Hey folks, Harry here... I love reading Elaine's reviews of films at Rotterdam, she does such a great job of painting the world she's seeing in that glowing rectangle thousands of miles away. Kiyoshi Kurosawa is a bright and stylish filmmaker who desperately needs to be given better budgets to work with. His films tend to only lack that extra something in the production side that would make the films more aesthetically pleasing to go with the wonderful thought and story that he does capture. Here's Elaine with two of Kiyoshi's latests...
KIYOSHI KUROSAWA AT THE ROTTERDAM INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL
Someone beat me to a review of Kurosawa’s “Doppelganger”, but nevertheless I’m going to have another go at it. Just like I’m going to have a shot at Catherine Breillat’s controversial, sexually explicit “Anatomy of Hell” (reviewed on AICN last week) in a few days.
Anyway. Kurosawa. Japan’s alternative-horrormeister (a Rotterdam regular) had three films in this year’s edition: two features and a ten-minute short he shot on the request of a friend and was rather embarrassed to see screened before such a large audience. I didn’t catch the short, tantalisingly entitled “Ghost Cop” (don’t you just love the sound of that?), but the two feature-length films (very different in style and content, and fairly hard to categorise) both made my festival top-10. One is “Doppelganger”, a dark but surprisingly funny story about, well, doppelgangers; the other is “Bright Future”, a much more abstract but intriguing film about alienation and belonging. Both films are reviewed below, and are well worth checking out, either at a festival or on DVD.
And for those of you who think that the reviews are too long and give away too much, fear not. They spoil less than you might think.
DOPPELGANGER
(Written and directed by Kiyoshi Kurosawa)
As everybody knows, Kurosawa loves the occult, and what could unromantically be described as physical manifestations of the subconscious. He’s made quite a few films about ghosts and dreams that come alive, and now he’s made one about doppelgangers. What will the man think of next? Mirror reflections that come to life? Movie characters who step from the screen to haunt the actors who portrayed them? Somehow I don’t think Kurosawa has exhausted the theme yet.
In “Doppelganger”, his latest peek into man’s subconscious fears and desires, Kurosawa chronicles the adventures of a robot designer who, in a state of profound frustration and burn-out, is confronted with his own double. In his own house. Needless to say, this rather scares him at first, as those who meet their own doubles are said to be on the brink of death. Gradually, however, he gets used to the presence of his doppelganger, who represents a side of him that he has long repressed – complements him, in a way. For a while, there is an uneasy status quo between the two men, but then the doppelganger’s nasty traits become more pronounced. No longer content to stay in the house and be invisible, he starts acting out Hayasaki’s secret desires, and doing the things that Hayasaki himself would do if he weren’t so hopelessly repressed. Thus, he vents his anger on the workplace that Hayasaki has grown to loathe, and hits on the girl Hayasaki has long fancied. Naturally, this isn’t fair on Hayasaki, who is held responsible for his double’s actions, but the doppelganger doesn’t care. And so Hayasaki starts pondering his options. Should he kill the doppelganger? But if he kills him, isn’t he really killing himself? And if he does manage to kill the doppelganger without killing himself, does that mean that he has rid himself of the personality traits the doppelganger represents, or doesn’t it work that way?
“Doppelganger” brings up a few interesting points about doubles, but a treatise on the subconscious it is not. There is no explanation, for instance, for the fact that people (Hayasaki is not the only one) suddenly start seeing doppelgangers, although it might be inferred that it has something to do with burn-out. Nor does the movie delve into the theme of acceptance or rejection of less desirable qualities, as one would expect from a film that so clearly deals with two sides of the same character. Instead, it focuses on the relationship between the two Hayasakis, who, in the beginning at least, are as different as they could possibly be. While Hayasaki number 1 is an uptight, overworked perfectionist who never stops thinking and brooding, his doppelganger is a laidback guy who has perfected the art of moping around and doing nothing but whistling and boozing. And while Hayasaki number 1 hardly dares voice his dissatisfaction with his work environment, his doppelganger is the type who, while tucking Hayasaki number 1 in for the night, says in a reassuring tone, “Just leave everything to me”, after which he drives to the lab and wrecks it. Naturally, there is a lot of comic potential in the juxtaposition of these two extremes, and Koji Yakusho, one of the most versatile actors working in Asia today, makes the most of it. As Hayasaki number 1, Yakusho is all nerves and repression; as Hayasaki number 2, he’s a jive-talkin’, shade-wearing, lady-killing dude. And he’s completely convincing in both parts.
However, the genius of the film doesn’t lie in the two extremes who fight each other for the right to live, each trying to fulfil his potential. What makes the film interesting is that gradually, the two Hayasakis begin to resemble each other. The more time they start spending together, the more they adopt each other’s qualities. Thus, while Hayasaki number 1 loosens up a bit, Hayasaki number 2 seems to become slightly more considerate, to the point where the distinctions between the two become so blurred that the viewer is no longer certain at which Hayasaki he is looking. To make the situation even more confusing, Kurosawa then starts splitting the screen, sometimes into two segments, sometimes into three. One segment shows what one Hayasaki is doing; the other (or the other two) shows what the other is doing. Interestingly, the two selves appear to be autonomous by this time, so that the one does not know what the other is doing. Obviously, though, they can’t both go on living as autonomous selves, and so the stage is set for a Confrontation.
The use of the split screen is inventive and works amazingly well. Indeed, it could be said that the split-screen scenes are the best part of the film. Sadly, though, they only last about ten minutes, after which the regular format returns and the film suddenly gets a whole different feel. Without warning, the tone shifts, and from the dark story of a man who literally fights against himself, the film turns into an action comedy centring on the project on which that man was working before his doppelganger showed up: a robot chair with artificial limbs which works on the strength of one’s mind, designed for people who are completely paralysed. Needless to say, the robot chair (another physical manifestation of subconscious desires!) becomes a hot commodity, and so lots of people seem to be willing to use force to get their hands on it. And so, with the Battle of the Hayasakis barely resolved (but how? That is the question!), the film turns into a chase. A violent chase. Gone is the dark, macabre tone of the Struggle for Survival; instead, we are given the Chase after the Robot, which is, in a word, hysterical.
Now the change of tone that occurs here is a strange thing. True, the transition feels abrupt, and one does get the impression that the doppelganger story isn’t given the kind of closure it deserves, but one is given little time to reflect on those things as the chase is so hilarious. Featuring slapstick, unexpected accidents and a few playful nods to Spielberg and Hitchcock, and delivered by a bunch of actors who know how to deadpan their way out of a bizarre situation, it’s the funniest thing Kurosawa has ever put on screen, and it’s pretty damned funny indeed.
Sadly, there is a downside to all this goodness, which is the ugly cinematography. To be more exact, the ugly lighting. Kurosawa often works on a low budget, so by now we’ve come to expect dark-looking, ill-lit films from him, but “Doppelganger” has so to be his drabbest-looking production so far. It’s not stylishly drab, such as, say, “Seven”; it’s cheap-looking drab. Off-puttingly drab. Which is a pity, as both the story, the acting and the neat split-screen tricks deserved a proper wrap.
BRIGHT FUTURE
(Written and directed by Kiyoshi Kurosawa)
Normally, Kurosawa’s strength is the ease with which he establishes and sustains an oppressive atmosphere. As those who have seen masterpieces such as “Cure” or “Pulse” (Kairo) know, the man excels at creating psychological horror, not gory or scary but intensely, darkly chilling.
Not so in “Bright Future”, the abstractish movie Kurosawa shot after “Pulse”. True, the first twenty minutes of the film offer some moody, suspenseful scenes, but roughly one third into the film, the tension evaporates, to be replaced by something altogether harder to fathom. It doesn’t matter, though, as “Bright Future” does not aspire to be a horror flick. It’s a critique of modern Japanese society, with a dreamlike atmosphere and an elaborate but gorgeous-looking metaphor for big-city inhabitants. And while it’s a lot more remote and inaccessible than Kurosawa’s most famous works (or “Doppelganger”, for that matter), those who don’t mind a bit of abstraction should find a fair bit to admire in it.
For lack of a better phrase to describe it, “Bright Future” is a meditation on maladjustment and escapism. In it, we meet Yuji, a painfully introverted, alienated young man who doesn’t want to live in the here and now. He prefers sleeping, because as he says in the voice-over with which the film opens, in his dreams, the future is nice and peaceful. It’s quite a change from his real life, which revolves around a dead-end job and an unrewarding friendship with his colleague Mamoru, a charismatic but equally frustrated drifter with neither hobbies nor plans for the future. And it gets worse. At some point, Yuji and Mamoru’s boss starts intruding, forcing his unwanted attentions on the increasingly annoyed boys. One night, without any concrete motive, the fed-up Yuji decides to kill his boss and his family, only to find that Mamoru has got there before him. After a night of agonising uncertainty on Yuji’s part, Mamoru is arrested and sentenced to death. Just before he dies, he entreats Yuji to look after his pet jellyfish and to continue the acclimatisation programme he has begun – an effort to help the salt-water jellyfish get used to fresh water. As it happens, Yuji not only assumes care of the jellyfish, but also of Mamoru’s father, who desperately needs a replacement son. He’s even given a decentish kind of job. The question is, is he focused enough to juggle so many responsibilities, or is he going to give up, as he has given up on so many other things? More specifically, will he turn into a reliable, well-rooted young man (as Mamoru’s father keeps hoping) or will he join the army of violent, nihilistic teenagers seen prowling the streets of Tokyo?
“Bright Future” doesn’t paint too rosy a picture of Japan’s future. Nearly all the young people who appear in it are bored, uncommunicative slackers who don’t seem to care about anything at all, while the adults who are supposed to guide them are shown to be unable to bridge the massive generation gap. Yet Kurosawa insists that he wasn’t being ironic when he gave his film its title. “You can still have a bright future as an individual, despite what is happening in the world,” he said in an interview. Whether or not this film reflects that belief is arguable, but despite its gloomy outlook, “Bright Future” is worth watching. For while Yuji makes a relatively uninspiring hero and the film misses the tension of many of Kurosawa’s earlier works (particularly in the second half, when Mamoru is taken out of the equation), it is a very interesting production. For three reasons.
First of all, there’s the jellyfish. Mamoru’s pet jellyfish, a lethally poisonous creature which, like Yuji and Mamoru themselves, stings whoever gets too close and seems to live in a universe of its own, is a mesmerising creature. On the one hand, it is poisonous; on the other hand, it is easily the most beautiful thing in the film, a luminous presence that gives the film a poetic flavour. It could be said to be the light of Yuji’s life, except that that interpretation is far too simple. The jellyfish metaphor goes deep. Very deep. But even if you don’t get the metaphor (and I’m not sure I do; it seems to be self-contradictory at times), it’s hard not to be entranced by the sight of the quietly undulating creature. Especially in the final third of the film, which may well be the most poetic thing Kurosawa has done.
Secondly, there’s the acting. Kurosawa has always been a great actors’ director, and “Bright Future” sees him at his best. Both the ubiquitous Tadanobu Asano (Mamoru) and veteran Tatsuya Fuji as his lonely father turn in memorable performances. So does Takashi Sasano, who is perfectly cringe-inducing as the young men’s intrusive boss. In fact, he is so awful that you can almost understand why Mamoru and Yuji would resort to murder to get rid of him. Still, the film belongs to newcomer Joe Odagiri, who makes a wonderfully restrained, alienated, angry young man. As Yuji, Odagiri’s face does not register much emotion, but all the same you know that he has feelings. Dark feelings. And when he explodes, as he occasionally does, his rage is as convincing as the impassivity that marks his normal attitude. It’s a great performance, seemingly uncharismatic but really quite versatile, which should set Odagiri up for an interesting career.
Finally, there’s the look of the film. Quite aside from the fact that Yuji and Mamoru wear fantastically futuristic rags and that the film has some atmospheric sets, the photography is, if not beautiful, interesting. Shot on DV and considerably better lit than “Doppelganger”, the film is devoid of bright colours – except for the metaphorical jellyfish, which glows in the dark. And while there is something to be said for colourful films, the colourlessness works miracles here, in that it makes Tokyo the cold, inhuman kind of place you would expect alienated people like Yuji to live in. It also makes the jellyfish, whose ghostly electric glow gives it a peaceful, almost meditative quality, appear warm by contrast, which increases the dreamlike effect of the jellyfish scenes. In the end, both the bled-out look of the city and the colourful, poetic quality of the jellyfish are a far cry from Kurosawa’s usual dark, suspenseful atmosphere, but that they work is undeniable.
As for what the film is really about… it’s something to do with escapism, but I’ll leave the finer points of the interpretation to yourself. Believe me, the jellyfish alone makes for lengthy discussions.
Elaine
