (as an extra for a film). As silly as that sounds, the film seems to disregard the premise’s irrationality and simply lets its metaphors loose. The River is yet another exploration of sexuality, alienation and loneliness for Tsai and in a way it’s harsher than what he has made afterwards (although arguably less disturbing).

Formally the film is very Tsaiesque as well although his long takes don’t stretch as much as they would in his later films. There’s one thing that does stand out in The River’s form: he uses reflection in his compositions a lot more than in his other films. Especially mirrors seem to be everywhere. Sometimes it’s there so that he can simply avoid cutting (in order to get one take per scene), but sometimes there seem to be different reasons for this. It’s a fascinating thing to notice throughout the film, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the form wouldn’t be interesting either.

I don’t know if it is because I saw Tsai’s recent films first, but I have a growing feeling that I do not appreciate his early work as much. His 90’s films are very good without a doubt, but none of them is nearly as strong as his 2000’s films like What Time Is It There? (2001) and Goodbye Dragon Inn (2003). Maybe I don’t find his unrefined direction as interesting as his completely refined take on the same themes – which I often find funnier even though his early work does not omit comedy. The River certainly falls under the category of “being very good, but it would be quite forgettable without Tsai”.

A Gentle Breeze in the Village (2007) is Nobuhiro Yamashita’s most recent film. It focuses on a small school (only 7 students) and the students’ adventures after a new student comes from Tokyo to confuse their daily routine.  Because Yamashita is the one responsible for Linda Linda Linda (a magnificent film about 4 high school girls forming a band for their culture festival) I set myself relatively high expectations for this film and I will naturally compare it to his earlier masterpiece. To make writing and reading this review easier, I’ll refer to these two films simply as Breeze and Linda.

Judging from the films I’ve seen, Yamashita is interested in youth more than anything and because of that both take place at a school. However, they are structured in drastically different ways: where Linda had a clear goal Breeze wanders completely aimlessly for an hour and after that it tries to get its act together. Without that narrative tension Yamashita’s vision seems to stumble because he is utterly lost during the first hour of the film: bland characters doing bland things in a bland story and a bland romance of utter blandness. The humor works only on a few occasions – otherwise it’s just awkward.

Then, in all of a sudden, something happens. Yamashita finds a thematic current running through the story as the two oldest students of school realize their graduation will happen soon. The result is a mildly fascinating coming of age story combined with a bittersweet meditation on the passing of time, which is still hindered by occasionally weird writing. For example, the final sequence of the film is a complete blunder on all fronts.

Despite the chaotic and flawed screenplay Yamashita’s form is still very effective and interesting. It has that same charm that Linda had. The takes are neither long or shot; he has found some sort of calm average that flows naturally throughout the film. Camera movement is restricted – or at least that’s what it seems like. It does move quite a lot when you pay more attention to it, but it’s so smooth and only moves so little during one shot that it feels more like a restrained camera than a truly moving camera. This method supports the glorious photography which makes the film’s ordinary imagery seem ethereal. The subtle but cheerful soundtrack adds a lovely finishing touch to the visuals.

In overall I can say I feel puzzled over this film. At the same time it is a formal miracle and really horribly written turd.

Hideaki Anno: An Incredible Animator and a Visionary Director

I devour cinema. Japanese films in particular. I’m an enthusiastic fan of legendary directors like Akira Kurosawa, Yasujiro Ozu and Mikio Naruse. I’m hugely interested in the Japanese New Wave film movement. I also watch anime a lot. DVD releases of Japanese films dominate at least one third of my entire DVD collection. I study the Japanese language and am intrigued by the culture as well. Why? It can be tracked back to one man: Hideaki Anno.

Born May 22, 1960 in Ube (a “small” industrial city in southern Japan) Hideaki Anno began his career as animator for the TV-show The Super Dimension Fortress Macross. Eventually he became the protégé of the famous director Hayao Miyazaki after they worked together on the groundbreaking film Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind. He also became famous for animating glorious opening animations for Daicon convention and there was also an impressive tokusatsu film Return of Ultraman which I have the pleasure of seeing (although I didn’t comprehend it at all). The group responsible for the opening animations went on to create GAINAX, one of the most successful anime studios of all time. There Anno directed masterpieces such as Gunbuster, His and Her Circumstances and Neon Genesis Evangelion.

Neon Genesis Evangelion is solely responsible for my fascination with art, cinema, Japan and Anno. I will cover it in another blog post in way more detail, but I’ll focus on it briefly here as well. In January 2009 a friend of mine made me watch it. What begins as a fairly normal mecha storyline turned into a heavily psychological and philosophical mindtrip that rocked my world. The accessible first half of the show made me drop my guard only to be completely disturbed, challenged and inspired to think at the end. Furthermore, the film End of Evangelion that ends the franchise was even harsher. In an instant, my extinquished passion for art and film (that had been burning temporarily a year before I saw Evangelion) was found and I haven’t stopped ever since.

In 1998 he directed his first live-action film after becoming fed up with the anime industry. Love & Pop is a heavily experimental film about schoolgirls engaging in enjo kosai to earn money. Despite the disturbing subject, the film’s screenplay is surprisingly tame – at least in comparison to Anno’s direction. The wild formal techniques that were strongly present in his anime direction (including offbeat framing, unique editing patterns and abstract visual effects) run wild in this low-budget film. Because of his peculiar direction the film is hard to adjust to on the first view, but after multiple rewatches I’ve come to the conclusion that Love & Pop is worth praising as another masterpiece of his.

Before returning to anime Anno directed another experimental film called Shiki-Jitsu (often translated into English as Ritual). This is widely considered as his more successful effort as a live-action director. His direction is still wild and unique, but it’s in a bit more controlled and reasonable form this time. Essentially the film is about a director who is taking a break from his work by visiting his hometown where he meets a weird girl by the railroad. The result is an interesting character study of two lonely characters.

After completing Shiki-Jitsu Anno was hired to direct a live-action adaptation of Cutie Honey in which bikini model Erika Sato fights ridiculously dressed villains to avenge her father. It has more camp value than anything else I’ve ever seen and Anno makes the most of it. Severely flawed it might be, but it’s entertaining as hell and surprisingly the climax packs an emotional punch as well. Anno hasn’t directed anything after Cutie Honey although his role as the “supervising director” for the remake of Neon Genesis Evangelion (as 4 films) is quite ambiguous: he either has full power over the project or has a more superficial role as the leader of the production while the real work is done by Kazuya Tsurumaki and Masayuki.

Hideaki Anno never fails to impress me with his direction. He has an eye for editing and cinematography that hardly ever stumbles. He has a habit of making even the most ordinary scenes a bit peculiar by weird camera angles, but he never misuses these tools for mere pretension. He uses abstraction in magnificent ways that are never distracting or flashy. The psychological complexity in his work is both refreshing and extremely intriguing. If you don’t believe me, please do yourself a favor and watch Neon Genesis Evangelion.

I consider Hideaki Anno a vastly underappreciated director – even among the hardcore fans of Neon Genesis Evangelion. The influence of his direction is somewhat invisible in the contemporary anime industry, especially Akiyuki Shinbo seems to have taken his directing lessons from Anno. Without hesitation I rank Anno among my favorite directors alongside Kurosawa, Ozu, Kubrick and Tarkovsky.