Changes

After a short break caused by military service and laziness, I've decided to change a few things about my blog. First of all, this Blogger account will be left behind and I'm currently working on a new Wordpress blog that will serve as the channel for my film musings in future. I won't be posting reviews like the ones on this blog, but instead I'm going to let the form run wild. I will post more sparsely (but in longer format) about some of the films I see, but I will also share my other thoughts about cinema in general. Usually I will tie these two ideas into each blogpost - at least that's the plan.

The new blog can be found here: http://ozumaniac.wordpress.com/

The Naked Island

Essentially Kaneto Shindo's The Naked Island (1960) is a simple film. It depicts the hardships of a family living on a small and isolated island. The parents spend their daily routine maintaining their crops and the most time-consuming task for them is to fetch water from a long distance twice a day. They have two boys: one of them goes to school and the younger one spends his days on the island.

At first the film introduces us to the family's daily routine and despite its simplicity Shindo manages to make it very fascinating. In a single brilliant scene (with a magnificent, long buildup) he establishes the family dynamics. The film moves onto show how the family manages to survive through each season until the first "traditional" conflict is introduced in the final third of the film. Even then the film is more like a slice of life of the family's life instead of a dramatic narrative we so often see in other films.

What is so brilliant about the film's approach is the silence Shindo employs. Not a word is spoken apart from short bits of singing and chanting. Music is occasionally inserted, but even that is used rather subtly so that most of the film's power relies on the writing and the visuals. And these two aspects are worthy even on their own. Even though the film gives a rather stereotypical image of the Japanese (who dislike the image) it's a very striking and tragic portrayal of the problems of social change and isolation, among others.

Shindo's cinematography is mostly static or at least the movement is so smooth and controlled that the viewer hardly notices it. It gives the daily routine a fitting rhythm and emphasizes the cyclical life of the family. Although the pacing of the editing is rather fast it doesn't feel like the film rushes towards the ending. Shindo likes to intercut between multiple motions and creates rather fascinating scenes out of simple moments (like rowing).

The film is not without an arguable flaw. The blandness of the characters is probably intentional, but it decreases the impact of the film's ending a bit too much. Luckily the tragedy is still intact.

Score: 9 out of 10

Assassination

Masahiro Shinoda's Assassination (1964) was the first jidai geki (period drama) for the Nuberu Bagu (Japanese New Wave) director. It dives deep into Japan's history prior to the Meiji Restoration by presenting the story of a talented swordsman who worships the Emperor and is eventually corrupted by the rivalry between the Emperor and the Shogunate.

Shinoda does dig deep into history, but it's also a vivid character study. The fragmented presentation has its ups and downs: while it makes the film ambiguous in an interesting way it relies a bit too much on the assumption that the viewer knows the historical event. I managed to comprehend the film without prior knowledge, but it was a challenging task to say the least. The opening of the film tries to inform the audience of the context, but it's not sufficient enough.

Purely on the level of characters and themes Assassination is a triumph and the form is even more delightful. Breathtaking and menacing compositions, wild camerawork and intense editing make the film a gem on their own. Even ambitious attempts like disruptive freezeframes and first person camera work surprisingly smoothly. Takemitsu's soundtrack is experimental and great yet again.

Assassination takes too many risks in its execution. It could easily be considered a masterpiece if the audience knew the historical context well enough. Shinoda barely manages to make it historically relevant for other viewers (which is a bad hindrance for a film so deeply embedded in it), but even without that it's a rather impressive achievement.

Score: 8 out of 10

Passing Fancy

Yasujiro Ozu's Passing Fancy (1933) is a slight inferior film from the director's silent era. Takeshi Sakamoto plays an unresponsible widowed father whose attempts at courting a younger lady lead to no good.

The film does play around with the themes Ozu often explored and there are a few interesting aspects in store for Ozu fans because he modelled the main character after his father and few other men he knew as a kid. There are times when the narrative simply implodes under the pressure caused by the imbalance of comedy and drama. Luckily that doesn't destroy the screenplay completely since it happens only on a few occasions that are surrounded by all around pleasant writing.

Ozu's form is a bit careless with random camera movement and stiff editing. However, he manages to get brilliant performances from the actors and especially the lead character's child is surprisingly natural in his role.

Even if Passing Fancy has its significant flaws, it is flawed in an interesting way for the fans of the director.

Score: 7 out of 10

Silence

It is not easy to summarize Masahiro Shinoda's Silence (1971). In a way it's like Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal (1957) if it was set in the 17th century Japan. But that would be a misleading comparison for multiple reasons.

First of all, Silence is not expressionistic at all. Secondly, it is not only about the "silence of God" because Shinoda makes the most of Endo's original novel which criticizes Japan and organized religion as well as exploring a cultural conflict vividly. How does he do that? By telling a story of two Portuguese Catholic priests sneaking into Japan to guide the Japanese Christians in secret, which leads to a long and gruesome aftermath. One might wonder if Shinoda can keep it all together coherently within a single film. He surely manages to do that: the writing is surprisingly fluid in all aspects.

However, the form is not perfect. The jaw-dropping cinematography and powerful editing work well with Takemitsu's musical score, but there are a few irritating inconsistencies. The lighting is odd in the early scenes and the worst offender is the English dialogue. It is written well, but the British actors stumble with it terribly. And it doesn't help a lot when it hasn't even been recorded well. This is a problem when English is used for a third (if not more) of the entire dialogue of the film.

Silence could have become the ultimate clusterfuck of religion, culture and faith if it the glaring flaw had been polished to be less noticable.

Score: 9 out of 10

I Lived, But ...

Kazuo Inoue's documentary on the director Yasujiro Ozu, I Lived, But ... (1983), is a stunning achievement. It represents a comprehensive and compelling summary of his filmography and a touching portrayal of the director's personal life. The mystery surrounding the kanji mu (embedded on Ozu's grave) is also nicely explored.

Through clips of actual behind-the-scenes footage, interviews and thousands of photos, Inoue manages to build a truly brilliant biography of the great director. Especially the interviews of the stars of his films are essential and Sugimura's interview gives the film the required sentimental touch which makes it more unforgettable than any other documentary. There's also a great deal of imagery used a bit like Ozu's pillow shots accompanied with great music. They serve in a nicely cathartic way along with giving the documentary a relaxing pace and mood.

The name is not only a clever reference to Ozu's early filmography, but it also captures the possible internal conflict of the director's loneliness. Inoue employs a number of little subtle things like this to get under the viewer's skin and manages to move us by the end of the film by giving Ozu the respect he deserves.

Score: 10 out of 10

Evening Classes

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Nicolas Ribowski's short film Evening Classes (1967) is solely built around Jacques Tati's famous character, Mr. Hulot. The director lets Tati loose for long takes in which he demonstrates his wide range of acting capabilities by teaching an acting class for eager (but hilariously dumb) students.

The film relies solely on the gags within the 30-minute running time and they are clearly hit-or-miss. Whenever Tati has nothing to do, the film is a real letdown because the other actors simply can't keep up with his great performance. The direction lacks the same sort of inspiration although it's rewarding because it gives most of its attention for Tati's performance by not distracting the viewer from it.

If anything, Evening Classes is a nice extra for the Criterion release of Tati's Playtime (1967).

Score: 6 out of 10