Movies to Watch From Japan (Page 2)

You don’t need to be familiar with the rest of the Rurouni Kenshin live-action movie series—or the original manga and anime, for that matter—to appreciate The Beginning as a powerful period drama in its own right. This is a story that courses its historical context about a tumultuous time in Japan’s past through a stoic, fearsome protagonist who can’t seem to escape the violence that’s become his only function. And even more impressively, as a prequel, the film keeps a heavy sense of dread about it, even if you’re sure about which characters are meant to survive in order to appear in the previous films. It’s the mark of any great tragedy that even the things that are destined can still feel so painful.

At first, On-gaku: Our Sound seemed to be a classic coming-of-age story centered around a battle of the bands. The delinquent kids find a new outlet through music, and thus, change as a result of the art. But the indie animated drama proves to be different, because the band Kobujutsu don’t transform into rock stars over a quick montage and a dash of inspiration. They don’t even look the part, with the scribbled art design. Instead, these kids make sounds through two bass guitars, a snare drum, and a tom drum, purely using rhythm to make music. And as these kids dabble with their instruments, On-gaku: Our Sound marvelously unfolds to a funny but sincere slice-of-life tale that celebrates their passion.

It’s an incredible story, but it’s one that only really deserves to be told a certain way, which director Arthur Harari gets right. Onoda’s one-man crusade to continue World War II is nothing short of delusional, and Harari spends most of the film following the soldier as his companions die one by one, worsening his delusions even further. Unfortunately, even with how impressively strange this story is, 10,000 Nights in the Jungle still misses the opportunity to look through the lens of Onoda’s victims. He is, after all, a literal embodiment of colonization’s lingering effects, so it’s sad that the Philippines here is just window dressing more than anything.

With time-bending natural phenomena linking two teenagers into a romance, there’s no denying that The Tunnel to Summer, the Exit of Goodbyes can feel a tad too similar to the internationally acclaimed Your Name (2016). Right off the bat, it doesn’t compare. Nonetheless, the film still works because of the key difference between them. Unlike the earlier film, the time travel is triggered not because of being magically bound to save a whole town from natural disaster, but due to the regret, sorrow, and personal trauma that shifted the course of their lives. It makes for an intriguing sci-fi metaphor about co-dependency and healing through one’s first relationship. The Tunnel to Summer, the Exit of Goodbyes may not compare to other anime time travel adventures, but it’s animated beautifully and it effectively captures that wistful feeling one gets with their first love.

With Marvel and DC monopolizing the superhero landscape with high budgets, big-name actors, and CGI graphics, Shin Kamen Rider feels like a breath of fresh air. Also known as Shin Masked Rider in other territories, the adaptation recalls the campy costumes and over-the-top action of the original 70s tokusatsu series. It’s fun, if a little bit silly, and slightly unhinged, albeit with a more modern polish. The bizarre action sequences tend to be paired with old 70s rock, blood oversplashing, motorcycle stunts, and exaggerated expressions, especially from the villains. It’s a fitting love letter for the series’ 50th anniversary.

Rather than portraying the yakuza as the badass, ruthless thugs that bring crime to the streets, A Family is much more subdued. That’s because, with fewer people joining their ranks, the yakuza aren’t the force they used to be, with only a few holdouts scrambling for the scraps. It’s probably a good thing for the country as a whole, but for the protagonists here, the people born and raised in that life, it means losing the community that once gave them everything. A Family still has some of the violence that makes the yakuza genre exciting to watch, but it’s the existential contemplation of the yakuza as a whole that makes the film compelling.

While adoption doesn’t have the same stigma as it did back in the day, it doesn’t mean that the process is worry-free. There’s still a host of issues surrounding the process, plenty of which have been depicted in film. So, it’s no surprise that True Mothers holds more or less the same themes we’ve seen before, but where some films focus on mining the melodrama, filmmaker Naomi Kawase’s writing is much more restrained, keeping its take as naturalistic and detail-oriented as possible, and thus, demystifying the process. The slow pace may not be to everyone’s taste, but True Mothers is a thoughtful, sensitive portrayal of Japan’s adoption system today.

Asako is in love with Baku—deeply and almost delusionally, in a way that can only manifest in young love. But when the freewheeling Baku ghosts Asako for good, she moves from Osaka all the way to Tokyo to start a new life. Years later, she’s startled to meet Baku’s doppelganger in Ryohei, an office man whose solid dependability and lack of artfulness, while endearing, could not place him any further from Baku. Confused and lonely, Asako tiptoes around her feelings for Ryohei and, in the process, raises thought-provoking questions about the meaning, ethics, and true purpose of love.

Surreal, strange, yet wondrous, Penguin Highway never takes a straightforward approach to its story. Penguins pop up out of nowhere, leading the nerdy and precocious Aoyama to study them via empirical observation and logical deduction. These studies don’t end up with a feasible explanation– in fact, by the final act, the film abandons all laws of physics. But the journey to that act feels intuitively right. This journey feels like an indescribable formative experience. Aoyama may be obsessed with growing up and committing to the reasonable adult mindset, but he is still a child. From fending off bullies to forming connections with others, his childhood imagination served him better than science could. The film reveres this discovery as well as it should.

If you’re looking for some sword fighting from a samurai story, you’re not going to get it so easily from The Hidden Blade. That’s because it’s set in the Meiji era– guns got the glory, the country just opened its borders, and as the shogunate ceded to the Emperor, the samurai began to lose their power. As such, the first act is less about the fighting, and more about a romance blocked by social class. However, that doesn’t mean there’s no fighting. Much like many Westerns, the fight comes to the clan back in the countryside, where they try to make their last stand. It takes a while to get to the action, but on the way, writer-director Yōji Yamada sets the stakes for the samurai so unprepared for what’s to come. As modernity starts to take their place, The Hidden Blade observes the challenge presented: to change or to be replaced.

For public toilet cleaner Hirayama, “enjoy the little things in life” is more than just an adage: it’s a philosophy. Every day, he follows a strict routine of watering his plants, going to work, taking a break at a nearby shrine, and having dinner at his favorite stalls. It seems unexceptional, and yet Hirayama manages to find small, meaningful joys in between (and at) those very moments. A tree branch dancing in the breeze and shadows making funny shapes are enough to make him chuckle, while it seems like a good book and a trusty cassette are all he needs to be at peace. Hirayama’s mundane miracles are life-affirming, but make no mistake: this isn’t one of those cheesy films that push you to be happy no matter what. Director Wim Wenders (Paris, Texas, Wings of Desire) infuses the film with a certain gloom so that the overall tone is one of deep, poignant melancholy. Through vague clues about Hirayama’s past, we learn that his attempts at capturing joy might also be bids to escape a traumatic life. All this builds to a powerful ending that speaks to the complexity of human emotion. We can be happy and sad, peaceful and troubled, lonely and content all at the same time, and it’s okay. At the end of the day, we’ll still have our favorite book passage, our favorite singer, a great artwork, or a beautiful park to return to, and sometimes that’s all the reminder you need that life can be worth living.

At first, you wonder, couldn’t this behind-the-scenes look at the making of The Boy and The Heron just be a DVD special? But a few minutes in, it becomes clear how rich the material is. It’s not just about Miyazaki and the making of a movie, it’s about him grappling with grief and transforming it into art. A surprising chunk of this documentary is about death. Miyazaki’s friends and colleagues are passing away, it seems, every month, and the only way Miyazaki can mourn and honor them is through his (their) art. The Boy and The Heron itself is a fulfillment of a promise Miyazaki made to his closest friend, Isao Takahata, or Pak-san, as Miyazaki lovingly calls him. It’s Pak-san whom he mourns the most in the movie, but almost everyone who’s passed makes an appearance both in the documentary and the film. The lines between the two are often blurred by Miyazaki, in his failing memory, and by documentary director Kaku Arakawa. Arakawa’s editing is chaotic, if not experimental. He cuts between reality and fiction—documentary footage and Ghibli clips—faster than you can make sense of it all. “I opened my brain way too far for this project,” Miyazaki claims, and you can feel the exhilaration and fear in every second of this brilliant film.

While best known for 1977 cult horror classic House, Nobuhiko Obayashi first dreamed of adapting Hanagatami, a 1937 novella by Kazuo Dan, and it was only until the later end of his life that he got to fulfill that dream. It’s possibly the reason why Hanagatami feels like a surreal set of memories, with Karatsu’s seaside portrayed with theatrical sets and back projection, with scenes flipped and unflipped ever so often, with Bach looped and mixed with dissonant chords and children singing. And as the teenagers of Karatsu try to cling to their innocence despite the looming possibility of death, Obayashi remembers the lives cut short, not in nostalgia, but in an anxious bid for us to remember humanity’s biggest failure.

Not to be confused with the American cop thriller with the same name, Shōhei Imamura’s Black Rain is about the atomic bomb, but it’s not really concerned about nuclear warfare. Sure, the film opens with gruesome shots of the day the bomb dropped, not sparing the viewers from the gore and the titular nuclear fallout, that in black and white looks the same. And yes, much of the conflict occurs because of the lingering effects of the radiation. However, Imamura is much more concerned with the way Japanese society had tried to deal with it through going back to tradition– through going through the motions of matchmaking and propriety and social status and through excluding those who suffered directly from the bomb. Black Rain has a singular perspective, one that stands out due to the country’s denial of war crimes.

In Moving, we see a married couple’s relationship unravel through the eyes of 12-year-old Ren (Tomoko Tabata, an unbelievable natural). Ren is smart and mature; she performs domestic chores and doesn’t hesitate to tell her parents off. But she’s also just a child, so when she learns about her parents’ plan to divorce, she breaks down, despite herself. She concocts adorable Parent Trap-like plans and gives in to her childish and dangerous urges. She also runs away a lot, hence the title. She’s in the midst of a painful coming-of-age—of realizing for the first time that your parents aren’t heroes, your friends won’t always have your back, and your summer vacations won’t always be pretty. The film captures that anguish, just as much as it revels in the playfulness that seems innate in Ren. The result is a delightful, moving film that serves to remind us just how rich the inner world of a child is, and how she deserves to be treated just the same as any human being, that is, with respect and a whole lot of empathy.

Without context, Minbo, or the Gentle Art of Japanese Extortion seemed like a goofy satire, especially when the silly trumpet score pops up, and unfortunate hotel employees Suzuki and Wakasugi flounder around trying to solve the hotel’s yakuza problem on their own. And when Nobuko Miyamoto shows up as the brilliant lawyer, it’s so satisfying to see her turn the tables on the yakuza purely through words, strategy, and knowledge of law. It’s hilarious, but Minbo doesn’t just poke fun– it demystifies the gangster as a cool and untouchable figure, portraying them instead as loudmouthed bullies that we can handle. It also shows us how much can be done, only if we, as a group, perhaps as a whole nation, can muster the courage to fight.

Borrowing heavily from yakuza films of the past, The Blood of Wolves feels like a movie plucked straight out of the 1970s and given a slick coat of 2010s neo-noir shine. The film never tries to reinvent the recipe it’s working with, but it doesn’t have to when its violence is still satisfyingly brutal, its plot endlessly twisty, and its morality grey. At the center is a brash and sleazy performance from the great Koji Yakusho, whom you can never really clock as being in control or out of his depth. It might only hold special value for hardcore fans of the genre, but it provides enough solid thrills for the more casual viewer.

As time goes by, the youth doesn’t recognize how connected they are to previous tragedies, more so when it comes to war. Some even say that they have no part in it. Nobuhiko Obayashi’s later years have been preoccupied in countering this idea. Casting Blossoms to the Sky is the first of Obayashi’s anti-war trilogy, with the film inviting its audience to follow a journalist rediscovering the city of Nagaoka after the 2011 Tohoku earthquake. There’s a certain dreamlike approach to the way the various war stories are weaved together, with vibrant frames, simple CGI, and prominent green screen that grants some distance between the audience and the actual wartime reality, but it’s no less potent as Reiko interviews those that remember the scars of the past, and the rituals, practices, and art they’ve taken up in response. Casting Blossoms is a depressing story about war and disaster, one that is a tough one to watch. But it never forgets the humanity, the kindness and love that allowed Japan to recover, the very qualities we must protect and remember in ourselves.

Patema Inverted has serious hurdles between its young couple. After all, it’s not miscommunication or petty high school drama that separates them– It’s that gravity pulls them in opposite directions. This is due to their ancestors having experimented on the Earth’s gravity. While more could be explored with its unique premise, this adventure cleverly uses the inversion as a metaphor for a star-crossed romance in a wake of a broken society, as Patema’s people have hidden underground, and Eiji’s leaders has actively manipulated history, education, and propaganda to prop up their rule. As Patema and Eiji literally cling onto each other, their bond frees them from the limits their communities thought were absolute.

True to form, this documentary about the famed Japanese animation studio enjoys lingering in the ordinary day to day experience of working there. There’s no question that it’s of interest for fans. Documentarian Mami Sunada helpfully introduces some of the faces, the films, and the history of the company while on her visit. However, even non-fans would be intrigued by the creative process, by the mindset and philosophy revealed by their conversations. As the team works on their 2013 slate (The Wind Rises and The Tale of Princess Kaguya), the film reveals how their process pushes them to reckon with the larger scheme, willing their ideas into creation in spite of the difficult world around them. The Kingdom of Dreams and Madness is quite something to behold.

When depicting a person’s life, most films are chronological. They start from beginning to end, from the character’s birth to their death. However, it’s only fitting for Peppermint Candy to depict the opposite because, mild spoilers: the film starts with a suicide. What would push a person to do such a thing? Director Lee Chang-dong unpacks this tragedy through six personal moments vis-a-vis South Korea’s turbulent history, the violence lurking under peaceful times, and the way Kim Young-ho has ignored his better impulses because of it. In reverse, Kim’s life is not an easy one to watch. Each sequence transforms the one before, as each part of Kim’s past reveals a better path he could have taken, if not for the times he’s lived through.

Unlike plenty of time torn films, Maboroshi is the kind of film that doesn’t have a straightforward explanation for the town of Mifuse standing still in time. But even when it doesn’t have a logical reason, the way the film unfolds has a distinct feeling as it explores the illusions the town either could cling to, or release to grow. This kind of storytelling would be familiar to fans of the prolific screenwriter Mari Okada, who just started directing in 2018 with Maquia: When the Promised Flower Blooms, but even those new to her work would appreciate the pure emotion driving Maboroshi, if they can let go of reality and enjoy MAPPA’s exquisite art for a moment.

When it comes to fantasy anime between two races, usually there would be some sort of romance between the leads. But Maquia: When the Promised Flower Blooms does it differently. Instead, between the humans and the immortal humanoid lorph race that weaves a chronicle of their history is a mother-son relationship, with the human son set to out-age his mom. It’s a surprising heartbreak to contemplate love, mortality, memory, and greed, and it happens to be paired with downright beautiful animation that easily brings tears to the eye. While it didn’t garner similar popularity as Your Name or A Silent Voice, Maquia: When the Promised Flower Blooms nonetheless is an ambitious directorial debut with an equally bittersweet ending.

After finishing his contract with Shochiku, Yasujirō Ozu shifted gears with Floating Weeds, an adaptation of one of his previous black-and-white silent films. There are a few differences. It has sound and color, it’s set after World War II, and Ozu works with a new team, including actual kabuki actor Nakamura Ganjirō II. With these changes, Ozu sharpens his parallel romances for a generational conflict split by the war. The classic melodrama had taken on a new meaning. As Komajuro meets his son, and his kabuki theatre fails to sell, Ozu observes a world that has changed for the better, but has left some unable to do the same. Floating Weeds still holds the story’s original themes, but it thoughtfully reimagines the family of its time through Ozu’s appreciation for the everyday.

While initially commissioned to be an atomic bomb documentary, Hiroshima Mon Amour became something entirely different. For starters, it’s not a documentary, with director Alain Resnais recruiting author Marguerite Duras to write the screenplay, but it was pretty unusual for a narrative film at the time. It’s a love story, yes, but with such a poetic introduction of the two lovers going back and forth about what they know and don’t know about the bomb, pairing their discussion with archival footage and captivating scoring, Resnais created a new, non-linear cryptic style to capture how memory, grief, and loss irrevocably shaped a generation. Hiroshima Mon Amour was an unexpected shift, eventually becoming one of the most influential films of the French New Wave movement.

A best friendship break-up can be the most devastating thing that can happen to you in high school, especially when it’s because you’re leaving for separate colleges. Liz and the Blue Bird depicts one dynamic through two girls preparing for an orchestral concert. By pairing the two girls with the faux fairy tale that they’re playing, director Naoko Yamada subtly reveals their conflicting feelings in naturalistic, fleeting moments and watercolor fantasy. This subtle expression is helped immensely by the impeccable wind band score by composer Kensuke Ushio. While it doesn’t quite compare to A Silent Voice, Yamada’s previous work, Liz and the Blue Bird nonetheless shares that delicate symphony of art and music that genuinely capture these adolescent feelings.

Unlike the scrappy fighters we’ve seen in other sports films, Ichiko Saito of 100 Yen Love is an unmotivated recluse that does only the bare minimum to survive. Hardly an underdog to root for. Still, when Ichiko spots a boxing gym, the film transforms into something special. In spite of the disappointments that follow, the gym moves her into action, into picking a goal and moving after it, rather than the usual makeover we’ve seen done for other female protagonists. Ichiko actively tries to take control of her life. The hope grows as we follow her journey, especially with Sakura Ando physically transforming Ichiko’s slouch into an upright, confident stance. 100 Yen Love reveals what’s at the heart of a loser like Ichiko, someone who just needs one win after all of life’s disappointments.

Visiting a relative can feel strange, because especially when the loved one you share is gone, the visit will inevitably bring up feelings of grief, nostalgia, and being stuck because of it. But no visit would be as strange as the 1977 cult horror classic House. It’s a classic not because it’s particularly scary– in fact, most of the time, the film is much more bizarre than terrifying– but because this grief manifests in the eccentric estate through unusually unrealistic, but undeniably stylish psychedelic visions that stem from the kind of nightmares one would get as a kid as well as the real-life devastation Nobuhiko Obayashi faced as a Hiroshima survivor. It’s because of these absurd images that House escapes explanation, yet still became Obayashi’s definitive work. Hausu is simply a film that you have to visit for yourself.

“It is better to live miserable than to die happy,” or so says one of the characters in Jia Zhangke’s anthology film A Touch of Sin. On its surface, the “sin” referenced in the title might pertain to the acts of murder that the four protagonists commit, but in the context of China’s rapidly changing capitalist landscape (a theme explored in the director’s other pictures), it reveals itself as a malady shared by Chinese laborers treated as dispensable resources by the powers-that-be. Murder, then, is explored as an extremity, the effectual breaking point of people no longer able to contain the injustice within themselves. Beneath the splatters of blood is a plea for empathy and understanding, at once remorseful and full of conviction.