Nobuhiko Obayashi’s sci-fi fantasy (from a manga by Kazuo Umezu) about a middle school that gets transported by an earthquake to a strange and otherworldly landscape.
A demonic reincarnation of a Japanese general from the 10th century appears in the early 20th century Tokyo with a mission to destroy the blooming city.
Hideo Nakata, director of the Japanese horror phenomenon, Ringu, made his feature debut with Joyurei, or Ghost Actress, also known as Don’t Look Up. Nakata worked from a screenplay by Hiroshi Takahashi, who also wrote the screenplay for Ringu 2. On the set of a dark WWII drama, a young director, Murai, works with two actresses playing sisters. He clearly has a bit of a crush on Hitomi, the older actress, and keeps a photo of her by his bedside. The younger actress, Saori, is inexperienced and playful. One day the production uses discarded tail ends from other productions to shoot, and when they’re looking at the dailies later, they see the scene they were shooting interrupted by a scene (with no sound) from an earlier film. There’s a horrified woman onscreen, with another woman, out of focus, laughing maniacally in the background. There’s also a shot going up a dark stairway to an attic. The footage looks strangely familiar to Murai, who insists that he saw it on television as a boy and was haunted by it. “Have you ever seen a movie and not been able to get it out of your head?” he asks his producer. Murai and Hitomi begin to have strange visions of a ghostly woman around the studio. Murai, obsessed with the footage, gives it to an old editor and asks him to find out its origin. A crewmember tells Murai of another soundstage he worked on that had a ghost in the rafters. One day there’s a tragic death on the set, and the production shuts down for a formal investigation. Murai looks into his own past, and finds a frightening connection between the film he’s shooting and the strange footage he’s uncovered. [allmovie]
Synopsis : A decadent Count in 1920’s Japan becomes obsessed with the works of the Marquis de Sade. He creates a theatre to show plays adapted from the notorious writers novels, and recruits a variety of theives, prostitutes and low lives to act out his fantasies on stage for the delight of his rich and decadent friends. In search of new sensations, the nobleman orders one of the actors, on pain of death, to make love to the noblemans wife while he watches. Unfortunately, this incursion of real life into his fantasy world will have dire consequences for the count and his coterie. Full of startling images and with a gripping storyline, this film is a feast for the eyes and mind. A classic waiting to be discovered.
Bonus : – Documentary on pink cinema – Interview with movie critic Jasper Sharp
Quote: “Bitterness of Youth (1974) was Kumashiro’s first non-roman poruno (<– wrong), based on a novel with a family resemblance to Dreiser’s “An American Tragedy “and set in a milieu of imploded student radicalism: A callow law student impregnates the classmate he is tutoring, then dumps her for his wealthy cousin. The most extraordinary scene has the antihero and his ex revisit the ski resort where they began their affair—carrying on in the snow in a long, behavioral sequence that recapitulates their relationship as they roll struggling and screaming downhill toward a raging river.”
Synopsis A depressed, obese woman tries to lose weight in order to win back her ex-boyfriend with the help of a fellow Hong Konger whom she met in Japan.
Synopsis : Lao Tie knows in his heart that he must help find his younger brother’s killer, despite his own problems. He has only recently returned home penniless to the remote mountain community after years away working in the city. Although the police identified the murderer as ex-con Xiao Qiang from a neighbouring village, they were not able to stop him from escaping. Lao Tie decides to hunt down his brother’s killer. He begins a journey that will unleash his long-suppressed inner pain and rage.
Set in Tokyo in the 1960s, this film shows the gradual transformation of Koen, a young geisha who is not good at music and dance, from carefree creature to a self-aware, mature woman through meeting and parting with a variety of men. Kawashima Yuzo, who excels at directing comedies, shows his strengths here by exposing his heroin’s delicate feelings with pathos. Wakao Ayako is radiant in her coquettish role. The director and the actress later went on to make such films as Wild Geese Temple (62) and Elegant Beast (62) together.
IMDB: Shoichi is a violent young man just released from jail who aspires to be a drummer. He works his way up by playing gigs in a hip Ginza club, an eventually wins a drumming contest. But what he really desires is the approval of his mother, who hates music and musicians.
“Seven Seas, the first of Shimizu’s great silent films of the 30s, was scripted by Kogo Noda, Ozu’s close associate, from a novel by Itsuma Maki (a pen name of the noted writer, Umitaro Hasegawa). The film is a lengthy work interweaving characters from different backgrounds and social strata in a narrative centered around the experiences of its heroine, Yumie Sone. Over two hours long, Seven Seas was released theatrically in two parts, with the first part entitled “Virginity Chapter” coming out in December 1931, while the second part, “Frigidity Chapter,” followed in March 1932. Near the beginning of the narrative, at a garden party given by the wealthy Yagibashi family in Tokyo, Yumie meets Takehiko, the Yagibashis’ playboy son and the brother of Yumie’s fiancé, Yuzuru. Yumie, a young middle-class woman, lives with her ailing father, a retired ministry official, an older sister, and a younger sister still a child (played by a very young Hideko Takamine). Takehiko, who has just returned from a trip to Europe, is attracted to Yumie and contrives to have her stay overnight at his family’s mansion where he takes advantage of her. Disgraced by Takehiko’s actions, the Sone family suffers twin tragedies: Yumie’s father is so shocked to learn of the seduction that he dies from a stroke, a loss that, in turn, leads to the mental breakdown of Yumie’s older sister, Miwako. Yumie breaks off her engagement to Yuzuru and, determining on a course of revenge, marries the man who had wronged her. Angered by his family’s treatment of Yumie, Yuzuru leaves home. He finds work as a French translator and moves into an urban middle-class neighborhood near his friends, Ichiro, the owner of a sporting goods store, and Mr. Yamanan, a tailor.
Once she is married to Takehiko, Yumie refuses all sexual relations with him, sleeping in a separate bedroom and insisting on a large monthly allowance. Unbeknownst to the Yagibashis, she spends part of her money on Miwako’s hospital care while also providing Takehiko’s mistress with a stipend. The Yagibashis’ downfall comes about when another of their sons, Ohira, failing to obtain money from Takehiko he needs to support his geisha mistress, sells an exposé of his family to the newspapers. Faced with public shame, the Yagibashis order Yumie to leave, telling her she is divorced. She retorts that she has revenged herself for the wrong they did to her and her family. Meanwhile, Yuzuru, continuing to live apart from the Yagibashis, takes care of Yumie’s younger sister, Momoko, and writes a best-selling autobiographical novel entitled Seven Seas. On the wings of his good fortune, he is reunited with Yumie. The film ends happily in the couple’s new home with Miwako restored to mental health and Momoko also sharing in the joy. Interwoven with Yumie’s story is a subplot involving Ichiro’s good friend, Ayako, a female newspaper reporter who secretly loves Yuzuru from a distance. She is suddenly reunited with her father who had abandoned her mother to run off to America with another woman before she was born. Towards the film’s conclusion, Ayako goes overseas with her father to start a new life.
For all the twists and turns of the complicated plot reminiscent of a classic 19th century novel, Shimizu’s film is similarly convincing in its lifelike realism. This is due in large part to the power of the direction, the naturalistic playing, and the detailed settings. The director’s mise-en-scène conveys a vivid sense of the environment in which the characters live and work – the simple middle class homes of Yumie and Ayako with their traditional Japanese furnishings; the lavish, Westernized mansion of the Yagibashis; the neighborhood sporting goods store of Ichiro and Mr. Yamanan’s adjoining tailor shop in the Ginza district; the newspaper office where Ayako works; the newspaper owner’s home in the peaceful countryside.
Shimizu in Seven Seas continually shows himself a master of his craft, skilfully using traveling shots to follow the characters or explore the setting and demonstrating his sensitivity to composition and imagery throughout the film. For example, when Ichiro visits Ayako in the country as she is recovering from a disturbing incident in which a man killed himself over her, the camera pans across a creek in the woods, their reflections appearing as Ichiro tosses a pebble in the water. Much later in the film, when Ichiro meets with Ayako in a field, Shimizu uses a long shot that places them against a timeless background of huge clouds appearing like a vast sea on the horizon.
Thematically, the film is dominated by the implied class conflict between the rich, decadent Yagibashis and their prey, the far less prosperous Sone family. Shimizu’s film is thus closely related to the leftist Japanese “social tendency” films of the time denouncing the inequities of a rapidly industrializing, urbanized capitalist system in which the wealthy class exploited the struggling middle class and proletariat. The film repeatedly arouses the spectator’s ire against the Yagibashi clan, such as the scene in which Yamanan the tailor suddenly appears in the family’s exclusive club to insist it is their responsibility for Takehiko to marry Yumie in order to rectify the injustice done to the Sone family.
The rich gallery of characters enables Shimizu to develop his thematic concerns. Like his social class and his family, Takehiko, the principal villain, shows himself to be a hypocrite. In the very first scene when he returns from his tour abroad, he speaks disapprovingly of a short-skirted Japanese flapper on the train, calling her the kind of girl that is giving Japan a bad reputation. The Yagibashi family demonstrate not only hypocrisy but callousness and outright cruelty in their attitude towards the humbler Sone family. Particularly insensitive are the disrespectful comments of Takehiko’s brother, Ohira, on the death of Yumie’s father in front of the grieving family. Takehiko, later speaking to Ohira at their club, says, “It was quite a show – the old man died, the beautiful lady cried,” further illustrating the maliciousness rooted in their class conscious snobbery. Their avarice and arrogance is all the more glaring when contrasted with the honesty and humanity of the middle-class characters, Ichiro and Yamanan, the kind of hard-working tradesmen who are the backbone of Japanese society.
Yuzuru stands apart from the rest of the Yagibashi family. Spurning the life of a parasitic idler, he takes an upstairs flat in the same building in which his friends, Ichiro and Yamanan, have their businesses. There, when not working as a translator, he devotes his time to writing. In an ironic juxtaposition, while Ohira’s lust for money brings about his family’s public disgrace when he provides the tabloids with lurid details of their private lives, Yuzuru mines his experiences in an artistic manner that restores luster to the Yagibashi name. The film thus takes a clear stand in favor of honest, creative work over the predatory pursuit of monetary gain.
Through the actions of his heroine, Shimizu deftly combines feminist assertiveness with Japanese traditionalism, infusing his film with much of the same sympathy for women rebelling against male rule that is also found in many of the contemporary works of Mizoguchi and Naruse. Yumie, refusing to be a passive victim of male aggression, takes a revenge that is magnificent in its sheer audacity. Indeed, in one scene, her manner of exacting retribution adds a touch of humor to the story. With the couple installed, at Yumie’s orders, in separate rooms in a luxury hotel during their honeymoon, Yumie teases Takehiko unmercifully. She telephones him and, although fully clothed, coyly tells him she is taking a bath. When an expectant Takehiko tries to enter her room, she threatens to scream. She continues to assert herself throughout the film. In a later scene in their home, she frightens him off with a pistol when he comes into her bedroom. On one level, Yumie embodies a modern woman of independent spirit defying a class-bound, patriarchal society bestowing privileges and license on the male heir as she undermines the arrogant power of the Yagibashis. At the same time, she is loyal to centuries of Japanese traditional filial piety, defending the honor of her family by avenging her father’s death and the assault on her virtue, and using part of the money she extracts from the Yagibashis to aid her older sister. Because of her indomitable spirit, Seven Seas, unlike many dramatic Japanese films of the era by Shimizu and others, has a positive resolution.
Still another leitmotif that Shimizu develops through the experiences of the characters is the idea of foreignness, implied in the film’s very title. This thematic undercurrent is present in the opening scene in which Takehiko, returning from Europe, is depicted as a corrupt product of Western influence who apes the ways of wealthy gaijin, puffing on a long cigarette holder. Shimizu further underscores the gulf between East and West when, early in the film, Ayako’s editor, an Englishman obsessed with her, commits suicide after she rejects his proposal of marriage. The shocking scene with the young woman returning to find his lifeless body after hearing the gunshot could serve as a metaphor for the West’s disruptive intrusion into the calm pattern of traditional Japanese life. As a professional influenced by Westernization, Ayako is representative of the new working woman that was beginning to revolutionize Japan. Her experiences with the English editor, her discovery of a father who had abandoned her for an illicit affair in America, and her later effort to reconcile with her parent by traveling abroad exemplify modern Japan’s ambivalent relationship with the outside world viewed both as a destroyer of its culture and a possible restorative
Director Hirokazu Kore-Eda’s young protegee debut, an obscurely low key drug drama.
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Iseya enrolled on a film course at New York University in 1998, which he funded through modelling work, and has gone on to direct this feature under the patronage of his early mentor, Kore-Eda, here acting for the first time in the role of producer.
Kakuto, a composite word made-up from the kanji meaning “Awakening Person” by the director to describe the shock sensations that inspire a young adult’s initiation into maturity is an unashamed piece of fun, charting the course of its clutch of clueless slackers through the three days leading up to and including the 21st birthday of Iseya’s university student Ryo. Nerdish Naoshi (Hassei), a childhood friend of Ryo’s has just got his girlfriend pregnant. A one-off TV appearance when he was five has stirred unrealistic expectations of an acting career in him, but it’s a far cry from the reality, toiling in his father’s garage. Meanwhile Makoto (Ito), a university buddy, has just been dumped without warning by his girlfriend, Kyoko.
The three are in definite need of something to lift their spirits, and so set off to meet an acquaintance of Ryo’s, Suzuki (Kameishi, who co-scripted with Iseya) connected with the yakuza to score some dope for the evening. Somewhere along the line, Ryo gets spiked with LSD and the drugs, stashed away in an empty Marlboro packet, are misplaced. Meanwhile, an ineffectual cop, first seen being given a dressing down by the prepubescent teenager he attempts to avert from buying cigarettes from a vending machine is keeping a beady eye on the apartment of Tezuka, the scrawny fresh-out-jail yakuza they just scored from (Terajima, one of the most charismatic actors working in Japan today, trotting out the usual comedic gangster shtick he’s perfected in dozens of roles for the likes of Kitano or Sabu). If this wasn’t enough, a confused young tearaway associate of theirs, the kleptomaniac Shinji’s just-for-kicks “eat and run” shenanigans in the local cafés have escalated into joy-riding in unlocked cars, and a local duo of drug-dealers are the first to fall prey.
“What does it mean to be born in Japan?”, is the question posed by director Yusuke Iseya in the catalogue for Tokyo FILMeX 2002, where the film received its World Premiere. “In few countries do the citizenry so lack a national confidence as in Japan.” Yes, Japan has had a hard run of it over the past ten years, and Iseya is most certainly not the first to muse over this lack of identity, connection and purpose – Shinji Aoyama, Kiyoshi Kurosawa and Hirokazu Kore-Eda to name but three have all held up their films up as mirrors in order to explore this void. Meditative, metaphorical, or metaphysical, whatever the approach, there’s only so many films to be made about feckless, alienated youths groping for the abstract before audiences begin to tire, and judging by the state of the industry at the moment, it would appear that they already have a long time ago.
Kakuto clearly has no such philosophical axe to grind, and works precisely because Iseya comes from that generation of financially well off, aimless young suburbanites out for nothing but a good time, and thus his characters come across not just ciphers, but fully rounded characters. His approach is not an attempt at observation or insight, but immersion in the unhampered innocent hedonism of this amoralistic world, and as such it is more likely to nudge knowing smiles from those who have found themselves in such situations as being stripped to their underpants lying face down on the street outside their local convenience store than the chin-stroking cappuccino crowd. Kore-Eda has stated that it was the lack of didacticism in the script that attracted him to the project, fitting in with his stated mission for his production work to put into motion the kind of film that he himself couldn’t make – following Kakuto is the family drama Wild Berries / Hebi Ichigo, the first offering of 28 year-old Miwa Nishikawa.
Charting a now familiar terrain that has run from Trainspotting to the likes of Justin Kerrigan’s Human Traffic and Doug Liman’s Go, Kakuto perhaps most resembles this last film in terms of its feel and form, particularly its use of visual trickery – fast-forward/rewind time manipulation and the creeping spirals that swirl over the car interior as Ryo first succumbs to the effects of the acid – to evoke memories of those sketchy nights which from a simple intention to get off your tits rapidly spirals out of control.
I’m not going to make any overstated claims that this is a perfect film. Whilst it kicks in straightaway, builds up nicely to a peak and keeps you there for an admirable duration of time, the comedown is perhaps a little too long, and its appeal is most definitely reserved for the lads – the female characters barely get a look in here. However, ultimately Kakuto’s fresh-faced exuberance, slick repartee and street-savvy cool are hard to resist, and quite frankly, for a first film effort from so young a director, this knocks the socks of some of the recent efforts of its more grizzled competitors. I think we can safely say that Kore-Eda’s pet project definitely delivers, and will undoubtedly find an audience with the type of people it portrays whichever countries it plays in.
In the course of cinematic history, there have been many great quests: searches for the Holy Grail, the Ark of the Covenant, the true nature of Humankind, the essence of God, and, during this film from Chinese director Zhou Xiaowen, a 29-inch television. In Ermo, a somewhat better- constructed cousin to Zhang Yimou’s The Story of Qui Ju, we follow the obsessive struggle of one woman (Alia) to earn the money to buy the biggest television in her village. There’s no sacrifice she won’t make, an attitude that her aging, impotent husband (Ge Zhijun) is incapable of understanding. In his view, money is for building houses, not buying gadgets.
If Ermo’s marriage is bad, it’s no worse than that of her next-door neighbor, Blindman (Liu Peiqi), whose overweight, shrill wife (Zhang Haiyan) is jealous of the thinner, prettier Ermo, who was able to bear her husband a son. Blindman finds Ermo a job in a nearby city, where she can make more money than in their small village. On the road, the two become lovers, but theirs isn’t exactly one of the great screen romances. Blindman talks about leaving his wife, but it’s clear he’s not serious, especially when he tells Ermo that she’s a good person at heart, but he isn’t.
The overall theme of Ermoechoes a simple truism: it’s often better wanting than having. Ermo’s entire life is focused on getting the television; what happens when she actually accumulates the money to buy it? When her life has a goal, she is vibrant, energetic, and pugnacious. Afterwards, how much of that will be replaced by apathy? Zhou is certainly criticizing materialism here, but only in the larger context of examining how we define meaning in our lives.
As was the case in Qui Ju, we are presented with a vivid contrast between rural and urban China. Ermo’s backwater village is still living in the past; the city is, for the most part, modern. However, where Zhang’s film tended to meander, Ermo stays focused, and the interaction between Blindman and Ermo presents a sexual element absent from the earlier movie.
An expert at capturing subtle mannerisms, Alia possesses the same kind of screen presence exhibited by Gong Li. Although there’s nothing wrong with her delivery of dialogue, the actress’ facial expressions are her greatest asset. Ermo is not an exceptionally well-written character, but Alia does an excellent job of breathing life into her.
Ermo is certainly on less ambitious footing than the recent string of grand historical epics coming from China. In many ways, this is refreshing, as the simpler story gives the viewer a different view of Chinese culture. And, although the message of Ermo is presented seriously, Zhou isn’t above having a little fun, and his lighter touch is one of the most refreshing elements of this enjoyable little drama.
Synopsis: R (MUN Seong-geun) returns from studying in France and reunites with J (GANG Su-yeon), whom he used to live with in Paris. For some reason, however, J refuses to have sex with R. Angered by her refusal, R travels to his hometown of Daegu. He sees his wife (Kim Bo-yeon) and children for the first time in years, but not only is he less than thrilled to be with them but he actually finds himself despising them. R’s head is filled with thoughts of having sex with J. He sees J every time he comes to Seoul on business, but she keeps resisting his demand for sex on the unconvincing pretext that they are not in France, and he begins to grow tired. R feels betrayed when he finds out that J is rejecting him because she plans to marry another man, even though she received her Ph.D. in France for a dissertation that he wrote for her and even debuted as a literary critic in Korea with a piece that he composed. Reproaching J yet unable to leave her, R informs his wife of his intention to get a divorce and proposes to J that they leave Korea together. However, R is once again betrayed by J.
Quote: Economic unrest roils central China’s Shaanxi Province: local factories are merging, thugs threaten managers, personnel records get lost, and workers are without protections such as health insurance. The police and much of society are surly. Xiao Jian, a mild young man whose father is ill, works in the family street stall doing pressing and tailoring. A laundered police-officer’s shirt goes uncollected, and Xiao Jian puts it on: it opens doors. Wearing it, he chats up a clerk, Zheng Shasha, and takes her out. He extracts fines from drivers who violate traffic laws. In these tough times, he’s not the only one with two identities. How long can he sustain it?
Quote: The lyrical, profoundly moving Still Walking (Aruitemo aruitemo) is contemporary Japanese master Hirokazu Kore – eda’s most personal work to date. Created as a tribute to his late mother, the film depicts one day in the life of the Yokoyamas, gathered together for a commemorative ritual whose nature only gradually becomes clear. Rather than focus on big dramatic moments, Kore – eda relies on simple gestures and domestic routines (especially cooking) to evoke a family’s entire life, its deep regrets and its daily joys. Featuring vivid, heartrending performances and a gentle naturalism that harks back to the director’s earlier, documentary work, Still Walking is an extraordinary portrayal of the ties that bind us.
The film that put ISHII on the map, thanks to a Grand Prize at Japan’s bastion of indie cinema, the PIA Film Festival. Those who know the director mainly for his punk style films will be surprised, not to mention delighted, by this ode to 1970s yakuza movies à la Kinji FUKASAKU. A movie like a good rock band: it stars a charismatic young cast, has energy to spare, and thumps with a pace and rhythm that sweep you breathlessly along. (Tom Mes)
A retired racing champion, now a driving instructor, gets involved with the speed tribes after impulsively taking to the streets to relive his former glory.
Parash Pathar was Satyajit Ray’s immediate follow-up to his celebrated Aparajito. The film bears the heavy (but never oppressive) influence of Ray’s idol, French filmmaker Jean Renoir. Tulsi Chakravetry plays Parresh Dutt, an elderly clerk who comes into possession of a stone that can turn the humblest mineral into gold. Attaining vast wealth overnight, Dutt finds that he is still persona non grata in High Society. Taking revenge on his “betters,” he uses his wonderful stone to destroy the economy. Realizing the damage that he’s done, the clerk sacrifices himself to set things right again. When first shown at the Cannes Film Festival in 1958, Parash Pathar was greeted with amused indifference; critics and viewers alike preferred the profundity of Ray’s “Apu” trilogy to this modest little fable. Music by Ravi Shankar.