Welcome to this site! It exists for one reason: to preserve the memory of films that have been forgotten about or under-appreciated throughout the ages. Take a seat, read an entry, leave a comment. You might discover your new favorite movie!
Well folks, it's happening again. I must put my beloved blog on temporary hiatus.
As you all know...I am a senior in college. I'm graduating in a few weeks, so it's crunch time right now. I just have way to much to do right now. I don't have enough time to write the articles that I feel this blog, and its readers, deserve.
Don't worry! I'll be back in three weeks on May 14!
Well, we've got a new video on my youtube channel, folks! It's A Bloody Spear on Mount Fuji.
Directed by Tomu Uchida, one of Japan's most overlooked directors, the film can be described as a samurai road movie. It follows a group of travelers as they travel towards Edo, including a drunkard samurai and his two retainers, a shamisen player and her daughter, and a young boy determined to become a samurai lancer. The film dissects late Edo era Japan, taking the time to explore its social conventions. But don't mistake this for a boring drama! It's brimming with lots of energy, humor, and, inevitably, tragedy. I won't give away the ending, but it involves one of the greatest samurai fight scenes that I have ever seen! Enjoy!
By the way...because I am such a genius with technology, I accidentally erased all of my other videos on youtube.........
I'll be reuploading them all today...hopefully...sometimes youtube can be REALLY finicky about uploading videos.......
Directed by Bill Morrison
2002
The United States of America
I want to do an experiment with you all. If you would be so kind as to walk over to the nearest mirror and just stare at your own reflection for about ten seconds. Go do it now….I’ll wait…..
Good, now picture in your own mind your reflection as vividly as possible. What you are now picturing is not your reflection. It is a memory of your reflection. It will never be as crisp or clear as the reflection presented to you by the mirror. Now think back to the moment when you looked in the mirror in the first place. What you saw was not an accurate reflection of yourself. In the time that it took for light to carry your image to the mirror and then bounce back to your eyes, for the image to travel into your retina, and then for your optic nerves to transmit that image to your brain, you had already changed into something completely different. The atoms that made up your skin and body had shifted back and forth more times that can be counted. The individual molecules and electrons in your face had undergone a million million lifecycles, intertwining and separating with their electric neighbors. Your reflection, and even the memory of your reflection, is nothing more than a paltry lie.
Of course, over the millennia, mankind has tried to capture its own image in a futile attempt to preserve some memory of their existence. Whether by paintings, photography, or film, we are obsessed with capturing, even for a fleeting millisecond, some part of our essence. Why do we do this? Is it pure vanity? Is it to preserve great or important memories? Is it a feeble attempt to achieve immortality? It doesn’t really matter, in the end. All things must die. One day, paintings will crumple into dust, photos will fade to black, and film will decay into nothingness.
It is this very obsession over the impermanence of things that drives Decasia: The State of Decay. A film by Bill Morrison, one of America’s most acclaimed and important experimental filmmakers, Decasia: The State of Decay is both a meditation and celebration on the act of decomposition. Morrison himself summarized the film by saying, “It is [a film] about how film dies.” And indeed, what we see is celluloid in the death throes of its own destruction. Comprised of strips of celluloid salvaged from cemeteries like flooded basements and the dumpsters behind film archives, Decasia: The State of Decay is a Frankenstein construction of dead and rotting film. The snatches of film used are all in advanced stages of decay: the celluloid has deteriorated, the image has sustained severe water damage, mold grows thick on the stock, and pot marks and holes riddle the frames. By all means, the footage, and what it supposedly immortalized, has died. Through Decasia: The State of Decay, Morrison has given it second life.
The footage underwent a rigorous chemical process (actually documented at the beginning and end of the film) in order for it to be shown. The result was nothing less than stunning. Ghostly images from peoples long dead appear like phantoms before our eyes. A procession of young students files by in a tight line in a convent. A merry-go-round twirls around and around with its riders disappearing into and reappearing out of a column of corroded stains. A merry couple dances cheerfully through a visage of black holes.
A peeping woman leans back and laughs at her discovery in a universe of film negative. A newborn baby’s first bath is marred by scars of melting nitrate. A column of paratroopers descend and descend and descend towards a horizontal strip of death for what seems like an eternity.
Sometimes, the images seem to take on a life of their own in response to their fate. In one sequence, a boxer fights against an opponent covered by white mold. In that moment, it appears like the boxer is assaulting the very decay that threatens to destroy him.
Melted faces will sometimes emerge from the chaos and stare straight at the audience. This happens more than once and never fails to disturb me. In one scene in particular, an young girl solemnly regards the screen before she is swallowed up by dirt and grit. Upon my second viewing, I realized that the girl is probably long dead. Could it be that at that time of photographic and cinematic infancy that this film could be the sole surviving image of this girl? Could this be the only record of her time on earth? And if so, does she resent the destruction of her memory? I ponder these things as I face his glowing visage and shiver.
The film would be unsettling enough by itself, but is further enhanced by what can only be described as one of the most haunting film scores ever conceived. Constructed by post-minimalist composer Michael Gordon, Decasia: The Art of Decay is nothing less than a nightmare of sound. Gordon created the score by using a full orchestra playing out of phase with itself. In addition, Gordon used several detuned pianos and pieces of trash that he literally found in a junkyard to create a score that sounded as old and decayed as the images that they accompany. To hear the score is to hear the sound of chaotic destruction and inevitable defeat. It lulls the viewer into a numb stupor while simultaneously keeping them unnerved and anxious at the cacophony of noise.
Much has been made to try and interpret Decasia: The Art of Decay. Some call it a meditation on the impermanence of things, the distortion of memory, and the deception of nostalgia. Perhaps it is all of these things. Perhaps not. Due to the very character of the images and how they are presented, it is human nature to try and associate some kind of overlying theme or narrative. Apparently, after one showing of Decasia: The Art of Decay, the audience was asked to comment on what they thought the film was about. The answers were varied: the Holocaust, war, 9/11. In a sense, the film becomes a reflection of our own fears and preconceptions. In that way, nobody sees Decasia: The Art of Decay the same way; it is a different film to everyone who sees it.
Now go back to the mirror and take another look at your reflection. This time, be thankful that you even have a reflection to look at. Take joy in the fact that you exist in the here and now. One day you will die, but you still have the present. Similarly, one day all copies of Decasia: The Art of Decay will be destroyed, relieving its images from their temporary reprieve from the void. But don’t worry about that. Be thankful that it exists right now, that we can still see these apparitions from the past, that we can witness this incredible piece of filmmaking.
One of the most dangerous things that a film critic can do is abandon neutrality and fully embrace personal feelings and emotions while writing a review. For the year and a half that I have maintained this blog, I have strived to keep my work neutral and analytical, explaining the technical and historical reasons why certain films should be regarded as forgotten classics. But I find that today I cannot do that. My love for this film and what it means to me forces me to write the most personal review that I have ever composed. Any newspaper or literary journal would reject it. But I don’t care.
My love for film and desire to be a film maker can all be traced to a showing of Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980) one Friday evening at my college. I know that satori moments lack credibility, but with God as my witness, the moment that the elevator opened and blood poured out into the corridor of the Overlook Hotel, I knew that I HAD to be a director. It was as if the scales had fallen from my eyes.
Afterward, I went about ravenously consuming films at a rate of 2-4 a day. But there was one mental block that kept me from truly exploring all that the world of film had to offer: foreign films. I could never get into them. They just seemed pale and uninteresting. Still, I was committed to giving them a try. One weekend when I was home from college I was flipping through the channels when I came across Kenji Mizoguchi’s Ugetsu (1953) on a channel that specialized in foreign films. I remember sitting transfixed as my mind and preconceptions of what the cinema as a medium could accomplish were blown away. The final hurdle had been jumped: I loved foreign film.
And not just any foreign films, Japanese films in particular. Long time readers might notice that a good percentage of the films that I write about on this site are Japanese. Well, to be honest, I just feel an affinity for Japanese film because it was the first genre of foreign film that I fell in love with. Directors like Ozu, Teshigahara, Nagisa, Imamura, and Suzuki became more than just directors, they became close personal friends. To this day I consider Kurosawa to be my sensei, a fact that I cling to without a shred of irony. And then there was Mizoguchi.
My relationship with Mizoguchi has been a tumultuous one. Ugetsu has long remained one of my favorite films of all time, but I never felt like he made many more films of that caliber. After three years, I have tracked down and watched 17 of his films, and only one of them, Sansho the Bailiff (1954), felt like it was anywhere near the same level of quality as Ugetsu. Sure, I have seen great films by Mizoguchi, and have even written about two of them here on this site. But none of them reached the level of Ugetsu and Sansho the Bailiff in my opinion.
Or so I thought.
During my entire experience at college, one of my teachers, and close personal friends, was a man named Matthew Mizenko. I was shocked to find that he was just as obsessed with Japanese cinema as I was. I wasted many afternoons shooting the breeze with him about Japanese films, talking about how ingenious they were and how nobody will ever appreciate Family Game (1983) as the masterpiece that it was. Many times the topic of the conversation would drift to Mizoguchi. And strangely, whenever it did, he would always bring up the title of this film entitled Waga Koi Wa Moenu, which to this day neither of us can decide on how to properly translate it into English. He insisted that it was one of Mizoguchi’s true masterpieces, a film that not only rivaled Ugetsu and Sansho the Bailiff, but may in fact transcend them. I spent countless hours searching the internet for copies of this film, finally coming to the conclusion that Mizenko was pulling my leg and that this film didn’t really exist.
Until about a week ago.
To my surprise, I found a site online that provided a download link to this elusive film. After much cynical guffawing, I downloaded it and opened it, fully expecting Mizenko’s face to pop up on my monitor with a sign saying, “Fooled you!!!”
But lo and behold, an actual film started. And this wasn’t just any film. Ladies and gentlemen, I found a classic; a genuine, bona-fide forgotten classic of yesteryear. Out of all of the 100+ films that I have reviewed on this site, none of them come close to being more deserving of that title as My Love Burns¸ a film by Kenji Mizoguchi.
My Love Burns is a story that deals with Mizoguchi’s favorite theme: the plight of Japanese women. All throughout his career, Mizoguchi advocated women’s rights. Many of his films were portraits of working girls (The Water Magician, The Love of the Actress Sumako), prostitutes (Sisters of the Gion, Osaka Elegy), geishas (A Geisha), and all other roles traditionally played by women in Japanese society. They depicted strong women exploited and abused by their families, friends, and the world at large. Even in films where the protagonists were males, Mizoguchi would almost always include a female character or love interest that was abused, ignored, or forgotten in order to advance the fortunes of the men around her. Both Ugetsu and The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums (1939), considered to be two of Mizoguchi’s finest films, had female love interests who literally died due to the callous neglect of their men. In many ways, Mizoguchi can be seen as one of the first, and greatest, cinematic feminists.
Mizoguchi’s feminist beliefs came to a head in My Love Burns, a film literally dedicated to the women’s rights movement in Japan. The film starts in 1884 Okayama, during that curious time in Japan’s history when the entire country was abandoning millennia of tradition to embrace Western culture and industrialization. A new political party is growing: a progressive one. The party promises massive reforms in the face of severe government opposition. Among these promised reforms is the cause of women’s rights. This attracts the attention of Eiko, a young woman devoted to progressivism despite hostile opposition from her parents. Things come to a climax when her father cruelly sells Chiyo, the daughter of their family servants and Eiko’s close personal friend, into slavery. Unable to tolerate her family’s tyranny any longer, Eiko flees to Tokyo where she marries Kentaro Omoi, the leader of the new progressive party.
After a violent government crackdown, Eiko is thrown into prison where she reunites with Chiyo. Chiyo’s story has been a terrible one. Upon being sold, she was carted off to an all-female factory presided over by evil guards. It was an environment where atrocious daily beatings and brutal rape were everyday occurrences.
After being raped by a prison guard and subsequently beaten when discovered by another guard (it was apparently her fault for seducing the first guard…) Chiyo set a fire that burned the factory down.
Once in prison, Eiko and Chiyo were forced to do hard labor for two years. In 1889, a new constitution was ratified whereby all prisoners of the state were pardoned and released. Upon her new freedom, Eiko reunites with Omoi, ready and willing to thrown herself back into the progressive fight once again. However, she is shocked to discover that Omoi has taken Chiyo up as a concubine. In a moment, Omoi’s true character is revealed. He is an opportunistic politician riding the wave of progressivism into the government. He could care less about women’s rights. To him, women are tools and playthings to be thrown away.
After confronting Omoi and leaving him, Eiko boards a train back home to Okayama. All around her passengers are reading newspapers and declaring what a wonderful man Omoi is. They call him a genius. They praise him as the leader of Japanese progressivism. Eiko’s head sinks. But then, the compartment door opens. It’s none other than Chiyo. Tearfully embracing her old friend, she confesses that she has left Omoi and has recommitted herself to the cause of women’s rights. The two friends embrace as the train pulls into the night and an uncertain future.
So why is this a great film when compared to his other works? I argue that it is because Mizoguchi concerns the film with actions instead of dialogue. Allow me to explain. One of the reasons why so many of Mizoguchi’s films are subpar and ultimately forgettable is because they don’t show things happening. Instead they show people talking about things happening. Many of his films focus on people sitting in rooms across from each other and talking about the events and characters that supposedly populate the story. Much is discussed, little is actually shown. Ugetsu and Sansho the Bailiff break this tradition by showing the actions and driving events of the film. We see Ohama raped and Genjurō assaulted by ghosts in Ugetsu. We see Anju commit suicide and Zushio find his mother in Sansho the Bailiff. And in My Love Burns, we see the atrocities committed against women.
Some may be surprised to find that My Love Burns was directed by Mizoguchi. It contains scenes of uncharacteristic violence and brutality that he usually avoided. Mizoguchi almost never resorted to showing violence, instead choosing to suggest and imply it. A prominent example would be in Sansho the Bailiff when captured runaway slaves are branded on their foreheads. Mizoguchi shows the slaves being held down, the brand being heated, and the brand being lowered to the brow of the shrieking victim…only to move the camera away at the last second, letting anguished screams confirm our worst fears. But in My Love Burns, Mizoguchi shows all but the most graphic of abuses.
Some may shake their heads and refuse to believe that Mizoguchi would lower himself to such graphic exploitation. But pay attention and look carefully at the scenes of violence. Take, for instance, the scene when the progressive party’s headquarters is raided by policemen. The horrific violence is recorded with a calm, nearly detached camera that sways from side to side…almost as if it was a…Japanese scroll….The violence may be explicit and uncharacteristic, but the man behind the camera could only be Mizoguchi.
As I look over this article, I notice that it is over four pages, easily making it the longest review that I have ever written. And you know what? It’s worth every word. My Love Burns is truly a phenomenal film whose neglect can only be seen as a horrible sin against the cinema. More people deserve to see this film. More people need to see this film. I have uploaded this film to youtube so that everyone can see it. I know that many of you have reservations against watching films on youtube, but I earnestly hope that you all will make an once-in-a-lifetime exception. I know that many of my readers have blogs. I encourage every single one of to watch this film and then write a blog entry about it. I know for a FACT that some of you have powerful connections within the film industry and the world of cinema critics. I pray that you all will tell them about this film and encourage them to see it and reconsider it critically as the masterpiece that it is. Because, you know what, Mizenko was right. My Love Burns truly is one of the greatest films that Kenji Mizoguchi ever made.
Never heard of Tateshi Danpei? Well...let me tell you about it...
Directed by Japanese pulp master Masahiro Makino, Tateshi Danpei is the story of a man, and a country, at a crossroads. Swordfighting instructor Danpei works at a local theater in Tokyo, instructing the actors how to fight realistically. However, when his realistic choreography became a huge success, Danpei's obsession with the samurai tradition of swordfighting consumes his whole life, forcing him to sacrifice his health, wife, and life.
Sounds like your average Japanese melodrama, right?
Wrong.
What you may be surprised to find is that this film was written by none other than Akira Kurosawa!! Written the same year as when he made Rashomon, Tateshi Danpei focuses on several of Kurosawa's favorite themes: masculine identity and the legacy of the samurai and bushido traditions.
I won't lie, it isn't the greatest film ever made. It cranks up the melodrama HARD, especially near the end. But the film does benefit from strong performances, solid directing, and, of course, a script from a master filmmaker.
This account will serve as a method of providing you all with rare or hard-to-find films. The first film is Susumu Hari's "Bad Boys." You may remember it as the film that I wrote about most recently. I would like to make two things very clear about the films featured on this account: a) they are public domain or b) are impossible or extremely difficult to get. If a film is readily available for rental or purchase and has a licensed distributor, then I will not post it. Youtube has very strict rules concerning copyrighted content...rules which I do not intend to break.
Here is the link to the first part of "Bad Boys":
I will try to post at least one full length film every week for the next couple of months. Each new film will be accompanied with a blog announcement and a link.
If there is a film that is out-of-print or unavailable for purchase that YOU would like to see, leave a comment and I will try my best to find and post it on my account...but only if they fulfill the two aforementioned requirements.
In a bleak, white office, a young man frowns at the stern, emotionless authority figure in front of him. He tilts his head sideways, sucking his lip, wondering what the man’s going on about. He’d probably leave, if not for the armed guard seated right behind him. The man monotonously reads his record, “You are Hiroshi Asai, 18.” Hiroshi nods. “Needing money you planned a robbery with…” Hiroshi keeps nodding at the charges. He’s bored. Obviously this is not the first time that his life story has been read to him. Father killed in World War Two? Nod. Single mother working in a factory? Nod. Prone to a life of juvenile delinquency? Nod, nod. Get on with it already! The interrogation ends and Hiroshi is sent to a doctor who submits him to a series of bizarre tests and psychological examinations. It is determined that he is suffering from a case of juvenile delinquency. Obviously sending him to jail is the wrong choice. So the doctors and lawyers and men in tight, trite suits send him to a reform school where he can be “civilized” and made into a “proper citizen.”
What the men fail to realize is that instead of isolating him from Japanese society, they are throwing Hiroshi head-first into a new world, a highly structuralized and organized world, the world of bad boys.
The young men make up Hiroshi’s new environment represent the dregs of Japanese society: the poor, the disenfranchised, the forgotten. “I’ve seen the Ginza only through the window of a police van,” one inmate remarks. Bereft of a world on the outside, the young men create their own. There is a rigid class system: boys who have been there the longest are on the top of the ladder and the newer recruits are at the very bottom. The older kids get the respect and best food, the occasional cigarette, and other privileges. For the new kids, they have to prove their worth, be it standing up to a guard, smuggling in pornography, or joining a labor group. There are rules, and they demand observation.
Scenes of Hiroshi’s incarceration are interspersed with flashbacks to the time when he was on the outside. Before he was arrested, Hiroshi was an amateur thief who headed a small gang. They would rob the occasional store and cashier, but they mostly robbed people who had the misfortune of walking down the wrong alley at the wrong time. The gang, too, had rules. Chief among them was to never hit the same place twice…at least not without first waiting and letting it cool down first. It was the violation of this cardinal rule that resulted in Hiroshi’s capture. Indeed, unspoken rules are a constant theme in Bad Boys, as it is all throughout Japanese society. As one Japanese proverb goes, “The nail that sticks out gets hammered.” And so, while in reform school, Hiroshi carefully climbs the social ladder and becomes accepted by his peers. His acceptance comes at the embracing of their societal values and traditions. And there’s the rub: by joining the gangs in the reform school, Hiroshi himself becomes reformed, learning the value of responsible behavior and proper values. When he finally leaves the reform school, he goes so far as to thank the institution for helping him “see the light.” He isn’t a delinquent anymore, but a healthy, proper little nail…just like all of the others.
Many of my more astute readers may wonder why I am making such a big deal out of this film. After all, how is it different from other films about juvenile delinquency? The answer was simple: Bad Boys was a revolution in Japanese filmmaking. Its director, Susumu Hani, used a realistic approach, hiring actual street youth and former inmates to populate his film. He then made them rehearse and rehearse and rehearse until their characters were so naturalistic that Hani encouraged them to improvise their lines. In fact, much of the film is the result of improvisation, having entire scenes and passages thought up on the spot by the actors. Hani used handheld cameras and sparse, natural-like lighting to give his film a documentary-like quality. The result was so realistic that Hani introduces his film with the disclaimer: “This is a documentary film…But the story and characters depicted herein are fictitious.”
The film, while powerful and extraordinary on its own merits, was felt like a gunshot within Japanese cinema, for it was among the first films of the Japanese New Wave. Much like the French New Wave that arose at around the same time in France, the Japanese New Wave was a movement within the Japanese film industry that questioned convention and opened up new galaxies for filmmakers to explore. While the French New Wave was centered largely on the combined creative output of a group of French film critics, the members of the Japanese New Wave were largely studio-based. Where the French New Wave focused on deconstructing the elements of film theory and technique, the Japanese New Wave concerned itself with analyzing (and frequently rebelling against) social conventions and norms.
Coming on the heels of the end of the American Occupation following World War Two and the subsequent censorship of Japanese cinema, the New Wave directors explored themes that earlier filmmakers were not allowed (or possibly too scared) to touch, including youth delinquency, sexuality, and political activism. It was a symbolic changing of the guard, where the old masters gave way to rebellious upstarts who regarded them more often than not with contempt. Directors like Akira Kurosawa, Yasujiro Ozu, and Kenji Mizoguchi were not only seen as old fashioned, but as backwards. In their place came filmmakers like Nagisa Oshima, with his prolific and controversial films that assaulted Japanese sensibilities and social norms, Shohei Imamura, champion of the down and out, of the prostitute and pornographer, and Hiroshi Teshigahara, the bold experimentalist who captured the imagination of American and European audiences.
These directors have since become heroes of the cinema within films circles, rightfully praised as pioneers and explorers of movie technique and content…all except Susumu Hani. Of all of the major figures of the Japanese New Wave, Hani is the one that the world forgot. To understand what Susumu’s neglect within film circles in similar to, imagine if none other than French New Wave director Francois Truffaut was forgotten about and ignored by later film critics and viewers. The disregard for Hani and his work is staggering. I imagine that most of you reading this article are hearing about him for the very first time. Why is this? Well, perhaps it was because Hani’s films were so difficult to define and categorize, even within the anarchic context of the Japanese New Wave.
For starters, while the other prominent members of the Japanese New Wave worked within the studio system, Hani worked as an independent filmmaker. He started as a documentary filmmaker, producing such groundbreaking Japanese documentaries as Children in the Classroom (1954) and Children Who Draw (1956). Bad Boys was his first feature film. His next films were penetrating and explorations of individuals trapped by stringent social values and expectations. But where Hani truly departed was with his fascination with other cultures. He would travel to Africa and South America several times to make films such as Song ofBwana Toshi (1965) and Bride of the Andes (1966). These films were truly unique and significant within the confines of the Japanese New Wave, for while his colleges like Oshima and Imamura focused on how Japanese people reacted to each other inside their own society, Hani explored how Japanese people reacted to other races and cultures. He rejected the myth of the xenophobic Japanese individual to embrace interaction with other peoples.
If Susumu Hani was the forgotten Truffaut of the Japanese New Wave, then Bad Boys was his The 400 Blows. It focused on disaffected and disenfranchised youth sent to reform schools in order to “correct” their behavior. It announced the emergence of a powerful new figure within Japanese cinema, one who was ready and willing to shake things up and reshape the industry. But while Truffaut has been worshipped as one of the patron saints of the cinema, Susumu Hani has faded into obscurity. It is this travesty of justice that compels my pen and forces me to write about this truly revolutionary figure and this truly ground-breaking film. Maybe one day they will experience a revival of popularity and finally gain the respect that they deserve. One can only hope…
Message from the Editor: Due to the almost non-existent availability of this film in the West, I have decided to post the film on youtube. However, I don’t know how. I don’t have a DVD copy, but instead a single .avi file. Are there any free programs that can split it up into ten minute segments and convert it to a different file format? If you can help, please leave tips and instructions in the comments section. Thanks!
Also, does anybody know any good programs for taking screenshots of .avi files? There are almost no pictures of the film online and I want to include more images in this post.
