Seijun Suzuki

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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#176 Post by feihong »

FIGHTING DELINQUENTS aka MY FACE RED IN THE SUNSET aka GO TO HELL, YOUTH GANGS!

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Next up in this series of looks into the discs in Nikkatsu's Seijun Suzuki boxsets is Fighting Delinquents, which appears in the third set, "Seijun on Drifters," and is one of the unrestored 4k transfers in the sets (to date there are 7 such transfers: Branded to Kill and Love Letter on the first volume, Nude Girl with a Gun and Carmen from Kawachi on the second volume, and Tokyo Drifter, Inn of Floating Weeds, and Fighting Delinquents on the third volume). Fighting Delinquents was a breakout hit for Suzuki in an unprecedented way (Nude Girl with a Gun had been a hit for him prior to this, but it didn't elevate Suzuki's status at Nikkatsu much––it did seem to give him the opportunity to direct up-and-coming star Akira Kobayashi in a duo of A-picture melodramas, The Boy Who Came Back and Blue Breasts). Suzuki's career gained a new level of prestige in the company. It didn't put him on a level with the top brass' favorites, like Umetsugu Inoue or Shohei Immamura, but following the success of Fighting Delinquents, Tokyo Knights, and Blood-Red Water in the Channel, Suzuki gets a lot more opportunities to work with big stars and to work with bigger budgets––and also, to work with one of Suzuki's most expressive techniques, his work with color.

So who's this Koji Wada?


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Spoiler
KOJI WADA

Fighting Delinquents makes a star out of it's leading man, Koji Wada, another member of Nikkatsu's Diamond line of stars recruited to potentially replace Yujiro Ishihara in case the actor became too incapacitated or too toxic for the studio (he liked to drink and apparently get in fights in nightclubs, etc.) Of the three main replacements (Akira Kobayashi, Keiichiro Akagi, Koji Wada––Jo Shishido and Hideaki Nitani were often included in promotional material about the group, although Jo became a leading man later than most of the others and Hideaki Nitani had been a leading man earlier and was getting frequently slotted into villain roles by the point the Diamond Line had formed), Wada was the youngest––he started his career at about 15 years old––and he had the lightest star persona. He also looked the most like Ishihara of any of the other replacements. Fighting Delinquents is his fifth film––he was a supporting player in the Akira Kobayashi joint Poem of the Blue Star, and he first starred in a movie by Suzuki's mentor, Hiroshi Noguchi, whose title translates to something like "Horseman of the Ginza." That film paired him with leading lady Mayumi Shimizu for the first––but hardly the last––time. For one reason or another, Fighting Delinquents is the film that successfully sells Wada as a star personality to the viewing public––after which, Nikkatsu makes Suzuki Wada's exclusive director for about 2 years (a couple of non-Suzuki directed movies with Wada do come out in this time regardless).

Suzuki has mentioned Wada in two interviews in English, summing up their 10 films together succinctly but not clearly. In his Asian Cult Cinema interview, Suzuki is given Wada's name in a associative game, where he's meant to say the first thing that comes to his head about the person mentioned. When they get to Wada, Suzuki says "A spoiled brat who came from a very rich family." In an interview in "Bug" Magazine, Suzuki is asked what his favorite film amongst his Nikkatsu pictures is, and he answers that it's The Wind-of-Youth Group Goes Over the Mountain Pass, and then he mentions that it stars a young actor named Koji Wada. There's no snark in the answer. And one has to acknowledge the way Suzuki continued to work with Wada after his star had faded. Wada does Gate of Flesh and Carmen from Kawachi during that later period, and he shows up as an ideas man at an ad agency in Story of Sorrow and Sadness––a brief, one-scene role which really seems like something one of the two men did as a favor for the other. It seems obvious though that Suzuki's standing at the company improves with the release of Fighting Delinquents and the less-compelling, carbon-copy follow-up, Tokyo Knights. The successes of the two depreciate after that––by the time of Wind-of-Youth Group the films are no longer hits––but then they bounce back with Blood-Red Water in the Channel. Suzuki's last film starring Wada is Those Who Bet on Me, and it seems to be Suzuki who gets the boot, with Nikkatsu president Hori Kyusaku criticizing Suzuki for "extensive use of symbolism in a traditional action picture."

The partnership with Wada follows a number of attempts to pair Suzuki with an up-and-coming star. There are the early pictures with Akira Kobayashi, the launching of Keiichiro Akagi in Naked Age, and the first of his star vehicles for Tamio Kawaji, Everything Goes Wrong (both this and a second film, Hi-Teen Yakuza, star Kawaji and are amongst Suzuki's most disastrous financial failures––Everything Goes Wrong plays in theaters for only about 3 days before it's withdrawn). With Wada, star and director seem to really click. There is a lightness, a discreet silliness, and an unbridled youthful energy to Wada, and in this film especially, Suzuki makes the absolute best of these qualities. The grittier realism Suzuki was reaching for in films like Smashing the 0-Line and Everything Goes Wrong is blasted away in this story of a poor orphan boy (or at least, presumed orphan boy) who turns out to be the heir to an ancient samurai family and their crumbling estate. Wada squares off first against his grandmother, the clan's stolid matriarch, and then a corrupt developer who is trying to seize the clan's ancestral seat. In the process, he teaches his grandmother to appreciate rock n-roll, he beats the tar out of the developer's goons, and he re-unites with his long-lost mother.


THE STORY

The premise of these early Wada star vehicles is very winning; though he always plays a teenager, the young man is adept at anything he is tasked with doing, able to succeed in any pursuit, and uncannily right for any given situation. Early on the filmmakers attempt to suggest that Wada's temper might be a character flaw, but very quickly that temper (fueled by righteous rage against the developer) is dropped from the film so that Wada can learn to A) ride horses, B) date way above his social standing, C) renovate his family's shambling estate, D) run his group of fellow orphans like a white-knight gang, D) negotiate land deals, E) fight seemingly endless enemies with a riding crop, F) handle firearms like a pro. He outfoxes the developer and he wins the heart of his mother, who is busy dating the evil developer, but who leaves the developer when it turns out her son loves her, and doesn't blame her for abandoning him.

As William Carroll points out, there's a surprising amount of similarities between this film and the immediately previous Suzuki picture, Everything Goes Wrong. While that film was a downbeat melodrama with an urban, realistic sense about it (and very French New-Wave styl camerawork), and Fighting Delinquents is an upbeat, comic action film, both pictures focus on a young man divested of an accessible father figure, "betrayed" by a mother figure who beds the enemy mostly to have the emotional support of a partner. The young men in both films hang out with a crowd of similar young people, who support their wildest instincts, but both young men are torn between a more rambunctious or violent life and a kind of desire for pro-social connections. Both young men are driven to almost a bloodlust by a righteous sense of indignation at any perceived iniquity. But while Jiro in Everything Goes Wrong wants a childhood he feels has been stripped of him by the loss of his father in the war, and ultimately charges down a nihilistic path, Sadao in Fighting Delinquents is consistently rewarded for be the best, better than all the rest. His attitude is one of a kind of neoliberal give-and-take; he will take on the goals of the samurai clan and preserve their land, but he'll be damned if these stuffy jidai-geki types don't learn the twist by the time he's done. While Jiro sees the war as a cataclysm, Sadao and his friends reach anachronistically for an old war song to express solidarity with one another and with an earlier way of life, after resisting the developer's attempt to mess with the family. The result is a film a lot less thematically cogent than Everything Goes Wrong, but with a lot of amenities to make the pill easier to swallow. It should be noted that, as conservative as the message of the movie seems to be, Nikkatsu felt Suzuki went too far with the color and fantasy of the movie, and seemed to restrict Suzuki's use of color on his next project, Tokyo Knights (immediately a much duller-looking film).

The supporting cast edges its way into the film shyly. Mayumi Shimizu is there as the upper-crust girl-of-good-breeding who takes a shine to rough-hewn but cheerful Sadao. Mayumi serves, here as in most other Koji Wada films, as the fresh-faced love interest (I like her best in The Wind-of-Youth Group, where her story of deferred passion is more credible and heartfelt, and where the film in the end revolves around her re-invigorating her father's stage show). There is competition for the role; when Sadao is with the street kids in the beginning, it's strongly suggested that there is a love interest for him amongst them––the only girl member, played by Yoshiko Nezu.

Nezu was a Suzuki discovery who debuted in the previous film, Everything Goes Wrong, and seemed to take over the narrative by the midpoint of that film––hijacking it from the less-sympathetic star, Tamio Kawaji. Nezu's short hair and flippant disposition, along with an unusual-looking face, made her stand out in that movie. But after that, is only in three more movies: Fighting Delinquents, Tokyo Knights, and some other random Mayumi Shimizu vehicle by another director. None of the later roles are as significant to their films as the role in Everything Goes Wrong. Here in Fighting Delinquents, her character is built up as a potential love interest for Sadao, and then pretty much dropped as the story goes on. She does nothing individually meaningful after her first scene, and Mayumi Shimizu just hijacks her space in the picture. However, the trailer features s couple of shots which indicate that Nezu and the other street kids might have had a larger role in the drama initially. Here she is spying on somebody for some reason––who and what, we'll never know: it isn't in the final edit.

So which girl does Sadao get in the end? Well, it's understood he's with Shimizu, but neither girl gets a position of honor here, because for some reason the movie invests its most romantic elements in the relationship of mother and son.

This actress is Emiko Azuma. She has an incredibly-long 75-year career in films, appearing in nearly 50 movies. She appears in 5 Suzuki films: Smashing the 0-Line, Fighting Delinquents, Tokyo Knights, The Bastard, and...and she is the bladder-cherry vendor/guardian of hell in Mirage Theater, 18 years after those other roles. Her parts in Suzuki pictures are extremely memorable, except in Tokyo Knights, which isn't a terribly memorable movie. She radiates a kind of sexy, adult poise that is pretty unique in these movies. In Smashing the 0-Line she is stunningly erotic, even though she hardly speaks. Here, she plays a much meatier role as the missing, mystery mother figure. The most intense drama of this film is about Wada's Sadao finding his mother and wooing her away from the evil developer who killed Wada's adoptive father and is trying to dispossess his family of their land. The film insists that the goal here is one of restoring a maternal order denied to this woman––who seems like she's been using her time as an outcast to become a sort of a savvy woman-about-town. But the scenes between mother and son are all increasingly sensual, taking the place of any romantic scenarios Wada' would have with the actresses closer to his own age. It's been commented in a lot of sources that Suzuki loves and encourages very physical performances in his pictures––one of the things which sets him apart from the majority of his peers at Nikkatsu––and the drama between mother and son is made dynamic, violently passionate, close to erotic by this visualization.

Emiko Azuma never seems to have been a starlet, only a supporting player. Half her roles don't seem to have a name in the cast-lists. But she looks luminously beautiful on-screen (I've seen this film and Smashing the 0-Line in 35mm and she was notably striking in both movies––I don't know if it was my imagination that the rest of the crowd to see the pictures also seemed to lean closer and pay more attention when she appeared onscreen?), but seeing this film on home video, she is clearly way-too-40 to be the star of a conventional romance (in fact, she's just 36 in this film). But she navigated a path that included roles in a lot of notable films, from Tadashi Imai's Night Drum, Cruel Story of Bushido and The Possessed to the Suzuki films (minor in their day, major now), to Suzuki acquaintance Toshio Matsumoto's Funeral Parade of Roses (Matsumoto testified in Suzuki's defense in his lawsuit against Nikkatsu), to Suzuki pal Masahiro Shinoda's Scandalous Adventures of Buraikan, to Suzuki compatriot Ko Nakahira's Rika: The Mixed-Blood Girl, to her un-starry but unsettling and essential role in Mirage Theater. If she was a Nikkatsu contract-player, it only seems to be for about 5 years, starting in 1960. I call her out here because I love her in these movies, the film loves her, and this looks like it was her largest film role (she does play Eddie's mother in Funeral Parade of Roses, but I think she has more scenes and screen-time in Fighting Delinquents). She's also, for my money, the hottest smokeshow of an actress in a Suzuki film until Naoko Ohtani stars in Zigeunerweisen––though there is a lot of competition. I get chills seeing her; I was born too late.


COLOR

This is Suzuki's first color film, and for that occasion, essential Suzuki cinematographer Kazue Nagatsuka returns to the fold (he had been working for Suzuki's mentor, Hiroshi Noguchi, for most of the previous year––his most recent previous Suzuki picture being the ultra-noir Passport to Darkness). Nagatsuka started as a cinematographer in the silent era, and worked with Hiroshi Noguchi on Song of the Underworld (basis for Suzuki's later Kanto Wanderer). That same year he shot Suzuki's second film, Singing Rope: Innocent Love at Sea, and Suzuki's third picture, the very visually-compelling Satan's Town. Over the previous year, working mostly with Noguchi, Nagatsuka had been developing some of Nikkatsu's earliest color pictures. He brings the approach he honed working with Noguchi to Suzuki's first color film, but there is a difference; Suzuki, unlike his mentor, really wants to get something unexpected out of the color cinematography.

Noguchi's films are mostly inaccessible––the only one released officially with English subtitles is the low-key Jo Shishido comic action movie, Murder Unincorporated. He also directed the Yumiko Nogawa She-cat Gambler series later on. Noguchi is known for pioneering the "hado-boirudo" or "hard-boiled" film at Nikkatsu, a contemporary of late-era Hollywood film noir. He shot initially in black-and-white, and in all his color films, Noguchi seems to want to harken back to a black-and-white world. He has Natasuka shoot a fairly controlled, desaturated image full of mostly grey tones. He has little bits of greyed-down color in costuming, but a lot of the background settings in his movies are tones of grey, or heavily greyed-down colors. Suzuki clearly wants more. In later years, Nagatsuka's assistant, Shigeyoshi Mine, will shoot some of Suzuki's boldest color films, like Kanto Wanderer, Tokyo Drifter, and Gate of Flesh. Those pictures will feature big panels of solid color, intruding into pared-down sets to create shocking visuals (the bold red revealed when the walls fall around Katsuta at the climax of Kanto Wanderer, for instance). By comparison, Nagatsuka's approach to color is much more influenced by his work on Noguchi's color noir pictures. The result is that the color films Nagatsuka shoots for Suzuki have a desaturated look––with the exception of particular items within the shots, which Nagatsuka enables to really pop with a color accent. There is, for instance, a lot of gold in the Nagatsuka movies that you don't see in the Mine films. Fighting Delinquents has a slightly unusual look for Suzuki, because the background space surrounding the characters is frequently as grey as it is in Noguchi's movies. Later on, Suzuki and Nagatsuka will develop a much different look for Suzuki's pictures. Nagatsuka will start to use more black space than grey backgrounds, and the result becomes that isolated colors burn before our eyes. This technique reaches its apotheosis when Nagatsuka returns to cinematography at the end of his life, after thirteen years of retirement, to shoot Suzuki's Zigeunerweisen and Mirage Theater. These are some of the most beautiful movies I've seen, and proof of the way the Nagatsuka/Suzuki approach to color is unique and effective. This movie, in spite of all the Noguchi-brand grey space, has a lot of foreground objects that burst with color. What's more, Suzuki experiments with non-diegetic color right out of the gate. There's a lot of casual beauty on display; in the theater, this film seems bursting with color––apparently the Nikkatsu execs hated this decision, and the result seems to be a pulling-back of color for the next film, Tokyo Knights. In the following film, Living by Karate aka A Hell of a Guy, Suzuki and Nagatsuka work the vivid color back in. Of the Nikkatsu movies, probably the other notable one Nagatsuka does in color is The Flower and the Angry Waves, which has a really uniquely fantastical, burnished look to it.

I suppose in this movie, color represents the riot of youth. The older characters are done up in greys. The young ones wear bright, saturated colors which are clearly associated with stage performance. A puppet theater which appears in the middle of the movie draws on the same kind of colors that the youth gang wears. Interestingly, Sadao's mother doesn't always dress in grey. As she becomes more sympathetic to Sadao, her wardrobe adds color, but mostly pastels. Maybe Suzuki is trying to say something about the mother's changing role through the color scheme?


SETTINGS

The film is set in a notable tourist destination, the island of Awaji, and, much like a Hitchcock picture, the location shooting takes in a number of the local tourist attractions––like the puppet theater, as well as the Naruto Strait Whirlpools, whose turbulence works as a striking metaphor for youthful turbulence in the movie. The film begins with the titles over the whirlpools––and at the end, there is a fascinating and clearly deliberate confluence, where the procession of a village festival churns and undulates over the closing credits like a whirlpool of its own. In spite of the shaggy-dog feeling of the story, a lot of care has gone into a lot of aspects of the film.


THE DISC

Devoted Suzuki fans may recall an English-subtitled DVD of this movie from Yume Pictures in the UK, released about 17 years ago. This muddy, desaturated disc was terribly interlaced, with constant banding on the image at all––ALL––times. It was hell to watch this movie in that format. The unrestored 4k transfer of the movie looks amazing, bringing the color to vivid life and creating a lot of sharpness and delineation. There are pops and scratches all over the film––though not nearly so many as in Love Letter, say...but it frankly looks just amazing, with a lot of visual depth and a generally "bigger" look than previous presentations. I don't know how o put that, quite. The 35mm print I saw seemed brighter and more saturated still, but the color is quite vivid on this disc. I have no complaints, only pretty much across-the-board praise. I would have loved to see all these movies done in these unrestored 4k scans––they look just like a retrospective screening, with both the imperfections and also the big experience of seeing a good movie in a beautiful, visually-solid presentation.


MY TAKE

Back when my only reference was the Yume Pictures DVD, I didn't think much of this movie. It looked very visually bland and flat, and any time there was motion on-screen it was incredibly distracting to see all the banding that would happen. Years afterwards, I went into a 35mm screening of the film with dread, and came out with eyes opened wide. In the theater, this is a riotously fun movie, a crowd-pleaser full of restless, vigorous kids being irrepressible and eventually charming the sh*t out of a stodgy group of old-timers. There is a conspicuous absence of figures from the mother's generation, reflecting, perhaps, the aftermath of WWII that still lingered. It is usually Suzuki's premise that Japan's encounter with corporatism in the wake of the war resulted in a country on the wrong track. Suzuki's own preference seems to be for a return to a more communal form of living––though this seldom gets fully articulated in the movies themselves. But I think this is an interesting early representation of how Suzuki feels about the relationship between the war and the new economic prosperity he so mistrusts. Ideas are very jumbled here, unlike in Everything Goes Wrong––Fighting Delinquents was written by someone I can't remember, who later became a diet member, and it smacks of a kind of centrism which only appeals to Suzuki insofar as he is skeptical of almost everything in pretty much equal measure. The idea that youth gangs won't rebel if they get to have their way part of the time is a really strange position for the film to take––but in an era of prosperity, perhaps Suzuki can't quite find an effective way to mediate the message screenwritten in. As usual for "Nikkatsu Akushon" cinema, the villain is an unscrupulous developer, but this is more Nikkatsu reaching for a soft target than it is Nikkatsu making a stand against the land development companies.

Either way, the emphasis is not on the politics of the situation, but in the energetic determination of Koji Wada's Sadao character. Everywhere he goes, he is practically flying. This element really carries the film––there is nothing like it in the later Wada pictures. If I had to pick another Wada film of the same quality, it would be The Wind-of-Youth Group Goes Over the Mountain Pass––though in general, the quality of these pictures remains pretty high. They are mostly very fun, until Million-Dollar Smash-and-Grab gives us some boring boxing between childhood friends, now enemies. The fun of Koji Wada arguing coquettishly with his sour grandmother, of watching her be seduced by his charms––the odd way in which Sadao and his mother are aching to get just all over one another––the exuberant abandon of Wada as he fights the goons with a switch at the end of the movie...the way the Naruto Whirlpools swallow up the escaping villain...these moments and scenarios are all bracing and exciting in a simple, direct, fun way. Clearly there is pressure on Suzuki to toe the line, but later Suzuki movies will go on to show us he has a real respect for and interest in violently rebellious kids, as people alienated enough to be both perceptive of what's wrong with society, but also to be vibrant actors changing things in one way or another. If Naked Age and Everything Goes Wrong are movies which despair of the energy spent by their young protagonists ever finding worthwhile outlet, Fighting Delinquents and the other Koji Wada movies are a much more positive spin on the idea, giving us a youth who gently but persistently pushes older people and their compromises into productive change. True, this movie doesn't quite get there ideologically, but it's almost there.

I'd very much like to know what further material there was for the street kids. They deserve a bigger role here.

Next I'll take a look at a very early crime film/musical from Suzuki, Inn of Floating Weeds––which also has a beautiful 4k transfer!
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Spoiler

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KOJI WADA

Fighting Delinquents makes a star out of it's leading man, Koji Wada, another member of Nikkatsu's Diamond line of stars recruited to potentially replace Yujiro Ishihara in case the actor became too incapacitated or too toxic for the studio (he liked to drink and apparently get in fights in nightclubs, etc.) Of the three main replacements (Akira Kobayashi, Keiichiro Akagi, Koji Wada––Jo Shishido and Hideaki Nitani were often included in promotional material about the group, although Jo became a leading man later than most of the others and Hideaki Nitani had been a leading man earlier and was getting frequently slotted into villain roles by the point the Diamond Line had formed), Wada was the youngest––he started his career at about 15 years old––and he had the lightest star persona. He also looked the most like Ishihara of any of the other replacements. Fighting Delinquents is his fifth film––he was a supporting player in the Akira Kobayashi joint Poem of the Blue Star, and he first starred in a movie by Suzuki's mentor, Hiroshi Noguchi, whose title translates to something like "Horseman of the Ginza." That film paired him with leading lady Mayumi Shimizu for the first––but hardly the last––time. For one reason or another, Fighting Delinquents is the film that successfully sells Wada as a star personality to the viewing public––after which, Nikkatsu makes Suzuki Wada's exclusive director for about 2 years (a couple of non-Suzuki directed movies with Wada do come out in this time regardless).

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Suzuki has mentioned Wada in two interviews in English, summing up their 10 films together succinctly but not clearly. In his Asian Cult Cinema interview, Suzuki is given Wada's name in a associative game, where he's meant to say the first thing that comes to his head about the person mentioned. When they get to Wada, Suzuki says "A spoiled brat who came from a very rich family." In an interview in "Bug" Magazine, Suzuki is asked what his favorite film amongst his Nikkatsu pictures is, and he answers that it's The Wind-of-Youth Group Goes Over the Mountain Pass, and then he mentions that it stars a young actor named Koji Wada. There's no snark in the answer. And one has to acknowledge the way Suzuki continued to work with Wada after his star had faded. Wada does Gate of Flesh and Carmen from Kawachi during that later period, and he shows up as an ideas man at an ad agency in Story of Sorrow and Sadness––a brief, one-scene role which really seems like something one of the two men did as a favor for the other. It seems obvious though that Suzuki's standing at the company improves with the release of Fighting Delinquents and the less-compelling, carbon-copy follow-up, Tokyo Knights. The successes of the two depreciate after that––by the time of Wind-of-Youth Group the films are no longer hits––but then they bounce back with Blood-Red Water in the Channel. Suzuki's last film starring Wada is Those Who Bet on Me, and it seems to be Suzuki who gets the boot, with Nikkatsu president Hori Kyusaku criticizing Suzuki for "extensive use of symbolism in a traditional action picture."

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The partnership with Wada follows a number of attempts to pair Suzuki with an up-and-coming star. There are the early pictures with Akira Kobayashi, the launching of Keiichiro Akagi in Naked Age, and the first of his star vehicles for Tamio Kawaji, Everything Goes Wrong (both this and a second film, Hi-Teen Yakuza, star Kawaji and are amongst Suzuki's most disastrous financial failures––Everything Goes Wrong plays in theaters for only about 3 days before it's withdrawn). With Wada, star and director seem to really click. There is a lightness, a discreet silliness, and an unbridled youthful energy to Wada, and in this film especially, Suzuki makes the absolute best of these qualities.

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The grittier realism Suzuki was reaching for in films like Smashing the 0-Line and Everything Goes Wrong is blasted away in this story of a poor orphan boy (or at least, presumed orphan boy) who turns out to be the heir to an ancient samurai family and their crumbling estate.

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Wada squares off first against his grandmother, the clan's stolid matriarch, and then a corrupt developer who is trying to seize the clan's ancestral seat. In the process, he teaches his grandmother to appreciate rock n-roll, he beats the tar out of the developer's goons, and he re-unites with his long-lost mother.


THE STORY

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The premise of these early Wada star vehicles is very winning; though he always plays a teenager, the young man is adept at anything he is tasked with doing, able to succeed in any pursuit, and uncannily right for any given situation. Early on the filmmakers attempt to suggest that Wada's temper might be a character flaw, but very quickly that temper (fueled by righteous rage against the developer) is dropped from the film so that Wada can learn to A) ride horses, B) date way above his social standing, C) renovate his family's shambling estate, D) run his group of fellow orphans like a white-knight gang, D) negotiate land deals, E) fight seemingly endless enemies with a riding crop, F) handle firearms like a pro. He outfoxes the developer and he wins the heart of his mother, who is busy dating the evil developer, but who leaves the developer when it turns out her son loves her, and doesn't blame her for abandoning him.

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As William Carroll points out, there's a surprising amount of similarities between this film and the immediately previous Suzuki picture, Everything Goes Wrong. While that film was a downbeat melodrama with an urban, realistic sense about it (and very French New-Wave styl camerawork), and Fighting Delinquents is an upbeat, comic action film, both pictures focus on a young man divested of an accessible father figure, "betrayed" by a mother figure who beds the enemy mostly to have the emotional support of a partner. The young men in both films hang out with a crowd of similar young people, who support their wildest instincts, but both young men are torn between a more rambunctious or violent life and a kind of desire for pro-social connections. Both young men are driven to almost a bloodlust by a righteous sense of indignation at any perceived iniquity. But while Jiro in Everything Goes Wrong wants a childhood he feels has been stripped of him by the loss of his father in the war, and ultimately charges down a nihilistic path, Sadao in Fighting Delinquents is consistently rewarded for being the best, better than all the rest. His attitude is one of a kind of neoliberal give-and-take; he will take on the goals of the samurai clan and preserve their land, but he'll be damned if these stuffy jidai-geki types don't learn the twist by the time he's done.

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While Jiro sees the war as a cataclysm that took his father and negated his future, Sadao and his friends reach anachronistically for an old war song to express solidarity with one another and with an earlier way of life, after resisting the developer's attempt to mess with the family. The result is a film a lot less thematically cogent than Everything Goes Wrong, but with a lot of amenities to make the pill easier to swallow. It should be noted that, as conservative as the message of the movie seems to still be, Nikkatsu felt Suzuki went too far with the color and fantasy of the movie, and seemed to restrict Suzuki's use of color on his next project, Tokyo Knights (immediately a much duller-looking film).

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The supporting cast edges its way into the film shyly. Mayumi Shimizu is there as the upper-crust girl-of-good-breeding who takes a shine to rough-hewn but cheerful Sadao. Mayumi serves, here as in most other Koji Wada films, as the fresh-faced love interest (I like her best in The Wind-of-Youth Group, where her story of deferred passion is more credible and heartfelt, and where the film in the end revolves around her re-invigorating her father's stage show). There is competition for the role; when Sadao is with the street kids in the beginning, it's strongly suggested that there is a love interest for him amongst them––the only girl member, played by Yoshiko Nezu.

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Nezu was a Suzuki discovery who debuted in the previous film, Everything Goes Wrong, and seemed to take over the narrative by the midpoint of that film––hijacking it from the less-sympathetic star, Tamio Kawaji. Nezu's short hair and flippant disposition, along with an unusual-looking face, made her stand out in that movie.

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But after that, she appears only in three more movies: Fighting Delinquents, Tokyo Knights, and some other random Mayumi Shimizu vehicle by another director. None of the later roles are as significant to their films as the role in Everything Goes Wrong. Here in Fighting Delinquents, her character is built up as a potential love interest for Sadao, and then pretty much dropped as the story goes on. She does nothing individually meaningful after her first scene, and Mayumi Shimizu just hijacks her space in the picture. However, the trailer features s couple of shots which indicate that Nezu and the other street kids might have had a larger role in the drama initially. Here she is spying on somebody for some reason––who and what, we'll never know: it isn't in the final edit.

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So which girl does Sadao get in the end? Well, it's understood he's with Shimizu, but neither girl gets a position of honor here, because for some reason the movie invests its most romantic elements in the relationship of mother and son.

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This actress is Emiko Azuma. She has an incredibly-long 75-year career in films, appearing in nearly 50 movies. She appears in 5 Suzuki films: Smashing the 0-Line, Fighting Delinquents, Tokyo Knights, The Bastard, and...and she is the bladder-cherry vendor/guardian of hell in Mirage Theater, 18 years after those other roles. Her parts in Suzuki pictures are extremely memorable, except in Tokyo Knights, which isn't a terribly memorable movie.

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Whoa, horsey, competition rears its' head.

Azuma radiates a kind of sexy, adult poise that is pretty unique in these movies. In Smashing the 0-Line she is stunningly erotic, even though she hardly speaks.

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In Fighting Delinquents, she plays a much meatier role as the missing, mystery mother figure. The most intense drama of this film is about Wada's Sadao finding his mother and wooing her away from the evil developer who killed Wada's adoptive father and is trying to dispossess his family of their land. The film insists that the goal here is one of restoring a maternal order denied to this woman––who seems like she's been using her time as an outcast to become a sort of a savvy woman-about-town.

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But the scenes between mother and son are all increasingly sensual, taking the place of any romantic scenarios Wada' would have with the actresses closer to his own age. It's been commented in a lot of sources that Suzuki loves and encourages very physical performances in his pictures––one of the things which sets him apart from the majority of his peers at Nikkatsu––and the drama between mother and son is made dynamic, violently passionate, close to erotic by this visualization.

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Emiko Azuma never seems to have been a starlet, only a supporting player. Half her roles don't seem to have a name in the cast-lists. But she looks luminously beautiful on-screen (I've seen this film and Smashing the 0-Line in 35mm and she was notably striking in both movies––I don't know if it was my imagination that the rest of the crowd to see the pictures also seemed to lean closer and pay more attention when she appeared onscreen?), but seeing this film on home video, she is clearly way-too-40 to be the star of a conventional romance (in fact, she's just 36 in this film).

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But she navigated a path that included roles in a lot of notable films, from Tadashi Imai's Night Drum, Cruel Story of Bushido and The Possessed to the Suzuki films (minor in their day, major now), to Suzuki acquaintance Toshio Matsumoto's Funeral Parade of Roses (Matsumoto testified in Suzuki's defense in his lawsuit against Nikkatsu), to Suzuki pal Masahiro Shinoda's Scandalous Adventures of Buraikan, to Suzuki compatriot Ko Nakahira's Rika: The Mixed-Blood Girl, to her un-starry but unsettling and essential role in Mirage Theater. If she was a Nikkatsu contract-player, it only seems to be for about 5 years, starting in 1960. I call her out here because I love her in these movies, the film loves her, and this looks like it was her largest film role (she does play Eddie's mother in Funeral Parade of Roses, but I think she has more scenes and screen-time in Fighting Delinquents).

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She's also, for my money, the hottest smokeshow of an actress in a Suzuki film until Naoko Ohtani stars in Zigeunerweisen––though there is a lot of competition. I get chills seeing her; I was born too late.


COLOR

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This is Suzuki's first color film, and for that occasion, essential Suzuki cinematographer Kazue Nagatsuka returns to the fold (he had been working for Suzuki's mentor, Hiroshi Noguchi, for most of the previous year––his most recent previous Suzuki picture being the ultra-noir Passport to Darkness). Nagatsuka started as a cinematographer in the silent era, and worked with Hiroshi Noguchi on Song of the Underworld (basis for Suzuki's later Kanto Wanderer). That same year he shot Suzuki's second film, Singing Rope: Innocent Love at Sea, and Suzuki's third picture, the very visually-compelling Satan's Town. Over the previous year, working mostly with Noguchi, Nagatsuka had been developing some of Nikkatsu's earliest color pictures. He brings the approach he honed working with Noguchi to Suzuki's first color film, but there is a difference; Suzuki, unlike his mentor, really wants to get something unexpected out of the color cinematography.

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Noguchi's films are mostly inaccessible––the only one released officially with English subtitles is the low-key Jo Shishido comic action movie, Murder Unincorporated. He also directed the Yumiko Nogawa She-cat Gambler series later on. Noguchi is known for pioneering the "hado-boirudo" or "hard-boiled" film at Nikkatsu, a contemporary of late-era Hollywood film noir. He shot initially in black-and-white, and in all his color films, Noguchi seems to want to harken back to a black-and-white world. He has Natasuka shoot a fairly controlled, desaturated image full of mostly grey tones. He has little bits of greyed-down color in costuming, but a lot of the background settings in his movies are tones of grey, or heavily greyed-down colors. Suzuki clearly wants more.

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In later years, Nagatsuka's assistant, Shigeyoshi Mine, will shoot some of Suzuki's boldest color films, like Kanto Wanderer, Tokyo Drifter, and Gate of Flesh. Those pictures will feature big panels of solid color, intruding into pared-down sets to create shocking visuals (the bold red revealed when the walls fall around Katsuta at the climax of Kanto Wanderer, for instance).

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By comparison, Nagatsuka's approach to color is much more influenced by his work on Noguchi's color noir pictures. The result is that the color films Nagatsuka shoots for Suzuki have a desaturated look––with the exception of particular items within the shots, which Nagatsuka enables to really pop with a color accent. There is, for instance, a lot of gold in the Nagatsuka movies that you don't see in the Mine films. Fighting Delinquents has a slightly unusual look for Suzuki, because the background space surrounding the characters is frequently as grey as it is in Noguchi's movies. Later on, Suzuki and Nagatsuka will develop a much different look for Suzuki's pictures. Nagatsuka will start to use more black space than grey backgrounds, and the result becomes that isolated colors burn before our eyes. This technique reaches its apotheosis when Nagatsuka returns to cinematography at the end of his life, after thirteen years of retirement, to shoot Suzuki's Zigeunerweisen and Mirage Theater. These are some of the most beautiful movies I've seen, and proof of the way the Nagatsuka/Suzuki approach to color is unique and effective. This movie, in spite of all the Noguchi-brand grey space, has a lot of foreground objects that burst with color.

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What's more, Suzuki experiments with non-diegetic color right out of the gate. There's a lot of casual beauty on display; in the theater, this film seems bursting with color––apparently the Nikkatsu execs hated this decision, and the result seems to be a pulling-back of color for the next film, Tokyo Knights. In the following film, Living by Karate aka A Hell of a Guy, Suzuki and Nagatsuka work the vivid color back in. Of the Nikkatsu movies, probably the other notable one Nagatsuka does in color is The Flower and the Angry Waves, which has a really uniquely fantastical, burnished look to it.

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I suppose in this movie, color represents the riot of youth. The older characters are done up in greys. The young ones wear bright, saturated colors which are clearly associated with stage performance. A puppet theater which appears in the middle of the movie draws on the same kind of colors that the youth gang wears.

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Interestingly, Sadao's mother doesn't always dress in grey. As she becomes more sympathetic to Sadao, her wardrobe adds color, but mostly pastels. Maybe Suzuki is trying to say something about the mother's changing role through the color scheme?

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SETTINGS

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The film is set in a notable tourist destination, the island of Awaji, and, much like a Hitchcock picture, the location shooting takes in a number of the local tourist attractions––like the puppet theater, as well as the Naruto Strait Whirlpools, whose turbulence works as a striking metaphor for youthful turbulence in the movie. The film begins with the titles over the whirlpools––and at the end, there is a fascinating and clearly deliberate confluence, where the procession of a village festival churns and undulates over the closing credits like a whirlpool of its own. In spite of the shaggy-dog feeling of the story, a lot of care has gone into a lot of aspects of the film.

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THE DISC

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Devoted Suzuki fans may recall an English-subtitled DVD of this movie from Yume Pictures in the UK, released about 17 years ago. This muddy, desaturated disc was terribly interlaced, with constant banding on the image at all––ALL––times. It was hell to watch this movie in that format. The unrestored 4k transfer of the movie looks amazing, bringing the color to vivid life and creating a lot of sharpness and delineation. There are pops and scratches all over the film––though not nearly so many as in Love Letter, say...but it frankly looks just amazing, with a lot of visual depth and a generally "bigger" look than previous presentations. I don't know how o put that, quite. The 35mm print I saw seemed brighter and more saturated still, but the color is quite vivid on this disc.

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I have no complaints, only pretty much across-the-board praise. I would have loved to see all these movies done in these unrestored 4k scans––they look just like a retrospective screening, with both the imperfections and also the big experience of seeing a good movie in a beautiful, visually-solid presentation.


MY TAKE

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Back when my only reference was the Yume Pictures DVD, I didn't think much of this movie. It looked very visually bland and flat, and any time there was motion on-screen it was incredibly distracting to see all the banding that would happen. Years afterwards, I went into a 35mm screening of the film with dread, and came out with eyes opened wide. In the theater, this is a riotously fun movie, a crowd-pleaser full of restless, vigorous kids being irrepressible and eventually charming the sh*t out of a stodgy group of old-timers. There is a conspicuous absence of other figures from the mother's generation, reflecting, perhaps, the aftermath of WWII that still lingered, and the largely missing generation of which Suzuki remained as part of. It is usually Suzuki's premise that Japan's encounter with corporatism in the wake of the war resulted in a country on the wrong track. Suzuki's own preference seems to be for a return to a more communal form of living––though this seldom gets fully articulated in the movies themselves. But I think this is an interesting early representation of how Suzuki feels about the relationship between the war and the new economic prosperity he so mistrusts. Ideas are very jumbled here, unlike in Everything Goes Wrong––Fighting Delinquents was written by someone whose name I can't remember, but whom I believe later became a diet member, and it smacks of a kind of centrism which only appeals to Suzuki insofar as he is skeptical of almost everything in pretty much equal measure. The idea that youth gangs won't rebel if they get to have their way part of the time is a really strange position for the film to take––but in an era of prosperity, perhaps Suzuki can't quite find an effective way to mediate the message screenwritten in. As usual for "Nikkatsu Akushon" cinema, the villain is an unscrupulous developer, but this is more Nikkatsu reaching for a soft target than it is Nikkatsu making a stand against the land development companies.

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Soft target, ahoy!

Either way, the emphasis is not on the politics of the situation, but in the energetic determination of Koji Wada's Sadao character. Everywhere he goes, he is practically flying. This element really carries the film––there is nothing like it in the later Wada pictures.

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If I had to pick another Wada film of the same quality, it would be The Wind-of-Youth Group Goes Over the Mountain Pass––though in general, the quality of these pictures remains pretty high. They are mostly very fun, until Million-Dollar Smash-and-Grab gives us some boring boxing between childhood friends, now enemies. The fun of Koji Wada arguing coquettishly with his sour grandmother, of watching her be seduced by his charms––the odd way in which Sadao and his mother are aching to get just all over one another––the exuberant abandon of Wada as he fights the goons with a switch at the end of the movie...the way the Naruto Whirlpools swallow up the escaping villain...these moments and scenarios are all bracing and exciting in a simple, direct, fun way. Clearly there is pressure on Suzuki to toe the line, but later Suzuki movies will go on to show us he has a real respect for and interest in violently rebellious kids, as people alienated enough to be both perceptive of what's wrong with society, but also to be vibrant actors changing things in one way or another. If Naked Age and Everything Goes Wrong are movies which despair of the energy spent by their young protagonists ever finding worthwhile outlet, Fighting Delinquents and the other Koji Wada movies are a much more positive spin on the idea, giving us a youth who gently but persistently pushes older people and their compromises into productive change. True, this movie doesn't quite get there ideologically, but it's almost there.

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I'd very much like to know what further material there was for the street kids that got cut. They deserve a bigger role here.

Next I'll take a look at a very early crime film/musical from Suzuki, Inn of Floating Weeds––which also has a beautiful 4k transfer!
User avatar
feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#177 Post by feihong »

INN OF FLOATING WEEDS

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This is Suzuki's 4th film as a director and his first film of 1957, that tumultuous 2nd year of his directing career. His next film that year following this one is Eight Hours of Fear––a remake of Stagecoach, which Suzuki rewrites as a musical farce, and then is forced to re-shoot following the original script assiduously (only one song, a communist anthem led by a student on the bus which serves as the film's "stagecoach," seems to have survived the re-shoot). Following that, Suzuki's last film of that year is his first substantial hit, Nude Girl with a Gun (apparently the only significant hit of this early stage of Suzuki's career, though he had plenty of films in this era that did perfectly adequate business). Inn of Floating Weeds follows a seemingly bigger-budgeted action picture, Satan's Town, which has a larger cast and a much more varied collection of locations. That picture is very redolent of the kind of filmmaking his mentor, Hiroshi Noguchi, pioneered at Nikkatsu, the "hado-boriudo" or "hard-boiled" action picture. But Inn of Floating Weeds is the first movie where Suzuki's own aesthetic begins to become quite distinct from his mentor's work. The film is unsurprising in its plotting, a typical story of a man framed for murder, coming back to the scene of the frame up to meet his love again and find out what went so wrong. But the film includes nods to surrealism that other Nikkatsu filmmakers––including Noguchi––never seem to demonstrate.

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Spoiler
The film has dream sequences, dark doubles, and a kind of sinister fatalism different than what we see of other "Nikkatsu Akushon" films of the era. It's "duende" is a much more romantic and yearning sort than is seen in the films of that hack Buichi Saito or even the more skillful Toshio Masuda. Also, we get the first really solid examples of Suzuki using framing and camera movement to distinguish himself substantially from other filmmakers at his company. Most of the Nikkatsu directors tend to limit their camerawork to tracking the subject's movements (with the occasional whip-pan here and there). Suzuki's camerawork is already starting to display a kind of directorial flourish. Sometimes the camera will move independent of the characters, with a mind of its own; Suzuki is starting to convey a consciousness of the camera that will be at odds with what Nikkatsu's executives want, but which will be an important aspect of the director's filmmaking style throughout his whole career.

Suzuki was notoriously shy about discussing film influences, but he had obvious familiarity with German expressionism and surrealism. The closeups especially bear the notable influence of von Sternberg.

Inn of Floating Weeds stars Hideaki Nitani, the so-called "backup" in Nikkatsu's Diamond Line. The Diamond Guys were mostly meant to seem like young, James-Dean-like hooligans, with a dangerous glamour. From early on, Nitani had a more adult, middle-aged physiognomy, and he was frequently made the villain of other Diamond Guys' movies (a notable villain in the Yujiro Ishihara-starring Red Handkerchief, for example), or a "friend"-coded character for the protagonist to bounce off of, or just a plain supporting actor, or major member of the supporting cast. He stars in this movie for Suzuki and in Man with a Shotgun, and is co-star of Voice Without a Shadow. He is a supporting player in Underworld Beauty, Eight Hours of Fear, The Boy Who Came Back, Blue Breasts (playing a conspicuous villain), and Tokyo Drifter (he is Shooting Star, Tetsuya Watari's older double from the gang). Nitani is rakishly handsome in still images, but in motion he he has fairly inanimate eyes and a stillness that is sometimes very appropriate for a character, and other times leads you to wonder if any of the character's thoughts are really passing through his head. His stolid performance works well here for a character who seems to be trying to exist adjacent to the darkness, a decent guy everyone thinks is a bad one––he's trouble, whether he means to be or not. He has a tousled romanticism that adds to the especially dreamy atmosphere of this movie.

Though the film will certainly glamorize its leading actress, it's Nitani himself who is given the most breathless glamour and mystery. He often appears to emerge from or melt into the darkness (as in the lead actress' dream sequence), and his presence activates literally everyone else in the film––sometimes leading them to disaster. He is an homme fatale, with desire as his weapon, dragging the other amorous characters to their unwitting doom.

This was, in fact, Nitani's first movie ever. He would go on to appear in 139 films and TV shows, in a career that lasted until 1992. His movie output slows in the mid-70s, with a sexy independent art film by Ko Nakahira called Variation as one of his last major movie projects. From then on he goes on to copious television credits, playing flinty older men. He has a 10-year run as the white-haired chief inspector on a cop show called Special Investigation Unit, where he looks conspicuously like Jean Gabin.

The film is the kind of curious cross-polination of genres, Nikkatsu frequently seemed to want Suzuki to try out. It is, like Suzuki's first two movies, a Kaiyo picture, a movie built quickly to flesh out the feeling of a hit pop-song and capitalize on the song's usually brief window of popularity. The pop-song in question, "Inn of Floating Weeds," is sung in the film by Hachiro Kasuga, a popular crooner of the era.

Kasuga was the star of Suzuki's second film, Singing Rope: Innocent Love at Sea, where he played a whaler and sings in montages where he harpoons whales. That film was a romantic, comic Kaiyo picture, where Kasuga sang his theme song again and again. Here Kasuga is integrated into the film in a more surreptitious way (he gives a fairly bad performance in Singing Rope, and the filmmakers seem to have course-corrected here to keep him in a more narrow spotlight). He plays a wandering guitarist who shows up at the inn, singing the inn's theme song.

Late in the picture, the villains try to rub Nitani out, and we hear Kasuga singing the song. In a series of short scenes, we see the gangsters set up to throw a knife at Nitani from one location or another, only to have the singing Kasuga seemingly oblviously step right into the way, ruining their shot again and again. There is a surrealism to the character which is later explained in somewhat plausible detail. Unlike in Singing Rope, which seemed very focused on getting the song across a good number of times, Inn of Floating Weeds is more of a hybrid Kaiyo film, mashing up the musical source with a more overwhelming hard-boiled crime story. This is a fairly dark, fatalistic story, set in a bleak dockland, featuring characters with nearly morbid preoccupation with the past. The film is very stylish, built on and doubling-down on Suzuki's increasing control over atmosphere and staging. The source material seems very simple, without a lot of thematic complexity, but Suzuki's visualization is beginning to surpass those obstacles and give the film more meaning than it seems to have on the surface.

The other lead role which is most notable is that of Hisano Yamaoka, who plays two sisters, the primary love interests in the picture. Hisano is not, to my eyes, an especially glamorous woman, but she brings a gravitas to these double-roles which anchors the picture in its dreamlike milieu. It is very hard to tell for most of the film which sister she is, and you find yourself doubting what is being told to you constantly about the two––a very notable early surreal scenario from Suzuki.

Yamaoka doesn't act for Suzuki in too many films. She's in this picture, Sleep of the Beast, A Hell of a Guy aka Living by Karate, and Blood-Red Water in the Channel. She seems to be a Nikkatsu contract player at this time, but her notable films are mostly for other studios. Probably Elegant Beast and a brief role in Samurai Rebellion are her best-known films today (making way somewhat for this one, it seems), though cult film fans have seen her in Take Care Red Riding Hood, Remembering the Cosmos Flower, The River Fuefuki and in a forgotten adaptation of Yasunari Kawabata's The House of Sleeping Virgins. I thought forever this actress was Kotoe Hatsui, who appears in 12 Suzuki pictures playing mothers, old maids, and lesbian-coded characters. Kotoe Hatsui actually does appear in Sleep of the Beast with Yamaoka, and in The House of Sleeping Beauties. But they are not––as I have now discovered––the same person. Yamaoka plays an intriguing character here, romantic and harsh, brittle and strong in equal turns. She gets the benefit of some of Suzuki's best lighting to date, and there are some luminous closeups of her worthy of von Sternberg (this isn't so casual a reference; Suzuki has listed The Blue Angel as one of his top-ten favorite films).

Another notable member of the cast is Toru Abe, who plays the sleazy villain (Abe also plays a sleazy behind-the-scenes villain in Kanto Wanderer). This actor was an absolute workhorse, appearing in 287 projects over a 45-year career. Most of this is him playing heavies, so he's not in a lot of scenes, and I guess he has time to be plenty in-demand for this kind of work. The bottom line? He played mostly yakuza bosses. In this film he plays a sleazy wharf boss who lusts after Hisano Yamaoka's character. He is super-fun to watch, grinning in a gristly leer throughout.

Abe has a thug who functions a bit like The Dane in Miller's Crossing, with a similar homoeroticism (all subtext, so far as I remember––but the guy is constantly toying with a phallic-looking knife, he seems to violently hate women in particular, and it's all a bit hard to miss). The two of them make a fantastically sinister pair throughout the movie.

ACTION

Action is also a standout element of the film. Satan's Town was also filled with action, but the violence in that movie was filmed in a fairly standard style for the time, a lot of telephoto shots and horizontal tracking shots. Here Suzuki starts developing a more expressionistic approach to his action visuals. Witness these images from the initial fight scene, where cascades of rain create dynamic, expressionistic angles in the frames––angles Suzuki consciously seems to break with the characters' movements.

STAGING

Suzuki also seems to be stretching and growing in terms of the complexity of his staging. The earlier films are shot in a pretty standard deep-focus approach, people staring at other people, with only camera movement standing out as really dynamic and different. Here Suzuki is using the visual elements of the frame much more adventurously, creating unusual and somewhat disorienting compositions for the film's definitive visual storytelling.

The best sequence in the movie, where Suzuki experiments in what will be his signature style of discontinuous shooting and editing across a scene, is a gentle, would-be love scene between Nitani's hard-boiled ex-con and a sweet young woman played by Ikuko Kimuro. Kimuro is flirtatious and coy, and Nitani responds first by humoring her, then with a more aggressive romantic interest. Suzuki works very hard her to make the love scenes engaging without making them pat. Kimuro wanders up and down the trestle of a bridge, dropping her shoe into the water.

Typical of Suzuki's later work, the director makes the scene very physically palpable. When Nitani kisses her, and she runs, and he chases her, we are keenly aware she is running with one bare foot––the masochism of her otherwise coquetish-seeming expression of devotion lends the scene a seriousness which the character seems to be hiding from her would-be love.

I didn't mention Ikuko Kimuro alongside the other cast members. She plays the younger sister of Kasuga's singer/detective, a slightly spunky, straightforward girl who, against her better judgement, falls for Nitani's charms and his doomed romanticism. There is a way in which she is trying to pull Nitani out of the depths of his darkness in this scene. She stands on the trestle, looking down at him. Perhaps the way she loses her shoe in the murky water, and the way it upsets her, is a premonition that it isn't so easy to pull someone out of the darkness once they plummet into it.

I didn't notice until I started looking at the screencaps how much Suzuki emphasizes the verticality of space in the movie. Everyone is up high or down low, trying to get to the opposite of where they are. The nightclub where Yamaoka's character (one of the sisters) works has a plunging, winding staircase, which Suzuki uses again and again throughout the movie. Nitani enters for the first time and descends the staircase, into a hothouse, hellish netherworld. Later on, Yamaoka tries to ascend the stairs and escape. There is the constant sense of spatial displacement, of characters rising or sinking, of the camera rising or sinking (in the opening, the camera descends in a rainstorm onto the dock where Nitani is fighting for his life). This kind of "high and low" contrast is clearly meant to delineate a sort of "decent," working-class society (high) from a criminal underworld (low). The working class milieu is very threadbare; everyone is living in straightened circumstances. The night life of the criminal element is richer, more lush and seductive. Nitani's character has plunged from the working class world into this criminal underground, and while the underground welcomes him––as it welcomes everyone––it extracts a high price in order for you to belong. The question is one of what price Nitani should pay. He kills a man––he believes he kills him––in self-defense. He goes to prison and everyone he knows suffers for it. He returns to make things right, but it involves plunging into the underworld, staining his sense of nobility, only recently washed clean thanks to a change of identity. There is the sense that Nitani intends to pay the price the underworld demands of him in order that the scales balance. At the end of the day, he still has one foot in the "decent" world up top, and he has to pay there, too. Kimuro's character is the most decent of the lot (I suppose Kasuga is like that, as well), but she really doesn't get what she wants, either. Meanwhile, the gangsters do as they do, working skullduggery in the shadows and trying to look respectable for the top-dwellers.

Illuminating the vertical orientation of this metaphor, Suzuki is learning subtle ways to enhance the meaning of his films. Satan's Town featured no such clever visual conceit. Here, Suzuki doubles down on his metaphor, making it a visual strategy of the movie at large. This verticality is present in the staging and in the camera motion throughout the movie. It's interesting to see it as so conscious and present and effective a strategy as it is here––the next year, Nikkatsu will mandate a line-wide switch to cinemascope, and Suzuki wisely recognizes that the shape of the wide cinemascope screen precludes any further emphasis on a vertical orientation. In Underworld Beauty, his first film in the newly-christened "Nikkatsuscope," he pivots immediately to a visual strategy emphasizing horizontal staging and movement. When Suzuki later returns to the 1.33:1 aspect ratio for Zigeunerweisen, Mirage Theater, and Pistol Opera, he deliberately emphasizes framing, to the exclusion of most camera movement; so we don't really get to see this kind of unorthodox visual plan for a movie until much later, and never will we see this particular sort of shooting strategy again from Suzuki. It is a little programmatic, but it does help to inaugurate for us the patented Suzuki plan-sequence, where a visual and editing strategy gets adopted for a specific scene or sequence of a film. The trestle sequence is by far the most Suzuki-esque thing in this movie, and maybe the most individualistic construction in a Suzuki movie to this point. The next movie I cover, The Flower and the Angry Waves, from much later on, is filled with these sorts of plan sequences, where the visualization and editing become catered to create a strikingly unique sequence.

The movie finishes in a blisteringly exciting sequence, where Nitani is attacked by the wharf boss' gang in a truck depot at night. Nitani wanders into the scene as twilight gives way, and lights will suddenly come on, and trucks charge at Nitani, seemingly at random, from their parking spaces. This finale involves both Nitani and Yamaoka riding fearlessly on top of and on the side of these trucks, getting pitched this way and that. This is the best action scene in the early Suzuki pictures, given a real luminous suspense thanks to expressionistic lighting. Then crooner Kasuga turns out to be an undercover harbor detective! The villains are bagged, but all is not well. The picture ends with a sour enough taste to make it respectably hard-boiled.

CINEMATOGRAPHY

Suzuki has already worked twice by this point with Kazue Nagatsuka, his mentor Hiroshi Noguchi's primary cinematographer––and later on Suzuki and Nagatsuka will continue to grow their collaboration. But Nagatsuka isn't on this film.; instead, Suzuki works for the first time with Toshitaro Nakao.

Suzuki credits Nagatsuka with being his essential collaborator prior to Takeo Kimura, but early in his career he works with Nakao on three films in which Suzuki seems to make conspicuous advancements in his visual lexicon: this movie, Underworld Beauty (Suzuki's first picture in 'scope), and Smashing the 0-Line (an experiment in a kind of "docu-drama" style which Suzuki won't pursue very far afterwards––also a movie where Shigeyoshi Mine is credited and seems to have shot a lot of it). With 52 films between 1954 and 1969, Nakao's career is not a standout one: these Suzuki pictures are his most famous movies, without question. He does lens an entry in Suzuki's mentor, Hiroshi Noguchi's She-Cat Gambler series, starring Suzuki's discovery, Yumiko Nogawa––which is a film that can still be seen if you look hard enough.

But I think that underwhelming bio doesn't do credit to what Nakao achieves on this picture. Suzuki's previous films had moments that looked great, but they had more visual inconsistency. This picture features a lot of expressionistic techniques, as well as an elegant sort of soft-focus, high-contrast look which is different from any other early Suzuki film. There are very noirish things done with light and shadow throughout, but also textures are very prominent––especially mist and rain and lonely lamp-light. The maritime-themed wharf bar is also exceptionally smoky and atmospheric.

This picture is way more German-Expressionist-looking than Suzuki's movies will resolve towards in the future––Nagatsuka's cinematography is more jewelled and crystalline than what Nakao is doing, and he likes more even exposure than Nakao, who in this and Smashing the 0-Line at least, seems to really like to push the exposure into high-contrast territory. This velvety, high-contrast, soft-focus space contributes a lot to the dreamlike atmosphere which makes this picture somewhat unique amongst Suzuki's earliest films. Nagatsuka, incidentally, will trend closer to this style decades later when he shoots Zigeunerweisen and Mirage Theater. Those pictures represent a return as well to the 1.33:1 aspect ratio these early films are shot in. The compositions are more extreme and angled here, perhaps in part because of the way the squared-off picture ratio renders all those diagonals dynamic.

THE DISC

Inn of Floating Weeds is the only black-and-white film on the third Nikkatsu blu ray set which has a 4k unrestored transfer of the picture. There is a lot of small, unimportant print damage throughout the picture––mostly pops and scratches, which I think you can see all over these screencaps, most likely. The picture is quite sharp, has a lot of depth of field, and has really great contrast. It all looks luminous, and for such an old and hitherto-thought-to-be-unimportant picture, this transfer preserves the film remarkably well. There is nothing to complain about here, to my eyes. It has the conspicuous feel of watching a print in a revival theater. I had seen only a very poor-quality taping of the picture off of television before this, and in that environment, the stylization of the cinematography had rendered a lot of the movie very murky and drab-looking. Here the movie explodes with what are for Suzuki visual innovations and dynamic, elegant closeups and details. This is the best presentation of the movie we are likely to get––but it really looks exceptionally grand, and I've found my appreciation for the movie has increased considerably now that I can see it a whole lot better.

MY TAKE

Peter Yacavone, and others seem to feel that Eight Hours of Fear, Suzuki's film following this, is the first of his pictures where he seems to be firing on all cylinders. That's an entertaining film with rich character work, successful suspense, and humor. That picture definitely comes together in a way you feel most people would be excited by the movie throughout. Inn of Floating Weeds doesn't come together in quite so full-throated a tone. There are things you wish were better explored in the movie––the doubling of the sisters, for instance, remains surprisingly vague for the amount of screen-time it gets. Hideaki Nitani is very green, and it sometimes shows. Yet there are so many effective scenes in this movie, and the action lands with a decisive feeling that contributes to the themes and makes things very dynamic. Suzuki is starting to load up particular scenes with innovations––the love scenes being the film's standout there. There is one at the harbor which is shot a little like a Bergman film, and the one on the trestle is pure Suzuki, cutting up the material to disrupt the audience's sense of continuity.

Other elements of the film are more conventional––the action scenes at the beginning and end, the conspiracy and the adventure attached to it, the secret identities being unmasked, etc. In spite of pretty deft handling of his performance, Hideaki Nitani rivals Michitaro Misuzhima for the title of Suzuki's most staid leading man. In this film, though, he seems game for violence and revenge, but just as much so for romance.

Another thing worth pointing out here is the year the film was released: 1957. Because Suzuki's movies have come to us so late in the day, as it were, it seems as if they are some form of neo-noir, digesting American noir cinema and regurgitating a sort of cross-polinated parody of it. But this picture is in style and subject matter in complete concert with film noir, coming out the same year as Odds Against Tomorrow. In other words, it is being made in what I think of as the late era of the original run of film noir titles. Peter Yacavone's book traces in quick snapshot the development of Nikkatsu's hard-boiled subgenre, and the way it seems to have emerged from paperback fiction more than the American noir movies. Yacavone seems to suggest Suzuki's mentor, Hiroshi Noguchi, is the prime originator of the subgenre of "Nikkatsu Akushon" cinema. It seems at this moment in 1957 like Nikkatsu is feeling their way around, looking for a role for Suzuki. Starting with Satan's Town and following upon it with this picture, they seem to be looking to make Suzuki a director of this Japanese form of film noir. Suzuki will continue to direct films with a hard-boiled edge to them for several years to follow: movies like Nude Girl with a Gun and Underworld Beauty will continue in this vein; then Suzuki will adapt Voice Without a Shadow from a Seicho Matsumoto novel, as well as the domestic noir, Sleep of the Beast, and the docu-noir Smashing the 0-Line (clearly made on the heels of Teruo Ishii's "Line" series), and one of his best noir, Passport to Darkness. The last picture you could call a "late-noir" title is, I think Take Aim at the Police Van, which seems almost like a sort of po-faced parody of the genre (one of the few Suzuki movies where the wheels seem to be falling off as you watch). By 1963's Youth of the Beast, we can't really call it noir anymore, but I think the neo-noir label fits that film very well, with its self-conscious analysis and repurposing of stale, old genre conventions. But for Inn of Floating Weeds and its near-contemporaries, what we are looking at really belongs in the cannon with other world noir, like The Bitter Stems.

The industrial wasteland of the docks is quite the striking setting for this movie. Here the harbor setting is a living, breathing part of the picture, which might come alive with enemies of the moment at any time.

The visuals are almost constantly quite breathtaking. I tend to like the movie a lot––though it doesn't have the sourness of Satan's Town or the coming innovations of Nude Girl with a Gun and Underworld Beauty. I doubt it will convert anyone to Suzuki-ism, but if you're already a fan, this is a very solid and interesting early effort. I guess in its obscurity it will remain a picture mostly for completists, but it's far better than you might expect it to be, and it begins to hint at the kind of skilled and artistically adventurous filmmaker Suzuki will become.
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The film has dream sequences, dark doubles, and a kind of sinister fatalism different than what we see of other "Nikkatsu Akushon" films of the era. It's "duende" is a much more romantic and yearning sort than is seen in the films of that hack Buichi Saito or even the more skillful Toshio Masuda. Also, we get the first really solid examples of Suzuki using framing and camera movement to distinguish himself substantially from other filmmakers at his company. Most of the Nikkatsu directors tend to limit their camerawork to tracking the subject's movements (with the occasional whip-pan here and there). Suzuki's camerawork is already starting to display a kind of directorial flourish. Sometimes the camera will move independent of the characters, with a mind of its own; Suzuki is starting to convey a consciousness of the camera that will be at odds with what Nikkatsu's executives want, but which will be an important aspect of the director's filmmaking style throughout his whole career.

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Moreso perhaps than in other early Suzuki pictures, the atmosphere is thick with this one.

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Suzuki was notoriously shy about discussing film influences, but he had obvious familiarity with German expressionism and surrealism. The closeups especially bear the notable influence of von Sternberg.

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Inn of Floating Weeds stars Hideaki Nitani, the so-called "backup" in Nikkatsu's Diamond Line. The Diamond Guys were mostly meant to seem like young, James-Dean-like hooligans, with a dangerous glamour. From early on, Nitani had a more adult, middle-aged physiognomy, and he was frequently made the villain of other Diamond Guys' movies (a notable villain in the Yujiro Ishihara-starring Red Handkerchief, for example), or a "friend"-coded character for the protagonist to bounce off of, or just a plain supporting actor, or major member of the supporting cast. He stars in this movie for Suzuki and in Man with a Shotgun, and is co-star of Voice Without a Shadow. He is a supporting player in Underworld Beauty, Eight Hours of Fear, The Boy Who Came Back, Blue Breasts (playing a conspicuous villain), and Tokyo Drifter (he is Shooting Star, Tetsuya Watari's older double from the gang). Nitani is rakishly handsome in still images, but in motion he he has fairly inanimate eyes and a stillness that is sometimes very appropriate for a character, and other times leads you to wonder if any of the character's thoughts are really passing through his head. His stolid performance works well here for a character who seems to be trying to exist adjacent to the darkness, a decent guy everyone thinks is a bad one––he's trouble, whether he means to be or not. He has a tousled romanticism that adds to the especially dreamy atmosphere of this movie.

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Though the film will certainly glamorize its leading actress, it's Nitani himself who is given the most breathless glamour and mystery. He often appears to emerge from or melt into the darkness (as in the lead actress' dream sequence), and his presence activates literally everyone else in the film––sometimes leading them to disaster. He is an homme fatale, with desire as his weapon, dragging the other amorous characters to their unwitting doom.

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This was, in fact, Nitani's first movie ever. He would go on to appear in 139 films and TV shows, in a career that lasted until 1992. His movie output slows in the mid-70s, with a sexy independent art film by Ko Nakahira called Variation as one of his last major movie projects. From then on he goes on to copious television credits, playing flinty older men. He has a 10-year run as the white-haired chief inspector on a cop show called Special Investigation Unit, where he looks conspicuously like Jean Gabin.

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The film is the kind of curious cross-polination of genres, Nikkatsu frequently seemed to want Suzuki to try out. It is, like Suzuki's first two movies, a Kaiyo picture, a movie built quickly to flesh out the feeling of a hit pop-song and capitalize on the song's usually brief window of popularity. The pop-song in question, "Inn of Floating Weeds," is sung in the film by Hachiro Kasuga, a popular crooner of the era.

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Kasuga was the star of Suzuki's second film, Singing Rope: Innocent Love at Sea, where he played a whaler and sings in montages where he harpoons whales. That film was a romantic, comic Kaiyo picture, where Kasuga sang his theme song again and again. Here Kasuga is integrated into the film in a more surreptitious way (he gives a fairly bad performance in Singing Rope, and the filmmakers seem to have course-corrected here to keep him in a more narrow spotlight). He plays a wandering guitarist who shows up at the inn, singing the inn's theme song.

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Late in the picture, the villains try to rub Nitani out, and we hear Kasuga singing the song. In a series of short scenes, we see the gangsters set up to throw a knife at Nitani from one location or another, only to have the singing Kasuga seemingly oblviously step right into the way, ruining their shot again and again. There is a surrealism to the character which is later explained in somewhat plausible detail. Unlike in Singing Rope, which seemed very focused on getting the song across a good number of times, Inn of Floating Weeds is more of a hybrid Kaiyo film, mashing up the musical source with a more overwhelming hard-boiled crime story. This is a fairly dark, fatalistic story, set in a bleak dockland, featuring characters with nearly morbid preoccupation with the past. The film is very stylish, built on and doubling-down on Suzuki's increasing control over atmosphere and staging. The source material seems very simple, without a lot of thematic complexity, but Suzuki's visualization is beginning to surpass those obstacles and give the film more meaning than it seems to have on the surface.

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The other lead role which is most notable is that of Hisano Yamaoka, who plays two sisters, the primary love interests in the picture. Hisano is not, to my eyes, an especially glamorous woman, but she brings a gravitas to these double-roles which anchors the picture in its dreamlike milieu. It is very hard to tell for most of the film which sister she is, and you find yourself doubting what is being told to you constantly about the two––a very notable early surreal scenario from Suzuki.

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Yamaoka doesn't act for Suzuki in too many films. She's in this picture, Sleep of the Beast, A Hell of a Guy aka Living by Karate, and Blood-Red Water in the Channel. She seems to be a Nikkatsu contract player at this time, but her notable films are mostly for other studios. Probably Elegant Beast and a brief role in Samurai Rebellion are her best-known films today (making way somewhat for this one, it seems), though cult film fans have seen her in Take Care Red Riding Hood, Remembering the Cosmos Flower, The River Fuefuki and in a forgotten adaptation of Yasunari Kawabata's The House of Sleeping Virgins. I thought forever this actress was Kotoe Hatsui, who appears in 12 Suzuki pictures playing mothers, old maids, and lesbian-coded characters. Kotoe Hatsui actually does appear in Sleep of the Beast with Yamaoka, and in The House of Sleeping Beauties. But they are not––as I have now discovered––the same person. Yamaoka plays an intriguing character here, romantic and harsh, brittle and strong in equal turns. She gets the benefit of some of Suzuki's best lighting to date, and there are some luminous closeups of her worthy of von Sternberg (this isn't so casual a reference; Suzuki has listed The Blue Angel as one of his top-ten favorite films).

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Another notable member of the cast is Toru Abe, who plays the sleazy villain (Abe also plays a sleazy behind-the-scenes villain in Kanto Wanderer). This actor was an absolute workhorse, appearing in 287 projects over a 45-year career. Most of this is him playing heavies, so he's not in a lot of scenes, and I guess he has time to be plenty in-demand for this kind of work. Just by the projects he has worked on, Abe has an impressive filmography. He's in pictures starting during WWII, appearing in Keisuke Kinoshita's Jubilation Street, in Ozu's Tokyo Story, in Yujiro Ishihara hits The Stormy Man, The Eagle and the Hawk, and The Champion (amongst others––he seems a frequent foil for Ishihara, for Akira Kobayashi, and for Michitaro Mizushima around this time), The Human Condition Part I, The River Fuefuki, several films in the Zatoichi series, the early Ken Takakura vehicle An Outlaw, Eichii Kudo's amazing The Great Killing, the Sleepy Eyes of Death series, multiple episodes of the Abashiri Prison series, at least a couple of Hoodlum Soldier movies, Tai Kato's Blood of Revenge, Wrath of Daimajin, entries in the Family Crest series, the Crimson Bat series, the Red Peony Gambler series, and the Okatsu the Fugitive series. He appears in Tora! Tora! Tora!, in Duel at Fort Ezo, in Blind Woman's Curse, the Silk Hat Boss series, the Wicked Priest series, in the Girl Boss Blues series (he's in my favorite of these: Girl Boss - Crazy Ball Game), in the Yoshio Harada trilogy which includes The Fearless Avenger, the Lady Snowblood series and the Truck Rascal series; he's in Cops vs. Thugs, The Ballad of Orin, Resurrection of the Golden Wolf, Demon Pond, The Blazing Valiant, and the Shogun miniseries. he also voices Anne's father in an anime adaptation of the Diary of Anne Frank. For Seijun Suzuki he appeared first in this movie, then in Underworld Beauty, The Boy Who Came Back, Take Aim at the Police Van, Million-Dollar Smash-and-Grab, and Kanto Wanderer––after which he seemed to move on from his Nikkatsu projects and take up work primarily for Toei. The bottom line? He played mostly yakuza bosses. In this film he plays a sleazy wharf boss who lusts after Hisano Yamaoka's character. He is super-fun to watch, grinning in a gristly leer throughout.

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Abe has a thug who functions a bit like The Dane in Miller's Crossing, with a similar homoeroticism (all subtext, so far as I remember––but the guy is constantly toying with a phallic-looking knife, he seems to violently hate women in particular, and it's all a bit hard to miss). The two of them make a fantastically sinister pair throughout the movie.

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ACTION

Action is also a standout element of the film. Satan's Town was also filled with action, but the violence in that movie was filmed in a fairly standard style for the time, a lot of telephoto shots and horizontal tracking shots. Here Suzuki starts developing a more expressionistic approach to his action visuals. Witness these images from the initial fight scene, where cascades of rain create dynamic, expressionistic angles in the frames––angles Suzuki consciously seems to break with the characters' movements.

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STAGING

Suzuki also seems to be stretching and growing in terms of the complexity of his staging. The earlier films are shot in a pretty standard deep-focus approach, people staring at other people, with only camera movement standing out as really dynamic and different. Here Suzuki is using the visual elements of the frame much more adventurously, creating unusual and somewhat disorienting compositions for the film's definitive visual storytelling.

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The best sequence in the movie, where Suzuki experiments in what will be his signature style of discontinuous shooting and editing across a scene, is a gentle, would-be love scene between Nitani's hard-boiled ex-con and a sweet young woman played by Ikuko Kimuro. Kimuro is flirtatious and coy, and Nitani responds first by humoring her, then with a more aggressive romantic interest. Suzuki works very hard her to make the love scenes engaging without making them pat. Kimuro wanders up and down the trestle of a bridge, dropping her shoe into the water.

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Typical of Suzuki's later work, the director makes the scene very physically palpable. When Nitani kisses her, and she runs, and he chases her, we are keenly aware she is running with one bare foot––the masochism of her otherwise coquetish-seeming expression of devotion lends the scene a seriousness which the character seems to be hiding from her would-be love.

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I didn't mention Ikuko Kimuro alongside the other cast members. She plays the younger sister of Kasuga's singer/detective, a slightly spunky, straightforward girl who, against her better judgement, falls for Nitani's charms and his doomed romanticism. There is a way in which she is trying to pull Nitani out of the depths of his darkness in this scene. She stands on the trestle, looking down at him. Perhaps the way she loses her shoe in the murky water, and the way it upsets her, is a premonition that it isn't so easy to pull someone out of the darkness once they plummet into it.

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I didn't notice until I started looking at the screencaps how much Suzuki emphasizes the verticality of space in the movie. Everyone is up high or down low, trying to get to the opposite of where they are. The nightclub where Yamaoka's character (one of the sisters) works has a plunging, winding staircase, which Suzuki uses again and again throughout the movie. Nitani enters for the first time and descends the staircase, into a hothouse, hellish netherworld. Later on, Yamaoka tries to ascend the stairs and escape. There is the constant sense of spatial displacement, of characters rising or sinking, of the camera rising or sinking (in the opening, the camera descends in a rainstorm onto the dock where Nitani is fighting for his life). This kind of "high and low" contrast is clearly meant to delineate a sort of "decent," working-class society (high) from a criminal underworld (low). The working class milieu is very threadbare; everyone is living in straightened circumstances. The night life of the criminal element is richer, more lush and seductive. Nitani's character has plunged from the working class world into this criminal underground, and while the underground welcomes him––as it welcomes everyone––it extracts a high price in order for you to belong. The question is one of what price Nitani should pay. He kills a man––he believes he kills him––in self-defense. He goes to prison and everyone he knows suffers for it. He returns to make things right, but it involves plunging into the underworld, staining his sense of nobility, only recently washed clean thanks to a change of identity. There is the sense that Nitani intends to pay the price the underworld demands of him in order that the scales balance. At the end of the day, he still has one foot in the "decent" world up top, and he has to pay there, too. Kimuro's character is the most decent of the lot (I suppose Kasuga is like that, as well), but she really doesn't get what she wants, either. Meanwhile, the gangsters do as they do, working skullduggery in the shadows and trying to look respectable for the top-dwellers.

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Illuminating the vertical orientation of this metaphor, Suzuki is learning subtle ways to enhance the meaning of his films. Satan's Town featured no such clever visual conceit. Here, Suzuki doubles down on his metaphor, making it a visual strategy of the movie at large. This verticality is present in the staging and in the camera motion throughout the movie. It's interesting to see it as so conscious and present and effective a strategy as it is here––the next year, Nikkatsu will mandate a line-wide switch to cinemascope, and Suzuki wisely recognizes that the shape of the wide cinemascope screen precludes any further emphasis on a vertical orientation. In Underworld Beauty, his first film in the newly-christened "Nikkatsuscope," he pivots immediately to a visual strategy emphasizing horizontal staging and movement. When Suzuki later returns to the 1.33:1 aspect ratio for Zigeunerweisen, Mirage Theater, and Pistol Opera, he deliberately emphasizes framing, to the exclusion of most camera movement; so we don't really get to see this kind of unorthodox visual plan for a movie until much later, and never will we see this particular sort of shooting strategy again from Suzuki. It is a little programmatic, but it does help to inaugurate for us the patented Suzuki plan-sequence, where a visual and editing strategy gets adopted for a specific scene or sequence of a film. The trestle sequence is by far the most Suzuki-esque thing in this movie, and maybe the most individualistic construction in a Suzuki movie to this point. The next movie I cover, The Flower and the Angry Waves, from much later on, is filled with these sorts of plan sequences, where the visualization and editing become catered to create a strikingly unique sequence.

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The movie finishes in a blisteringly exciting sequence, where Nitani is attacked by the wharf boss' gang in a truck depot at night. Nitani wanders into the scene as twilight gives way, and lights will suddenly come on, and trucks charge at Nitani, seemingly at random, from their parking spaces. This finale involves both Nitani and Yamaoka riding fearlessly on top of and on the side of these trucks, getting pitched this way and that. This is the best action scene in the early Suzuki pictures, given a real luminous suspense thanks to expressionistic lighting. Then crooner Kasuga turns out to be an undercover harbor detective! The villains are bagged, but all is not well. The picture ends with a sour enough taste to make it respectably hard-boiled.

CINEMATOGRAPHY

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Suzuki has already worked twice by this point with Kazue Nagatsuka, his mentor Hiroshi Noguchi's primary cinematographer––and later on Suzuki and Nagatsuka will continue to grow their collaboration. But Nagatsuka isn't on this film.; instead, Suzuki works for the first time with Toshitaro Nakao.

Suzuki credits Nagatsuka with being his essential collaborator prior to Takeo Kimura, but early in his career he works with Nakao on three films in which Suzuki seems to make conspicuous advancements in his visual lexicon: this movie, Underworld Beauty (Suzuki's first picture in 'scope), and Smashing the 0-Line (an experiment in a kind of "docu-drama" style which Suzuki won't pursue very far afterwards––also a movie where Shigeyoshi Mine is credited and seems to have shot a lot of it). With 52 films between 1954 and 1969, Nakao's career is not a standout one: these Suzuki pictures are his most famous movies, without question. He does lens an entry in Suzuki's mentor, Hiroshi Noguchi's She-Cat Gambler series, starring Suzuki's discovery, Yumiko Nogawa––which is a film that can still be seen if you look hard enough.

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But I think that underwhelming bio doesn't do credit to what Nakao achieves on this picture. Suzuki's previous films had moments that looked great, but they had more visual inconsistency. This picture features a lot of expressionistic techniques, as well as an elegant sort of soft-focus, high-contrast look which is different from any other early Suzuki film. There are very noirish things done with light and shadow throughout, but also textures are very prominent––especially mist and rain and lonely lamp-light. The maritime-themed wharf bar is also exceptionally smoky and atmospheric.

This picture is way more German-Expressionist-looking than Suzuki's movies will resolve towards in the future––Nagatsuka's cinematography is more jewelled and crystalline than what Nakao is doing, and he likes more even exposure than Nakao, who in this and Smashing the 0-Line at least, seems to really like to push the exposure into high-contrast territory. This velvety, high-contrast, soft-focus space contributes a lot to the dreamlike atmosphere which makes this picture somewhat unique amongst Suzuki's earliest films. Nagatsuka, incidentally, will trend closer to this style decades later when he shoots Zigeunerweisen and Mirage Theater. Those pictures represent a return as well to the 1.33:1 aspect ratio these early films are shot in. The compositions are more extreme and angled here, perhaps in part because of the way the squared-off picture ratio renders all those diagonals dynamic.

THE DISC

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Inn of Floating Weeds is the only black-and-white film on the third Nikkatsu blu ray set which has a 4k unrestored transfer of the picture. There is a lot of small, unimportant print damage throughout the picture––mostly pops and scratches, which I think you can see all over these screencaps, most likely. The picture is quite sharp, has a lot of depth of field, and has really great contrast. It all looks luminous, and for such an old and hitherto-thought-to-be-unimportant picture, this transfer preserves the film remarkably well. There is nothing to complain about here, to my eyes. It has the conspicuous feel of watching a print in a revival theater. I had seen only a very poor-quality taping of the picture off of television before this, and in that environment, the stylization of the cinematography had rendered a lot of the movie very murky and drab-looking. Here the movie explodes with what are for Suzuki visual innovations and dynamic, elegant closeups and details. This is the best presentation of the movie we are likely to get––but it really looks exceptionally grand, and I've found my appreciation for the movie has increased considerably now that I can see it a whole lot better.

MY TAKE

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Peter Yacavone, and others seem to feel that Eight Hours of Fear, Suzuki's film following this, is the first of his pictures where he seems to be firing on all cylinders. That's an entertaining film with rich character work, successful suspense, and humor. That picture definitely comes together in a way you feel most people would be excited by the movie throughout. Inn of Floating Weeds doesn't come together in quite so full-throated a tone. There are things you wish were better explored in the movie––the doubling of the sisters, for instance, remains surprisingly vague for the amount of screen-time it gets. Hideaki Nitani is very green, and it sometimes shows. Yet there are so many effective scenes in this movie, and the action lands with a decisive feeling that contributes to the themes and makes things very dynamic. Suzuki is starting to load up particular scenes with innovations––the love scenes being the film's standout there. There is one at the harbor which is shot a little like a Bergman film, and the one on the trestle is pure Suzuki, cutting up the material to disrupt the audience's sense of continuity.

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Other elements of the film are more conventional––the action scenes at the beginning and end, the conspiracy and the adventure attached to it, the secret identities being unmasked, etc. In spite of pretty deft handling of his performance, Hideaki Nitani rivals Michitaro Misuzhima for the title of Suzuki's most staid leading man. In this film, though, he seems game for violence and revenge, but just as much so for romance.

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Another thing worth pointing out here is the year the film was released: 1957. Because Suzuki's movies have come to us so late in the day, as it were, it seems as if they are some form of neo-noir, digesting American noir cinema and regurgitating a sort of cross-polinated parody of it. But this picture is in style and subject matter in complete concert with film noir, coming out the same year as Odds Against Tomorrow, The Crimson Kimono, My Gun is Quick, The Lineup, Touch of Evil, The Sweet Smell of Success, The Garment Jungle, Nightfall, The Brothers Rico, The Burglar, and Chicago Confidential. In other words, it is being made in what I think of as the late era of the original run of film noir titles. Peter Yacavone's book traces in quick snapshot the development of Nikkatsu's hard-boiled subgenre, and the way it seems to have emerged from paperback fiction more than the American noir movies. Yacavone seems to suggest Suzuki's mentor, Hiroshi Noguchi, is the prime originator of the subgenre of "Nikkatsu Akushon" cinema. It seems at this moment in 1957 like Nikkatsu is feeling their way around, looking for a role for Suzuki. Starting with Satan's Town and following upon it with this picture, they seem to be looking to make Suzuki a director of this Japanese form of film noir. Suzuki will continue to direct films with a hard-boiled edge to them for several years to follow: movies like Nude Girl with a Gun and Underworld Beauty will continue in this vein; then Suzuki will adapt Voice Without a Shadow from a Seicho Matsumoto novel, as well as the domestic noir, Sleep of the Beast, and the docu-noir Smashing the 0-Line (clearly made on the heels of Teruo Ishii's "Line" series), and one of his best noir, Passport to Darkness. The last picture you could call a "late-noir" title is, I think Take Aim at the Police Van, which seems almost like a sort of po-faced parody of the genre (one of the few Suzuki movies where the wheels seem to be falling off as you watch). By 1963's Youth of the Beast, we can't really call it noir anymore, but I think the neo-noir label fits that film very well, with its self-conscious analysis and repurposing of stale, old genre conventions. But for Inn of Floating Weeds and its near-contemporaries, what we are looking at really belongs in the cannon with other world noir, like The Bitter Stems. When Noir Alley could no longer avoid showing a Suzuki title, the film that they screened was Take Aim at the Police Van, but they could have done very well with one of Suzuki's earlier titles, made during the original era of film noir, like Satan's Town, Passport to Darkness, or this film. Except for the obligatory title song and the arch way the film integrates its singer, this is mostly indistinguishable from other high-quality noir movies of its era from around the world.

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The industrial wasteland of the docks is quite the striking setting for this movie. Cheers at the Harbor spent a lot of time in other locations, like the dog-tracks, making it not so ideal a use of harbor imagery, etc. Here the harbor setting is a living, breathing part of the picture, which might come alive with enemies of the moment at any time.

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The visuals are almost constantly quite breathtaking. I tend to like the movie a lot––though it doesn't have the sourness of Satan's Town or the coming innovations of Nude Girl with a Gun and Underworld Beauty. I doubt it will convert anyone to Suzuki-ism, but if you're already a fan, this is a very solid and interesting early effort. I guess in its obscurity it will remain a picture mostly for completists, but it's far better than you might expect it to be, and it begins to hint at the kind of skilled and artistically adventurous filmmaker Suzuki will become.

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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#178 Post by feihong »

THE FLOWER & THE ANGRY WAVES

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The more I stare at all these screencaps of different Suzuki movies, the more I begin to feel that I can recognize these individual contributions of Suzuki's various collaborators. It seems to me that, on the set of Kanto Wanderer, cinematographer Shigeyoshi Mine seems to come to the fore. The most astonishing effects of that movie are cinematographic, with Mine's ability to flood the image with solid color. If my premise holds any water, then The Flower & the Angry Waves is Art Director Takeo Kimura's chance to lead. Not only does Kimura deliver a dense and impressionistic Taisho-era Akasuka, rippling with detail; he also co-writes the picture.

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The Flower & the Angry Waves arrived in 1964 as second in a run of three box-office hits in a row for Suzuki. It is after Kanto Wanderer and immediately before Gate of Flesh. The film was a second success in a run of prototype yakuza films by Suzuki, made with star Akira Kobayashi. Kanto Wanderer had been the bottom-half of a double-bill with Nikkatsu's most successful picture of the year, The Insect Woman. With Flower, Suzuki was directing the A-picture. Most conspicuous about the change is the increase in budget. The Flower & the Angry Waves looks a lot more expensive than previous Suzuki pictures.

It has a huge cast unusual for Suzuki. And the period detail requires large studio sets created in Kimura's surreal style. It has re-creation of Taisho-era Asakusa, with a model of the Ryounkaku, the 12-storey tower which was the landmark of the Asakusa theater district until the Great Kanto Earthquake damaged it beyond repair. So we can date this story to the era prior to 1923. Except that the Manchurian "expedition" is a feature of the movie. Kikuji, Kobayashi's character, ends the movie attempting to flee to Manchuria. So we are maybe looking at the era of incursions into Manchuria after the Russo-Japanese war, but before the 1931 invasion.

Two motifs dominate. Entrapment and theater, or illusion. These themes are juxtaposed throughout the picture, and finally come together in scenes towards the end. Kikuji, hero of The Flower & the Angry Waves, interrupts a wedding and takes away the bride. Next time we see him, he is working security for a building site near Asakusa. There is an air of mystery about him; he is hunted by a man in a Zorro costume. He shares meaningful glances with all sorts of people throughout the theater district. If there's an air of mystery in Asakusa, Kikuji seems to be right at the center of that mystery.

A lot of secrets get revealed. Kikuji is yakuza, on the run stealing his boss's daughter. The two of them are fugitives. Kikuji works for a building contractor (who, it turns out, has mob ties that threaten Kikuji) and his oyabun's daughter Oshige works as a waitress in a small bar nestled in the theater district. They're hoping to make enough money to buy passage to Manchuria, where they intend to live as man and wife on the new "frontier." In fact, the two have more secrets they hide until even the last minutes of the final reel. Thus the feeling that Asakusa is like a trap for Kikuji and his bride-to-be. Anyone might step out of the woodwork and kidnap, kill, or arrest them. The closeness of their impending apprehension is realized throughout the film in the endlessly repeating motif of bars across the image. We are constantly looking at our heroes peering between the bars of one "cage" or another.

The screenplay for The Flower & the Angry Waves has Takeo Kimura's fingerprints all over it, with sequences of vivid design that are spectacular, and at the same time obscure narrative and ignore character progression. But the movies that resulted include Tokyo Drifter, Fighting Elegy, Branded to Kill, Capone Cries Hard, and Zigeunerweisen. This is a lineup of some of Suzuki’s greatest. But it’s worth noting that in the other projects where Kimura writes by himself, or with Suzuki, and without someone like Tanaka or Atsushi Yamatoya contributing, there is this unusual feel that the characters need not actually develop, but rather, need mostly to be revealed. Kikuji is one such character, a man of wild passion, pinned between competing sets of obligations. He has forsaken the yakuza life for love, but can he truly let go of his yakuza nature? And will this love be enough to get by on while he leads a life forever in disguise?

The film's most vivid subplot is about the construction union attempting to fight off the encroachment of the mob. Kikuji's yakuza nature draws him to positions where he can use violence to establish authority. He works as a guard at one of the building sites, not only protecting the site itself, but possibly keeping the works in line, as well, at the orders of his boss, a grim, unsmiling capitalist master player.

The big setpiece of the picture is a rumble between the union and the yakuza. This scene alone is the biggest thing Suzuki has ever filmed up until that point, with huge widescreen compositions and tracking shots, taking in swathes of action. Kikuji tries to stay out of it, until a member of the union he really seems to care about gets killed. This inspires Kikuji to join the battle for the workers.

As a result of his divided loyalty Kikuji is beaten and disfigured. Kikuji is cared for by Manryu, a geisha which the film lingers on quite a lot, arriving in Kikuji's life just as he is beginning to appreciate and identify with those living in disguise. Of all the characters pretending to be something they're not in the movie, Manryu wears the illusion most gracefully, and Kikuji seems to appreciate the way in which she conjures the illusion of passion for a living.

Thing is, Manryu's passion for Kikuji is real. As the film goes on, it's clear that these two have a great deal in common, and a warm appreciation for one another. Throughout the movie, Manryu repeatedly rescues Kikuji, each time with increasing consequences for her. At one point she is forced to sleep with an odious yakuza client to save Kikuji. We really get to know Manryu in the movie, and in the end, we hardly know Kikuji's wife. The wife remains such a cipher, and Manryu is the one in Kikuji's life, risking everything for him. After a movie's worth of Manryu's generous, creative, lively persona, the spoiled oyabun's daughter just seems so...insubstantial. It seems purposeful use of Matsubara, who largely is without dialogue for the more suspenseful scenes where she is stalked by both a killer and a cop.

The cop is a funny and sinister character, a flat-footed gumshoe who always misses the actual crimes taking place right under his nose. He is sweet on Oshige, and he makes constant, unwelcome advances. Later on, this character gets darker, setting up a dragnet in the theater district for Kikuji.

The killer Kenji is a pure psychopath, who loves doing violence––especially to women. But the film compares him powerfully with Kikuji. Kenji is abducted off the streets of the theater district in order to report to his own boss. This incredibly stylized scene ripples with color, but one also sees Kenji's suspicion as his boss harangues him. Kenji does all the things for the mob Kikuji has sworn to abandon, but one gets the sense that, but for his sort of twisted frustration over his own potency, he might rebel as Kikuji did. He is just the type. But what does that say, reflexively, about who Kikuji used to be?

If Kikuji and his secret bride are hemmed-in, trapped in a series of potential prisons, the climax of the picture will require Kikuji to don a mask to pass through the climactic police dragnet. The theater district is teeming with people in disguise, and Kikuji blends in. Suzuki and Kimura craft dense mazes in the theater district set. There is a repeated shot Suzuki uses throughout the sequence where a girl will run a message across the street, and Suzuki's camera will track her, following at a high enough angle to see over the teeming crowds. The effect emphasizes the jiggling of the girls' hairpiece as it bobs above the fray. The shot ends up being recreated and expanded upon by Suzuki's close friend, Masahiro Shinoda, six years later in Scandalous Adventures of Buraikan, for Shima Iwashita's entrance.

The film moves towards a visual abstraction. At the train station, high snow drifts form ominous shapes and carve out a cold maze leading Kikuji and his secret bride to freedom. The lovers see each other in the distance, but Kenji is also there, along with Manryu and the cop. Everything is a disaster.

The picture ends with the cop having to make a decision about what to do with Oshige (she seems to have been crippled by Kenji's sword). He can finally have her, and yet, as Oshige reveals all her secrets, the cop begins to learn just how low he would be to try and make her his at this point.

It's ambiguous. Tamagawa slings Matsubara over his shoulder, and announces to the snow and silence that Kikuji will board the train for Manchuria––his wife following him later. Kikuji watches them leave, then emerges from the shadows and yells Oshige's name desperately into the night. Like some of Suzuki's most violent characters to come––Lieutenant Mikami in Story of a Prostitute and Kiroku the horny student recruit in Fighting Elegy––Kikuji is bound for Manchuria, and the coming war. He is himself an exponent of a kind of suppressed violence, just as they are, and just like them, he stands to be the fanatical tool of the imperial war there. The adventure that awaits Kikuji will be more harrowing than his experience in the Asakusa theater district, and without any saving artifice of theater. Will the inspector really keep his word, or is Oshige already lost to him, as he seems to feel is most likely? Was all this play-acting for naught?

MY TAKE

Kanto Wanderer exploded with innovations, but the elements that are radical in Flower & the Angry Waves are buried in the background details of the picture (the grim foreboding of the trip to Manchuria on the horizon, Kikuji's cruel abandonment of Manryu to fulfill the romantic fiction of his abandonment of the yakuza). The surface of Flower is A) much more expensive looking than any movie Suzuki made to this date (the large sets, the teeming extras), and B) a little more conservative––at least, on the surface––than the techniques and storytelling of Suzuki's other pictures.

My theory is that this is the first film since the Koji Wada vehicles where Suzuki gets the chance to make an "A" picture. When this has happened in the past, we often get a curtailing of Suzuki's stylization to select details (the color-changing stuffed dog in Fighting Delinquents, or the Zorro-like killer Kenji in this film), and a greater sense that Suzuki is attempting to toe the line. The A-picture directors at Nikkatsu play it safer than Suzuki, in both style and subject matter. If the film seems less than either Kanto Wanderer before it or Gate of Flesh after it, it's because Suzuki is trying to prove he and Kimura can do a straightforward hit in the company mold. The film did great, and was followed by another big-budget A-picture for Suzuki, Gate of Flesh, before Our Blood Will Not Forgive stops the freight train. When Suzuki was petitioning his bosses for the same creative conditions as Immamura, one can take a look and the run of Kanto Wanderer, The Flower & the Angry Waves, and Gate of Flesh––each more successful than the last––and see why.

But I think the picture is a little more charged and subversive around the edges than it might have been. The Taisho setting is clearly inspiring for Suzuki. The blending of theater into real life is fascinating, and one can see it reaching forward and inspiring Shinoda when it came time for Buraikan (a movie which I increasingly feel owes a considerable debt to this picture's innovations). The sense of Asakusa as a maze is pretty intoxicating. I even like the more conventional middle story of the union workers fight against the yakuza and the bosses. The unambiguous pairing of the owners and gangsters is full-throated in a way you don't see in many movies. Kobayashi is sort of at peak hotness here. And the visualization is overwhelming.

Is this movie good? Yes, though the pictures on either side of it feel clearly a bit more innovative and fresh. But I like The Flower & the Angry Waves. On the big screen it was very suspenseful.

THE DISC

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The Flower & the Angry Waves is one of Suzuki's least-considered pictures today, due to its obscurity. Like Fighting Delinquents, it was released in a miserable, wretchedly interlaced DVD by Yume Pictures in Britain––and it seemed to suffer the same sort of invisibility as that film. But it arrived in 1964 as second in a run of three box-office hits in a row for Suzuki, after Kanto Wanderer and immediately before Gate of Flesh. The film was a second success in a run of prototype yakuza films by Suzuki, made with star Akira Kobayashi. And it was frequently referenced in Suzuki's court case, in defense against Nikkatsu president Kyusaku Hori's claim that Suzuki's films made "no sense and no money." But this positioning repays more scrutiny.

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Kanto Wanderer was an early experiment for Nikkatsu, dipping its toes into the new yakuza pictures which were supplanting their "Sun Tribe" and "Nikkatsu Akushon" genres. It was a big hit for the director, who was constantly being admonished by his employers for exactly the kind of stylistic excesses that made Kanto Wanderer so popular. It re-teamed Suzuki with star actor Akira Kobayashi––apparently at Kobayashi's request––and everyone seemed happy with the result. The success of the movie led to an immediate follow-up; another yakuza movie with Kobayashi. But the resulting film was quite different than previous. Kanto Wanderer had been the bottom-half of a double-bill with Nikkatsu's most successful picture of the year, Shohei Immamura's The Insect Woman. With Flower, Suzuki was now directing the A-picture. The film plays ahead of a much shorter Kaiyo film, Beautiful Teenage Years. But most conspicuous about the change from Kanto Wanderer to this film is the obvious increase in budget. The Flower & the Angry Waves––like Gate of Flesh after––looks a lot more expensive than previous Suzuki pictures.

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Potentially, Flower and Gate might be the biggest-budget movies of Suzuki's time at Nikkatsu. They both have huge casts unusual for Suzuki's pictures. And the period detail of both these movies requires large, specially-built studio sets created in Kimura's surreal style. Flower has re-creation of Taisho-era Asakusa, with a cleverly-constructed model of the Ryounkaku, the 12-storey "Cloud-Surpassing Tower," which was the landmark of the Asakusa theater district until the Great Kanto Earthquake damaged it beyond repair. So we can date this story to the era prior to 1923, right? Except that the Manchurian "expedition" is a feature of the background of the movie. Kikuji, Kobayashi's character, ends the movie attempting to flee Asakusa for Manchuria. So we are maybe looking at the era of political incursions into Manchuria after the Russo-Japanese war, but before the 1931 invasion. A year is not given, and the characters tend to dress in traditional style, with only a precious few of the western costume elements we see later in Zigeunerweisen and Mirage Theater (which we know takes place in 1926).

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One element that might make it easier to narrow down the year is the unique costume of the movie's villain, high-strung yakuza hitman/cho-han dealer Kenji, played by Tamio Kawaji. This is pretty close to a Zorro costume, and the Zorro costume first appears in the 1920 Douglas Fairbanks movie The Mark of Zorro. Humor me: it gives us a 3-year window before the 'quake. Allow some time for Kenji to see The Mark of Zorro or its advertising, and emulate it, and it's more like a 2-year window. So my guess, based on not enough information to be sure, is the movie is set between the beginning of 1922 and autumn of 1923. The earthquake could happen just as Kikuji leaves for Manchuria, after all. I'll come back to Kenji and to the actor.

Kanto Wanderer was satirical, in that the yakuza of the picture––mercilessly mocked by Suzuki throughout––live as if they were in the Taisho period, even though the movie takes place in 1963. And while Suzuki juxtaposes modern people laughing at stiff, formal gangsters trapped in the past to the advantage of that film's avant-garde approach and to the movie's themes, when I see Flower I can't help wonder if Kanto Wanderer wasn't meant to be set in the Taisho period, but that was deemed impractical on the budget allotted. Taisho era settings are bustling with life in this picture, and in fact, though Flower will be much more thematically straightforward than Kanto, the wayward modern impulse seems to have gone into the production design, the sets and costumes. So the most modern part of The Flower & the Angry Waves is that, and the special mis en scene those elements help to invoke.

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Two frequent motifs dominate. The first entrapment, the second, theater, or illusion. These themes are juxtaposed restlessly throughout the picture, and they finally come together in a series of exciting scenes towards the end. Kikuji, the hero of The Flower & the Angry Waves, interrupts a wedding and takes away the bride. Next time we see him, he is working security for a building site near Asakusa by day, and hanging out in the theater district by night. There is an air of mystery about him; he is hunted by a man in a Zorro costume. He shares meaningful glances with all sorts of people throughout the theater district. And he's ready for action. When the Zorro guy attacks him with a sword hidden in a cane, Kikuji has a walking-stick that doubles as a spear, as well. If there'ss an air of mystery in Asakusa, Kikuji seems to be right at the center of that mystery.

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A lot of secrets get gradually revealed. Kikuji is yakuza, on the run for stealing his boss's daughter from her wedding. The two of them are fugitives in the theater district, Kikuji working for a building contractor (who, it turns out, has mob ties that threaten Kikuji) and his oyabun's daughter Oshige works as a waitress in a small bar nestled in the theater district. They're hoping to make enough money to buy passage to Manchuria, where they intend to live as man and wife on the new "frontier." In fact, the two have more secrets they hide until even the last minutes of the final reel––the whole film reels under the weight of secrets. Thus the feeling that Asakusa is like a trap for Kikuji and his bride-to-be. Anyone might step out of the woodwork and kidnap, kill, or arrest them. The closeness of their impending apprehension is realized throughout the film in the endlessly repeating motif of bars across the image.

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Suffice to say, building a complete studio-bound set for almost the whole picture, Kimura can insert these bars anywhere. We are constantly looking at our heroes peering between the bars of one "cage" or another.

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Kimura is listed as third screenwriter on the film, after Keiichi Abe (predominantly a TV writer) and Kazuo Funahashi (writer of a ton of work, from Portrait of Madame Yuki to The Black Test Car to at least 5 entires in the Hoodlum Soldier series). Later on Kimura will author original screenplays for Capone Cries Hard and his own films as a director (Kimura holds the Guinness world record for oldest film director making a debut film, at age 90), but in the era of this movie, Kimura was about to become part of Suzuki's Guru Hachiro writing group, and he and Suzuki would rewrite the screenplay for Tokyo Drifter from the ground up, and I'm guessing this is another case where Kimura stepped in to rewrite. The screenplay for The Flower & the Angry Waves has Kimura's fingerprints all over it, offering sequences with vivid design elements that make the scenes spectacular, and at the same time obscuring the narrative progression and ignoring character progression.

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This has never been a totally bad thing. The movies that resulted from Kimura stepping in like this include Tokyo Drifter, Fighting Elegy, Branded to Kill, Capone Cries Hard, and, potentially, Zigeunerweisen (authorship of that screenplay has been credited to Yozo Tanaka, but Suzuki claims in the Asian Cult Cinema interview that the script evolved with the input of Guru Hachiro). This is a lineup of some of Suzuki’s greatest movies. But it’s worth noting that in the other projects where Kimura writes by himself, or with Suzuki, and without someone like Tanaka or Atsushi Yamatoya contributing, there is this unusual feel that the characters need not actually develop, but rather, need mostly to be revealed. Kikuji is one such character, a man of wild passion, pinned between competing sets of obligations. He has forsaken the yakuza life for love, but can he truly let go of his yakuza nature? And will this love be enough to get by on while he leads a life forever in disguise?

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In Kanto Wanderer, love is never enough to get by, and the yakuza are all a bunch of posers. In The Flower & the Angry Waves, a similar dynamic is at work. The yakuza in the film are mostly, like Kikuji, hiding in plain sight. In the film they are seen to be moving in on the construction industry in Tokyo.

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The film's most vivid subplot is about the construction union attempting to fight off the encroachment of the mob. Kikuji's yakuza nature draws him to positions where he can use violence to establish authority. He works as a guard at one of the building sites, not only protecting the site itself, but possibly keeping the workers in line, as well, at the orders of his boss, a grim capitalist master player.

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Kikuji's boss is making a deal with the yakuza to do essentially what Kikuji and his fellow overseer/guards are doing––violent middle-management of the labor process. But Kikuji has spent a lot of time with the laborers in the union, and he has begun to identify as well with these kinds of people. Their low position in the economic strata of the growing city makes them and their needs invisible, and Kikuji has come to recognize a kinship with the hidden and forgotten people.

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The big setpiece of the picture is a rumble between the union and the yakuza. This scene alone is the biggest thing Suzuki has ever filmed up until that point, with huge widescreen compositions and vivid trackign shots, taking in enormous swathes of action.

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Kikuji tries to stay out of it, until a member of the union he really seems to care about (Suzuki's perennial supporting character, Noro Keisuke, playing a twitchy and excitable union worker and proud Communist) gets killed. This inspires Kikuji to take up a sword and join the battle, on the workers' side.

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The punishment Kikuji endures from his boss as a result of his vacillating loyalty is to be whipped, then beaten, disfiguring our romantic lead. Kikuji is rescued and cared for by Manryu, a geisha. Manryu is a figure which the film lingers on quite a lot, arriving in Kikuji's life just as he is beginning to appreciate and identify with those living in disguise. Of all the characters pretending to be something they're not in the movie, Manryu wears the illusion most gracefully, and Kikuji seems to appreciate the way in which she conjures the illusion of passion for a living.

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Thing is, Manryu's passion for Kikuji is real. As the film goes on, it's clear that these two have a great deal in common, and a warm appreciation for one another. Throughout the movie, Manryu repeatedly rescues Kikuji, each time with increasing consequences for her. At one point she is forced to sleep with an odious yakuza client to save Kikuji. We really get to know Manryu in the movie, and in the end, we hardly know Kikuji's wife. The wife remains such a cipher, and Manryu is the one in Kikuji's life, risking everything for him.

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For the role of Manryu, Suzuki was able to work with an actress who you could say specialized in period piece movies. Naoko Kubo appeared in 130 projects over a 37-year career, and the majority of these roles seem to have been geisha, or at least, period characters. She has a Sazen Tange movie to her credit, a Zatoichi film, a film in the Yagyu Chronicles series, and repeated engagements in most of the Sleepy Eyes of Death series. Near the end of her career she is in Kinji Fukasaku's Samurai Reincarnation. In a film full of striking performances, Kubo stands out, giving the fullest, most sympathetic portrayal in the picture. Hold on, you say: isn't Kikuji the main character? Surely we're more sympathetic to him? No! Kikuji's sort of a piece of sh*t! Manryu proves it. I'll get back to that.

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No slouch in the credits department either, Chieko Matsubara plays Kikuji's secret wife, Oshige. Chieko was one of Nikkatsu's principal leading ladies, and had already been frequently paired with Akira Kobayashi in other movies. The secret wife is a tricky character, more surface than depth. She is a pretty gamine, alway in distress, but we feel as the film goes on that maybe the the wife isn't quite as good at pretend as Kikuji is. She never really gives herself away, but Chieko plays her as someone struggling mightily to hide the truth throughout the film. Either the part was written for her, or the role is being subtly molded to fit her, because Matsubara is one of the least-giving actresses at Nikkatsu––worse even than Ruriko Asaoka. Both actresses, Nikkatsu's pair of go-to romantic leads for years and years, could frequently come off like they didn't know what they should be doing on screen, long into their careers. Nonetheless, Matsubara is one of the few actors in a Suzuki movie to still be working. She is 80s years old this year, and is currently shooting a film, with another in postproduction (Hideki Takahashi, a year older, seems to still be ready to work, though he hasn't been in a movie in about 3 years; Akira Kobayashi seems to have retired in the early 90s).

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Matsubara appears in four of Suzuki's movies: Kanto Wanderer, this film, Our Blood Will Not Forgive, and Tokyo Drifter. In a way, she seems almost the antithesis of Suzuki's ideal actor; she seems determined to betray as little movement as possible. Compare her to any of the actresses in the "Flesh Trilogy" and you'll see the difference between a physically-committed actor and one who is keen on maintaining a natural reserve. Often when she does move, or alter her face, the action looks very strained and artificial. Suzuki works with this as best he can, making her a childlike coquettish figure in Kanto Wanderer, and pretty object, a yakuza "beard" in Tokyo Drifter, and in Our Blood Will Not Forgive, well...she does not work well in Our Blood Will Not Forgive. Nothing works well. And her role is still kept to a minimum. In Flower Matsubara is hidden away. There are scenes where she sits quietly in place while the camera dollies towards her. This is probably the Suzuki movie which shows her off to the best light. She seems very beautiful in her imperiled state. But then there is the finale, where she confesses all her secrets. When tasked with performing dialogue, Matsubara seems to default to florid, bodice-ripping melodrama, and she does that here.

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The effect is disarming. Is this the girl Kikuji has given up everything for? After a movie's worth of Manryu's generous, creative, lively persona, the spoiled oyabun's daughter just seems so...insubstantial. It seems purposeful use of Matsubara, who largely is without dialogue for the more suspenseful scenes where she is stalked by both a killer and a cop.

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The cop is a funny and sinister character, a flat-footed gumshoe who always misses the actual crimes taking place right under his nose. He is sweet on Chieko Matsubara's character, and he shows this by making constant, unwelcome advances. He seems to be the chief patron of the little bar where Matsubara works, drinking and hitting on her, and failing to notice Kikuji hanging out on the stairs in the back. Later on, this character gets a bit darker, setting up a dragnet in the theater district for Kikuji. Ultimately, this cop character has to make some out-of-character sorts of choices, to determine what kind of story we're really watching.

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The cop is played by Isao Tamagawa, allegedly Suzuki's favorite actor, in his first film for the director. After this, Tamagawa appears in Story of a Prostitute (his biggest role for Suzuki, as the sadomasochistic adjutant), Tokyo Drifter (the local branch boss at the western saloon), Fighting Elegy, Branded to Kill, Story of Sorrow and Sadness, Zigeunerweisen (as the undertaker who refuses to debone Nakasago's corpse for Aochi)––and allegedly he was in Gate of Flesh and Mirage Theater as well––though I don't recall him in either movie. Aside from his appearances for Suzuki, Tamagawa's most notable films include Kwaidan, Graveyard of Honor, Akio Jissoji's Utamaro's World, and two movies for Nobuhiko Obayashi, The Visitor in the Eye (a cast stocked with Suzuki regulars) and Take Me Away!, a Momoe Yamaguchi vehicle set in San Francisco.

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Tamagawa is pitch-perfect in this role, as he will always be for Suzuki, freighting an odious, angry character with enough humor to be enjoyable, even as he gets ever more sinister and perverse. No wonder Suzuki valued him so. Though honestly, why this next actor wasn't Suzuki's favorite, I'll never know.

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Tamio Kawaji was a neighbor of Nikkatsu's biggest star, Yujiro Ishihara, whom Ishihara invited to come and join the company. About 60 of his 130 roles were for Nikkatsu, but Kawaji bounced around the company from supporting roles to star vehicles and back again. He played neurotic romantic leads and violent, psychopathic villains. He never seemed comfortable playing leading roles without some kind of edge––the darker the part, the more Kawaji excelled. His star vehicles are for Koreyoshi Kurahara––The Warped Ones and Black Sun, both of which look a little overdone nowadays compared to his Suzuki pictures. He mostly played supporting characters for Suzuki, though his first appearances for the director are two clear attempts at start vehicles for him in the director's cannon: Everything Goes Wrong and Hi-Teen Yakuza. These are two of Suzuki's worst financial failures. But when Kawaji is a supporting player in Suzuki movies, in Those Who Bet on Me, Detective Bureau 2-3, Youth of the Beast, this film, Story of a Prostitute, Carmen from Kawachi, and Tokyo Drifter, sparks fly. Jo Shishido said about working with him in Youth of the Beast, "I never saw acting as sharp as Kawaji's," and I'd say it's true. He is a blisteringly sharp character, capable of seemingly every flavor of violence, but also a sympathetic antihero. He is 100% on fire in his Suzuki movies, but if I had to choose a role he was best in, it would be Story of a Prostitute, where his character is a vital exploration of the military fanatic. He appears later in Hideo Gosha's Heat Wave, in Battles Without Honor and Humanity, in Gappa the Triphibian Monster, in Shinji Aoyama's Chinpira, in Bullet Train, in the Kekkon Annai Mystery (I don't remember him in this film, I'll have to check again), and he had a recurring role in at least three later series of Ultraman TV shows. But in 1983 he crossed paths with Suzuki again as the titular husband in a TV movie called Choice of Family: I'll Kill your Husband for You.

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In Flower, Kawaji plays his most theatrical figure in a Suzuki film––probably in his whole filmography. Kenji is a killer for the mob, who moonlights as a gambling dealer. Kobayashi's Kikuji runs into him frequently in both guises, and there is a conspicuous doubling of the two actors throughout the film. Kikuji is disguised in plain clothes, but Kawaji, by contrast, wears a flamboyant Zorro costume, and strikes with an extraordinarily phallic sword-cane. His cape swirls and seems to disgorge a deep crimson lining that looks uncannily like the elevator gushing blood in The Shining.

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In theory, Kenji is a pure psychopath, who loves doing violence––especially to women––and who loves killing––especially, potentially, women. But the film compares him powerfully with Kikuji. There is a fantastic scene where Kenji is abducted off the streets of the theater district in order to report to his own boss. This incredibly stylized scene ripples with color, but one also sees Kenji's suspicion as his boss harangues him. Kenji does all the things for the mob Kikuji has sworn to abandon, but one gets the sense that, but for his sort of twisted frustration over his own potency, he might rebel as Kikuji did. He is just the type. But what does that say, reflexively, about who Kikuji used to be?

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There was no place to put this before, but I spotted an unusual appearance in the picture, actor Eimei Esumi. Esumi was in fact in a lot of films from Suzuki's peak period at Nikkatsu, starting with Minami, a key figure in Youth of the Beast, and including roles big and small in Kanto Wanderer, Gate of Flesh, Detective Bureau 2-3: Go to Hell, Bastards!, Story of a Prostitute and Tokyo Drifter. But he's probably just as famous for the second act of his Nikkatsu career, starring in no less than 30 Nikkatsu Roman Poruno pink films, including Man and Woman Behind the Fusuma Screen, Sada Abe: A Docu-Drama, Wet Lust: Opening the Tulip, Erotic Liasons, Pleasure Campus Secret Games, Naked Rashomon, Image of a Bound Girl, and Rape Me: Sexual Assault in a Hotel Room. He also has notable roles in non-porn pictures throughout this time, including The Demon, Dodes'kaden, Sogo Ishii's High School Big Panic, The Man Who Stole the Sun, A Taxing Woman, and Eureka (he plays Koji Yakusho's father in an understated role). On television he had a role on the TV show Detective Story, and he did voices for anime, including Pycal for Lupin III, and a host of different roles on Vision of Escaflowne. Here he's the very most earnest of the union workers.

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If Kikuji and his secret bride are hemmed-in, trapped in a series of potential prisons (represented by the bars we see in every setting in the film, and by Tamagawa's lusting cop, then theatricality, or illusion, or disguise, is their desperate chance at freedom. Besides the myriad "official" disguises Kikuji and his bride adopt throughout the film, the climax of the picture will require Kikuji to don an actual theatrical mask to pass through the climactic police dragnet. This is the second and final big setpiece of the picture, and if the union action scene was Suzuki showing off his ability to work in an orthodox way on a grand scale, then the dragnet provides his chance to let loose his more creative impulses. There are frequent shots of Kikuji peering through slatted screens, lifting his mask briefly, then disappearing into the dark.

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The theater district is teeming with people in disguise, and Kikuji blends in. Suzuki and Kimura craft dense mazes in the theater district set. There is a repeated shot Suzuki uses throughout the sequence where a girl will run a message across the street, and Suzuki's camera will track her, following at a high enough angle to see over the teeming crowds. The effect emphasizes the jiggling of the girls' hairpiece as it bobs above the fray. The shot ends up being recreated and expanded upon by Suzuki's close friend, Masahiro Shinoda, six years later in Scandalous Adventures of Buraikan, for Shima Iwashita's entrance.

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The film moves towards a visual abstraction, ending in one of Kimura's more extravagantly expressionist sets (restaged and made further abstract decades later for Suzuki's Princess Raccoon). At the train station, high snow drifts form ominous shapes and carve out a cold maze leading Kikuji and his secret bride to freedom. The lovers see each other in the distance, but lo! Kenji is also there, along with Manryu and the cop. Everything goes swimingly, as you might imagine. Just kidding. It's a disaster.

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Peter Yacavone's new book on Suzuki, by far the most important book yet on the director, takes note of how cruelly dismissive Kikuji is of Manryu, who selflessly gives up her life to defend Kikuji from Kenji. And while it's true that Oshige really does pull out all the stops at the end to endear herself to Kikuji in no uncertain terms, there is still the sense that, even though he and Oshige share this convulsive, protracted attempt to romance one another, in Manryu, Kikuji accidentally found a soulmate. Why does Kikuji resolutely refuses to admit it? Because then his valiant, romantic sacrifice will have been in vain. He will have ruined the fortunes of an innocent girl (Kikuji's flashback to meeting Oshige is a soft-focus romantic cliche which kind of bursts the bubble of more serious films attempts to weight the now with a journey back them...Red Beard, for example, with its portentous flashbacks, looks just a bit silly after seeing this retroactive parody of it).

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In a way, by abandoning the yakuza, Kikuji has rewritten his own story in a hand he doesn't know how to read or interpret. He has written himself into a theatrical tragedy, where the role of the yakuza feels sorely out-of-place. Suzuki is a director hardly moved by the notion of heroes; the yakuza skills that enable Kikuji to survive the treacherous world of the theater district, of the warfield of the union, of his boss's betrayal, are the ruin of the women close to him, through the violence of his double, Kenji.

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There is a clear sense of Kikuji's own steady drumbeat of violence being his ultimate undoing; in his gangster-like pining for decisive action, he undoes his best efforts at building a future for himself and anyone else.

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The picture ends with the cop having to make a decision about what to do with Oshige (she seems to have been crippled by Kenji's sword). He can finally have her, and yet, as Oshige reveals all her secrets, the cop begins to learn just how low he would be to try and make her his at this point.

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The ending is quite ambiguous. Tamagawa slings Matsubara over his shoulder, and announces to the snow and silence (and to Kikuji, hiding in the shadows to avoid arrest), that Kikuji will board the train for Manchuria––his wife following him later. Kikuji watches them leave, then emerges from the shadows and yells Oshige's name desperately into the night. Like some of Suzuki's most violent characters to come––Lieutenant Mikami in Story of a Prostitute and Kiroku the horny student recruit in Fighting Elegy––Kikuji is bound for Manchuria, and the coming war. He is himself an exponent of a kind of suppressed violence, just as they are, and just like them, he stands to be the fanatical tool of the imperial war there. The adventure that awaits Kikuji will be more harrowing than his experience in the Asakusa theater district, and without any saving artifice of theater. Will the inspector really keep his word, or is Oshige already lost to him, as he seems to feel is most likely? Was all this play-acting for naught?


CINEMATOGRAPHY

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Seemingly on a crusade to show he can do awesome color photography just as good as his subordinate Mine, Kazue Nagatsuka returns to lens the movie. This definitely gives the film a radically different look to the previous Kanto Wanderer. While Mine looks for panels of unbroken color, lighting surfaces with floods of brilliant light, Nagatsuka has this very different approach, focusing often on single objects of brilliant color and isolating them in relatively dark frames so that they stand out. While in Fighting Delinquents he used a lot of the grey space Suzuki's mentor Hiroshi Noguchi preferred, in this film Nagatsuka has favored heavy, noirish black shadow in the backgrounds. The result is a unique, burnished look that only accompanies a few of Suzuki's pictures. This is the last movie Nagatsuka shoots for Suzuki in color until 1980 (his subsequent work for Suzuki at Nikkatsu, on Story of a Prostitute, Story of a Bastard: Born Under a Bad Star, and Branded to Kill, is all in black-and-white, reflecting both the studio's strained financial picture and their increasing loss of faith in Suzuki as a hitmaker), when he returns from retirement to lens Zigeunerweisen and Mirage Theater. In fact, those films are the closest visually to what Nagatsuka creates in Flower & the Angry Waves, as if that burnished look was a special visualization only for Suzuki's Taisho-era pictures.

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We'll never know what the color cinematography that was intended would look like on Story of a Prostitute––the next Suzuki film Nagatsuka lenses after this. When they arrive on the set, the studio has sent them black-and-white film stock instead of the color film they were expecting. Like in the Taisho Trilogy films and Flower, Story of a Prostitute features a lot of Nagatsuka's soft-focus camerawork, and I wonder if that film wouldn't have looked quite similar to these others, regardless of the different period setting.

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Nonetheless, Flower boasts some unique and wonderful cinematography, a little more formal and less mobile than Suzuki's typical camerawork. Why is that? I have a theory.

MY TAKE

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Kanto Wanderer exploded with radical innovations, but the elements that are radical in Flower & the Angry Waves are largely buried in the background details of the picture (the grim foreboding of the trip to Manchuria on the horizon, Kikuji's cruel abandonment of Manryu to fulfill the romantic fiction of his abandonment of the yakuza). The surface of Flower is A) much more expensive looking than any movie Suzuki made to this date (the large sets, the teeming extras), and B) a little more conservative––at least, on the surface––than the techniques and storytelling of Suzuki's other pictures of this time.

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My theory is that this is the first film since the Koji Wada vehicles where Suzuki gets the chance to make an unambiguous "A" picture. When this has happened in the past, we often get a curtailing of Suzuki's stylization to select details (the color-changing stuffed dog in Fighting Delinquents, or the Zorro-like killer Kenji in this film), and a greater sense that Suzuki is attempting to toe the line, as it were. The A-picture directors at Nikkatsu play it safer than Suzuki, in both style and subject matter (from the conservative Umetsugu Inoue to the fairly anodyne Toshio Masuda, to the nominally as stylized yet coarser films of Koreyoshi Kurahara and Shohei Immamura), and I think Suzuki is attempting to do that here. In Flower he creates a handsome period-piece, with action, romantic melodrama, and yakuza themes. If the film seems less radical than either Kanto Wanderer before it or Gate of Flesh after it, it's because Suzuki is trying to prove he and Kimura (a long-feared and hitherto-avoided pairing as far as the Nikkatsu brass was concerned) can do a straightforward hit in the company mold. The film did great, and was followed by another big-budget A-picture for Suzuki, Gate of Flesh, before Our Blood Will Not Forgive stops the freight train. When Suzuki was petitioning his bosses for the same creative conditions as Immamura, one can take a look and the run of Kanto Wanderer, The Flower & the Angry Waves, and Gate of Flesh––each more successful than the last––and see why.

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But I think the picture is a little more charged and subversive around the edges than it might have been. The Taisho setting is clearly inspiring for Suzuki. The blending of theater into real life is fascinating, and one can see it reaching forward and inspiring Shinoda when it came time for Buraikan (a movie which I increasingly feel owes a considerable debt to this picture's innovations). The sense of Asakusa as a maze is pretty intoxicating. I even like the more conventional middle story of the union workers fight against the yakuza and the bosses. The unambiguous pairing of the owners and gangsters is open and full-throated in a way you don't see in many movies period, let alone films of this picture's vintage. Kobayashi is sort of at peak hotness here. And the visualization is overwhelming.

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In light of later films, though, there might be a slight sense that Suzuki has, to a certain extent, failed to capture something about the Taisho era that he was intending. I suppose this comes from seeing the Taisho Trilogy later on, and seeing how freely he adapted the era and the elements of story in those unambiguous masterpieces. Those films convey a sort of Taisho of the mind, rather than of actuality, as if Suzuki has at some point in the intervening years realized what he's after can't be delivered literally. It is fascinating in this film though, to see the opposite of that. And yet, in the imprisonment of all the windows and screens, and in the labyrinth of the theater district, we're perhaps seeing the first hints for Suzuki that his Taisho will have to be the realization of a mindset rather than a slavish historical recreation.

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Is this movie good? Yes, though the pictures on either side of it feel clearly a bit more innovative and still fresh. But I like The Flower & the Angry Waves. on the big screen it was very suspenseful. I only remember it slowing down a bit for the part where Kikuji's boss beats him.

THE DISC

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I know the picture is 2k interlaced, but god-damn, does it look good to my eyes. I'm not the expert on these things, but I think the picture has some surprisingly fine-looking grain. Nagatsuka's extraordinary cinematography is rendered very well.

A comparison with the 1080p trailer does give the game away––as usual––on what they could have done with this disc. The trailer is much sharper, and has much better depth-of-field. But it seems maybe a little too bright. The feature is a lot darker and softer, but it has much more intense saturation, which is a good representation of the way it looked in 35mm. It might be too dark in a couple of scenes, but the whites in the trailer definitely seem blown out at times. Still, the image looks really good, even on the feature, and so the comparison isn't as profound as in some other cases in these sets. When I do Story of a Prostitute, the difference between the trailer and the feature will make you cry, just as I did when I saw it. So unfair! In any case, the film is eminently watchable, and even with the 18-year-old Yume DVD, it was never really the case before.

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So that's another profile of another Suzuki film. There's a lot to discover in this movie. It was unjustly ignored until now. Next time I'll take Story of a Prostitute or Nude Girl with a Gun, I think. There will be a surprising comparison for Hi-Teen Yakuza down the road, too. But I might veer off to do one of the Taisho trilogy movies first.
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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#179 Post by feihong »

THE NAKED WOMAN AND THE GUN aka NUDE GIRL WITH A GUN

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Nude Girl with a Gun is Suzuki's 6th film, made in his second year of directing, and the first to feature an actress sometimes known as a Suzuki discovery:

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Mari Shiraki

Suzuki is credited with several such discoveries of actresses over the years, the principal ones being Mari Shiraki, Yoshiko Nezu, and Yumiko Nogawa. In Peter Yacavone's book, he claims Yumiko Nogawa is the only one of the three Suzuki can genuinely be credited with discovering. That seems to be the case, at least where Mari Shiraki's concerned. Though this movie is her first starring role, she appears previous to this in a film called Jûnana-sai no teikô (I could not find an English-language title), starring Ruriko Asaoka and directed by Umetsugu Inoue––the most financially successful director at Nikkatsu. Nude Girl with a Gun is a significant financial success––apparently the first in Suzuki's career––Suzuki and Shiraki follow it with Underworld Beauty, a stylistic landmark for Suzuki but a film which does only average business, and then Shiraki's next movie is the Inoue picture The Stormy Man, a big hit with Nikkatsu's biggest star, Yujiro Ishihara.

Shiraki's career will go on for almost 50 years from this point––seemingly she retires in 2006. She is apparently still alive, at 88 years old. She is only a co-lead in maybe one or two movies after Underworld Beauty: she features in a romantic melodrama called The Coming of Age, co-starring with Tamio Kawaji and directed by that hack, Buichi Saito, and in a Koreyoshi Kurahara film called Dynamite ni Hi o Tsukero, alongside Akira Kobayashi. Aside from those instances, she is forever afterwards generally about 6th-billed in any production.

There are no biographical sketches of Mari Shiraki in English that might fill this in, but based on her appearance in these early movies, I would say Shiraki––aged 20 at the time––was a dancer.

She has unusually long legs for a Japanese starlet of the time, and the films go to some length to show this off in winking, lightly risque cabaret numbers. Her whole body seems very toned––especially for the time period––and she doesn't seem at all shy about showing it off in many states of undress, as the filmmakers seem to have asked her to do. She appears in a lot of cabaret scenes as a dancer, and she conspicuously doesn't sing. These are my clues. The dance sequence that begins this film shows off some very sure but and extremely campy dance moves, as she brandishes a pair of sixguns in a leather cowboy outfit and slinks around a bar.

And there's no actual nudity in the film, despite the title. Rather, Shiraki appears frequently in her underwear. So frequently, in fact, it seems as if most of her scenes present her in this way. My theory is, Shiraki is being put forward as the star of what Nikkatsu is hoping will be a line of racy crime films.

This overt sexual advertisement isn't usually Suzuki's bag, and it doesn't lead to later films in this mold. In Underworld Beauty, Shiraki is far more frequently clothed. That entire picture feels a lot more natural, playing to Shiraki's and Suzuki's talents more than this movie, and offering instead of persistent pseudo-nakedness, more kinky and suggestive eroticism. Underworld Beauty, for instance, makes a lot out of the department-store mannequins that fill the foreground and background of compositions, constantly implying what may be under Ms. Shiraki's clothes.

Here in Nude Girl with a Gun, the pseudo-nudity feels much more like it's being thrown in the audience's face. In spite of apparent confidence in her physique, Shiraki appears a little ill at-ease in a lot of the picture. I have the feeling it's hard for her to get a handle on the movie's dual role for her––and maybe Suzuki's famed method of not telling the actors how he plans to shoot a scene has her a little nervous. Thinking of the two movies put together, I have the feeling the underwear-sporting "nudity" of this film is a studio mandate, which gets pared back for the follow-up picture. On the other hand, sex seems to have done its job selling this movie, and less so the more radical, confidently-made and absorbing follow-up, where Shiraki really shines. The Stormy Man anticipates all her other major supporting roles to come. In that film, she comes on like a vamp, selling her available sexuality to Ishihara's down-on-his-luck drummer when his manager/would-be girlfriend has given him a frown of displeasure. Shiraki's character turns out to be a hooker with a heart of gold, and Shiraki mostly goes on in that vein, playing strung-out gogo dancers, brothel madams, plucky con-artists, and, generally-speaking, a woman second or third in line, vying for the heart of the leading male, forever competing against Ruriko Asaoka, Mie Kitahara, Sanae Nakahara, and Izumi Ashikawa. Her most constant foil seemed to have been Ruriko Asaoka. Her mission is plain: play the hard-boiled, licentious sexpot, so that Ruriko's attempt to convey virginal purity can connect with the audience by way of contrast.

Shiraki does show up in small roles in later Suzuki films. She is in Passport to Darkness and Those Who Bet on Me. Her only other role of significance for Suzuki is the secondary romantic lead in Take Aim at the Police Van, where she plays a prison escapee's luckless girlfriend, and, if memory serves, she gets blown up with him in a truck by the picture's main villain. Shiraki's career motors on as support in a lot of Yujiro Ishihara films, she is in a ton of Akira Kobayashi films, a number of Keiichiro Akagi films, a couple of Jo Shishido westerns, and then, as Nikkatsu starts to break down in the late 60s, she starts branching out into early pink films from Toei and into Toei's allegedly more "respectable" pictures (Wicked Priest, Silk Hat Boss 2, Red Peony: Gambler's Obligation, Red Peony: Oryu's Return, the Yumiko Nogawa vehicle The Gambling Nun, Nagasaki Blues). Does Toei ever really do "respectable" pictures? She appears in a few of Nikkatsu's late-stage action pictures, including Stray Cat Rock: Wild Jumbo and Mini-Skirt Lynchers. Her biggest movies after this period are probably Shunya Ito's Labyrinth Romanesque and Nobuhiko Obayashi's Turning Point. The last part of Shiraki's career was dominated by her prominent television supporting role in the popular "samurai Colombo"–style drama Sure Death! She appears in the whole TV series playing beloved character Ritsu, then goes on to appear in all six feature films and two late-aughts remakes. All told, Shiraki has 113 credits on IMDB.

Shiraki is the first of the really dynamic women in Suzuki's films, whose personal energy begins to either embody the movie, or remold its character around her. This is obvious in the Yumiko Nogawa films, and in Everything Goes Wrong (where Yoshiko Nezu seems to hijack the film midway through). In the two Shiraki star turns, I think we have a trade-off. Underworld Beauty is, I think closer to who she is and wants to play: a fashionable, hip young woman, hooked on sensation––though not necessarily typed as a "slut"––looking for things to captivate her and engage her youthful animus. In Nude Girl with a Gun she plays a dual role as a lusty sexpot who may have committed murder and an elegant, proper lady who helps the lead actor solve the case. These two turn out to be one person. My impression is that the script pulls in both directions at different times. In her next couple of films, Shiraki will prove how adept she is at giving a rigorously coherent performance, so I don't think she can really be at fault here. I think what the script is asking of her is an implausible character.

I Don't Know What I'm Doing––In This Review, Or In Anything

I could only watch Nude Girl with a Gun without subtitles. There are English-subtitled prints of the movie in circulation, but there have been no fansubs to pair with the picture––in fact, mostly unwatchable bootlegs aside, this is the first home video release of this movie, ever.

All that is to say, though, that I don't know quite what's going on in this movie. I have read all available synopses of the picture, so I could follow along with the essential story elements, but the details of the crime in the film, for instance, or the relationship between the two Mari Shiraki portrayals, or between the film's various villains––all that was pretty obscure. Amongst other Suzuki films from this era, Passport to Darkness presents a very obviously similar structure––not a coincidence, perhaps that both movies seem to owe a sizable debt to Hitchcock. More than Suzuki's bleaker, more cynical crime films, These two films seem consciously to ape HItch's style and borrow tropes and structures from his films. One might almost be tempted to feel there was some exchange going on: the Vertigo-like element of a woman embodying two separate identities here seems right out of Vertigo––but that Hitchcock film came out more than a year later than Nude Girl with a Gun. Obviously, Hitch didn't see this movie. But the coincidence is a little breathtaking.

Michitaro Mizushima appears here, playing his first lead in a Suzuki picture. Mizushima is one of the leading men Suzuki's mentor Hiroshi Noguchi uses as he develops the "hado–boiriudo," or "hard-boiled" Nikkatsu film––the contemporaneous Japanese equivalent of film noir. Mizushima seemed like a Nikkatsu contract player, but his career actually runs a staggering 65 years, from silent films in 1925 all the way to 1990's Ronin-gai––so his Nikkatsu period is just a drop in the bucket. 246 films in total.

Mizushima is a funny figure in his Suzuki movies, as if Suzuki can't quite take him seriously. In this movie especially he is a bumbling, schlubby freelance photographer; unshaven, unkempt, and lucky to make it through the picture. It doesn't help he is frequently shot next to his far, far more handsome reporter pal, Hideaki Nitani. Nitani has genuine stature, and shows Mizushima for what he is in all these movies; a small, somewhat round, middle-aged man, who looks like a noir hero mostly in closeup. In this way he is something like Humphrey Bogart, but Mizushima is a much less grave, scowling figure than Bogart, willing to appear more bumbling and dopey. The homeliness of the two men is their commonality, but the Hollywood machine goes hard to make Bogart seem menacing and violent, and Mizushima seems less of a tough-guy, more of a fundamentally decent chap.

The cinematic violence which ultimately defines a Bogart is denied Mizushima in this movie––he spends most of the finale tied up, while Shiraki shoots their way out of a tight spot and sacrifices her character's life for him. In Underworld Beauty Mizushima will be just as schlubby, but a little more in command of violence by the end of the film. Wisely, Suzuki has him wear a bulky jacket throughout that movie, hiding his unimpressive middle-aged physique. In this movie, we keep seeing him in this unflattering light. What's more, Shiraki, frequently placed next to or near him, towers over the guy. And, next to this 20-year-old, statuesque dancer he just...looks...so old. He just doesn't come across as quite the leading man Nikkatsu was selling, and you get the feeling Suzuki knows this and is deliberately undercutting his hero.

Suzuki also goes out of his way to emphasize how Mizushima's character is a big pervert. We constantly get these shots of him leering through his camera. The camera is a kind of sexual mediation for this character; when Mari Shiraki puts on a vampy seduction for him after he rescues her and clothes her in his coat, he starts furiously snapping photos instead of grappling with her.

On the bridge where she first runs by him in nothing but her underwear, chased by gangsters, she drops a shoe on the steps, and he leaves her exposed on the bridge while he delicately retrieves the shoe. The effect is less Cinderella than a Bunuelian fetishist. And later, when he suspects the Shiraki from the bridge and the Shiraki from the police station are the same girl, he spies on her, photographing her in the shower with a telephoto lens––a scene Suzuki composes to accentuate the phallic imagery of the telephoto extension.

There's a clear visual implication that the photographs Mizushima takes of Shiraki and the clandestine views he has of her (through lenses, through frosted windows, etc.) have a greater erotic charge for him than the woman does in the flesh. Standing in front of him, her identity is uncertain, and a host of other men may have some prior claim upon her eroticism––including, perhaps, the villain of the movie, who looks conspicuously like Lenin. But through the camera lens, Shiraki's character is fixed, solid, and belongs to Mizushima alone.

The voyeuristic aspect of Mizushima's character is a constant in the film. When he and Shiraki are cornered by thugs midway through the picture, Mizushima fights them off using the flashbulb on his camera to blind them (these guys keep getting stunned and literally trip over him, fall into holes, and play themselves left and right in their attempts to lay hands on him). Mizushima's character ultimately turns out to have a brave, plucky girlfriend, who leaps into action when a religious cult who employs the gangsters finally captures him and ransoms him for some sort of "maltese falcon"-like object. The girlfriend is incredibly intrepid, risking her life to get this item from a stranger's house and use it to buy her boyfriend's freedom. The girlfriend's job? She's an actress, and when she gets the ransom call she's just stepped off a soundstage, where the recording equipment capturing her performance is prominently featured.

Her boyfriend here, Mizushima, plays Suzuki's first major pervert figure. Probably the one Mizushima's character resembles most Toshiya Fujita's quiet voyeur Aochi in Zigeunerweisen, secretly thrilled inverted double of the sexually rapacious Nakasago. It's interesting to see Mizushima, much more the creation of Nikkatsu the studio than Suzuki the auteur––who generally is considered decent in spite of his chronic, open voyeurism––and Aochi, who pays for his mostly unsuccessful yearning to peep on and daydream about his friend's conquests by being relentlessly mocked, cucked, and defeated, by both the filmmakers and by Aochi's nominal friend. By comparison, Mizushima seems to get off scott-free. The girl is dead, I suppose, but he has plenty of pictures of her remaining, and that's where his erotic impulse lies, anyway.

My Take

Probably if there is something I can draw out of the film itself, without the benefit of the story's finer details, it's the way in which Suzuki and Shiraki both seem to be straining against the limits of this project. I get the sense that the particular sexploitation employed in this movie is just a bit too crude for both of them. Certainly, Suzuki's filmography is full of erotic subject matter. But the eroticism on display in those movies doesn't have the bug-eyed frontality that it does in this film. You feel the movie is constantly shoving Shiraki's pseudo-nudity in your face, because it can, dammit. And possibly this was the box-office draw that made the film a hit, and gave the comparatively less obvious Underworld Beauty only an average box office gross. Underworld Beauty is a far more involving picture than this one. The mystery here, the crime elements, are all pretty goofy, like a lurid, adult Tintin adventure.

Meanwhile, the film is still an effective revelation of the talent of Mari Shiraki. Regardless of being constantly thrust into obligatory-feeling states of undress, Shiraki commands the screen. Her every glance, her every change of tone or mood is dynamic and absorbing. She has Mizushima eating out of the palm of her hand and she knows it. The "femme fatale" is actually not a standard figure in Japanese noir––more often the man is the "homme fatale," an erotic force, dragging the woman to her doom. That does ultimately happen at the end of this film, but for these two movies, Nude Girl with a Gun and Underworld Beauty, Shiraki credibly evokes the femme fatale archetype, putting the male characters under her deadly spell. In the end of this film, Shiraki still gets her own back. The villains think they've won, but she sure shows them.

Cinematography

Umeo Matsubase as cinematographer is a one-off in Suzuki's filmography (almost every other cinematographer Suzuki works with at Nikkatsu comes back around for a second film at least). But to be fair, he only has three film credits of any kind on IMDB. This appears to be Matsubase's first time as a dp. His next shot at it will be six years later on The White Peaks of Mt. Fuji, an Izumi Ashikawa melodrama. He is listed as a dp one more time, five years after that. If I had to guess, he was probably a camera assistant, like Shigeyoshi Mine, who was sometimes elevated to the dp's chair. The cinematography in this movie is quite fine, very functional. I'm not excited about it most of the time. To me, the noir flavors of Suzuki are better served by either Kazue Nagatsuka's carefully-delineated, crisp and thorough lighting setups, or by the serpentine darkness edging in around the margins in Toshitaro Nakao's work on Inn of Floating Weeds and Smashing the 0-Line. This movie is frequently overlit.

The Disc

F*cking immaculate. Nude Girl with a Gun gets a 4k scan, with no restoration. This is a sharp, crystal-clear look at really a very old movie. I'm amazed, after it's almost total unavailability in the past, that such a pristine version exists. There are pops and scratches––you can actually see them all over these screencaps. They are small and totally unobtrusive. There are no violent visual jags in the film. There are splice marks occasionally––I think they might show up in these caps as well. But the film looks luminous, with perfectly-balanced contrast. This is a great way to be able to see the movie, even if the film itself seems like a bit of a lackluster compromise for Suzuki, less engaging than its erstwhile follow-up. I wonder if this film got the 4k scan treatment so many of the other films in these sets didn't get because it was a box office hit back in the day, or because it simply hadn't been scanned for television or home video in the past? Regardless, it's a little unfair-seeming that this somewhat lesser-seeming film gets this kind of treatment, and the masterpiece that is Story of a Prostitute gets the genuinely criminal treatment it gets.
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Mari Shiraki

Suzuki is credited with several such discoveries of actresses over the years, the principal ones being Mari Shiraki, Yoshiko Nezu, and Yumiko Nogawa. In Peter Yacavone's book, he claims Yumiko Nogawa is the only one of the three Suzuki can genuinely be credited with discovering. That seems to be the case, at least where Mari Shiraki's concerned. Though this movie is her first starring role, she appears previous to this in a film called Jûnana-sai no teikô (I could not find an English-language title), starring Ruriko Asaoka and directed by Umetsugu Inoue––the most financially successful director at Nikkatsu. Nude Girl with a Gun is a significant financial success––apparently the first in Suzuki's career––Suzuki and Shiraki follow it with Underworld Beauty, a stylistic landmark for Suzuki but a film which does only average business, and then Shiraki's next movie is the Inoue picture The Stormy Man, a big hit with Nikkatsu's biggest star, Yujiro Ishihara.

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Shiraki's career will go on for almost 50 years from this point––seemingly she retires in 2006. She is apparently still alive, at 88 years old. She is only a co-lead in maybe one or two movies after Underworld Beauty: she features in a romantic melodrama called The Coming of Age, co-starring with Tamio Kawaji and directed by that hack, Buichi Saito, and in a Koreyoshi Kurahara film called Dynamite ni Hi o Tsukero, alongside Akira Kobayashi. Aside from those instances, she is forever afterwards generally about 6th-billed in any production.

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There are no biographical sketches of Mari Shiraki in English that might fill this in, but based on her appearance in these early movies, I would say Shiraki––aged 20 at the time––was a dancer.

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She has unusually long legs for a Japanese starlet of the time, and the films go to some length to show this off in winking, lightly risque cabaret numbers. Her whole body seems very toned––especially for the time period––and she doesn't seem at all shy about showing it off in many states of undress, as the filmmakers seem to have asked her to do. She appears in a lot of cabaret scenes as a dancer, and she conspicuously doesn't sing. These are my clues. The dance sequence that begins this film shows off some very sure but and extremely campy dance moves, as she brandishes a pair of sixguns in a leather cowboy outfit and slinks around a bar.

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And there's no actual nudity in the film, despite the title. Rather, Shiraki appears frequently in her underwear. So frequently, in fact, it seems as if most of her scenes present her in this way. My theory is, Shiraki is being put forward as the star of what Nikkatsu is hoping will be a line of racy crime films.

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This overt sexual advertisement isn't usually Suzuki's bag, and it doesn't lead to later films in this mold. In Underworld Beauty, Shiraki is far more frequently clothed. That entire picture feels a lot more natural, playing to Shiraki's and Suzuki's talents more than this movie, and offering instead of persistent pseudo-nakedness, more kinky and suggestive eroticism. Underworld Beauty, for instance, makes a lot out of the department-store mannequins that fill the foreground and background of compositions, constantly implying what may be under Ms. Shiraki's clothes.

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Here in Nude Girl with a Gun, the pseudo-nudity feels much more like it's being thrown in the audience's face. In spite of apparent confidence in her physique, Shiraki appears a little ill at-ease in a lot of the picture. I have the feeling it's hard for her to get a handle on the movie's dual role for her––and maybe Suzuki's famed method of not telling the actors how he plans to shoot a scene has her a little nervous. Thinking of the two movies put together, I have the feeling the underwear-sporting "nudity" of this film is a studio mandate, which gets pared back for the follow-up picture. On the other hand, sex seems to have done its job selling this movie, and less so the more radical, confidently-made and absorbing follow-up, where Shiraki really shines. The Stormy Man anticipates all her other major supporting roles to come. In that film, she comes on like a vamp, selling her available sexuality to Ishihara's down-on-his-luck drummer when his manager/would-be girlfriend has given him a frown of displeasure. Shiraki's character turns out to be a hooker with a heart of gold, and Shiraki mostly goes on in that vein, playing strung-out gogo dancers, brothel madams, plucky con-artists, and, generally-speaking, a woman second or third in line, vying for the heart of the leading male, forever competing against Ruriko Asaoka, Mie Kitahara, Sanae Nakahara, and Izumi Ashikawa. Her most constant foil seemed to have been Ruriko Asaoka. Her mission is plain: play the hard-boiled, licentious sexpot, so that Ruriko's attempt to convey virginal purity can connect with the audience by way of contrast.

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Shiraki does show up in small roles in later Suzuki films. She is in Passport to Darkness (as a drug-addled witness to a crime, who dances furiously by herself, whipping her hair in front of her face, to avoid revealing what she knows––the detective character in this case is just a trombonist, and so he doesn't get rough or pursue the interview any further) and Those Who Bet on Me. Her only other role of significance for Suzuki is the secondary romantic lead in Take Aim at the Police Van, where she plays a prison escapee's luckless girlfriend, and, if memory serves, she gets blown up with him in a truck by the picture's main villain. Shiraki's career motors on as support in a lot of Yujiro Ishihara films (including Fangs of Night, Showdown in the Storm, That Wonderful Guy, A Man Explodes and The Echo of Love), she is in a ton of Akira Kobayashi films (including most of the Rambling Guitarist movies, The Perfect Game, The Human Cyclone, and Song of a Traveller), a number of Keiichiro Akagi films, a couple of Jo Shishido westerns, and then, as Nikkatsu starts to break down in the late 60s, she starts branching out into early pink films from Toei (Night Guy, Girl in College) and into Toei's allegedly more "respectable" pictures (Wicked Priest, Silk Hat Boss 2, Red Peony: Gambler's Obligation, Red Peony: Oryu's Return, the Yumiko Nogawa vehicle The Gambling Nun, Nagasaki Blues). Does Toei ever really do "respectable" pictures? She appears in a few of Nikkatsu's late-stage action pictures, including Stray Cat Rock: Wild Jumbo and Mini-Skirt Lynchers. Her biggest movies after this period are probably Shunya Ito's Labyrinth Romanesque and Nobuhiko Obayashi's Turning Point (Obayashi has a lot of casual connections to Suzuki's filmography––he wrote one of the earliest articles in Eiga Hyoron auterizing Suzuki the director {writing under a pseudonym and criticizing Suzuki's supposed indifference to music in his movies}, and he frequently employs actors from Suzuki movies throughout his filmography). The last part of Shiraki's career was dominated by her prominent television supporting role in the popular "samurai Colombo"–style drama Sure Death! She appears in the whole TV series playing beloved character Ritsu, then goes on to appear in all six feature films and two late-aughts remakes. All told, Shiraki has 113 credits on IMDB.

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Shiraki is the first of the really dynamic women in Suzuki's films, whose personal energy begins to either embody the movie, or remold its character around her. This is obvious in the Yumiko Nogawa films, and in Everything Goes Wrong (where Yoshiko Nezu seems to hijack the film midway through). In the two Shiraki star turns, I think we have a trade-off. Underworld Beauty is, I think closer to who she is and wants to play: a fashionable, hip young woman, hooked on sensation––though not necessarily typed as a "slut"––looking for things to captivate her and engage her youthful animus. In Nude Girl with a Gun she plays a dual role as a lusty sexpot who may have committed murder and an elegant, proper lady who helps the lead actor solve the case. These two turn out to be one person. She does well in these roles, but there seems to be some ambiguity as to how much her character should be two different characters or one. My impression is that the script pulls in both directions at different times. In her next couple of films, Shiraki will prove how adept she is at giving a rigorously coherent performance, so I don't think she can really be at fault here. I think what the script is asking of her is an implausible character. Naoki Ohtani will play a "dual role" like this decades later in Zigeunerweisen, but Ohtani was a much more experienced actress by the time she was playing that role, and she had the benefit of a longer shooting schedule and an exceptional script. Shiraki has none of that, but acquits herself well in spite of everything. Her energy is essential, driving the movie. When she turns your head, you know the character intends to do it, and that Shiraki is confident in her ability to do it, too.

A Diversion

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Hey, who's that suave lad, a little too skinny and young-looking to be the police commissioner? It's Jo Shishido, in his first role for Suzuki.

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1957 was a pivotal year for Shishido––according to his own words, he got in a fight with someone on a film production and was suspended for three months. During that time, he got collagen implants in his cheeks to make himself look tougher, and, probably, more western. Later, the settling of the implants will earn him the iconicity and mockery of his fabled "chipmunk-cheek" appearance, but there is an early period where they seem to be just plausibly filling out his face, giving him a squarer-seeming jaw. At first I thought this might be before he got the collagen implants, but Nude Girl with a Gun comes out in December of '57, so it must have been earlier. Looking at some of the films Shishido did earlier in the year, he looks the same as this. Here's a a couple of shots from Umetsugu Inoue's The Champion and Ko Nakahira's Temptation.

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He looks pretty much the same, right? Whereas here he is in The Maid's Kid, only 2 years earlier:

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Suffice to say, early on, Joe's collagen implants filled his face out in a pleasing way, making him look more like Yujiro Ishihara. Even a year afterwards, though, in 1958, The implants are starting to look more the way we recognize them. Here he is in Suzuki's Voice Without a Shadow:

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By 1959, Shishido looked the way we tend to remember him. About that time he started appearing as the heavy in the seeming majority of vehicles for Yujiro Ishihara and especially Akira Kobayashi. After Voice Without a Shadow, Shishido is out of Suzuki movies for a good five years, returning as a star in hard-boiled comedy for Detective Bureau 2-3: Go to Hell, Bastards!, looking pleasingly familiar with his postmodern cheeks.

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I Don't Know What I'm Doing––In This Review, Or In Anything

I could only watch Nude Girl with a Gun without subtitles. There are English-subtitled prints of the movie in circulation, but there have been no fansubs to pair with the picture––in fact, mostly unwatchable bootlegs aside, this is the first home video release of this movie, ever.

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All that is to say, though, that I don't know quite what's going on in this movie. I have read all available synopses of the picture (every encapsulation is pretty much short and dismissive), so I could follow along with the essential story elements, but the details of the crime in the film, for instance, or the relationship between the two Mari Shiraki portrayals, or between the film's various villains––all that was pretty obscure. Amongst other Suzuki films from this era, Passport to Darkness presents a very obviously similar structure––not a coincidence, perhaps that both movies seem to owe a sizable debt to Hitchcock. More than Suzuki's bleaker, more cynical crime films, These two films seem consciously to ape HItch's style and borrow tropes and structures from his films. One might almost be tempted to feel there was some exchange going on: the Vertigo-like element of a woman embodying two separate identities here seems right out of Vertigo––but that Hitchcock film came out more than a year later than Nude Girl with a Gun. Obviously, Hitch didn't see this movie. But the coincidence is a little breathtaking.

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The rest of the movie seems to borrow a lot from Rear Window and The Man Who Knew Too Much––and maybe a little from Foreign Correspondent. The sense of paranoia especially comes out of Hitch's era of English thrillers, where the outrage of violence and menace in the ordinary towns and suburbs animates the picture. There is a genteel sense to most of the crime stuff, with the exception of the scenes with the photographer's girlfriend. Before the girlfriend, though, we'll meet the photographer.

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Michitaro Mizushima appears here, playing his first lead in a Suzuki picture. I know I wrote him up earlier in this thread, somewhere, but I can't find it. Mizushima is one of the leading men Suzuki's mentor Hiroshi Noguchi uses as he develops the "hado–boiriudo," or "hard-boiled" Nikkatsu film––the contemporaneous Japanese equivalent of film noir. Early on Suzuki works with two of these stars, Mizushima (on this film, Underworld Beauty, and Take Aim at the Police Van), and Seizaburo Kawazu (on Satan's Town). Mizushima seemed like a Nikkatsu contract player, but his career actually runs a staggering 65 years, from silent films in 1925 all the way to 1990's Ronin-gai––so his Nikkatsu period is just a drop in the bucket. He appeared in multiple Sazen Tange movies, multiple Sarutobi Sasuke films, adaptations of the 47 Ronin, then did a long stretch as a cosmopolitan noir specialist at Nikkatsu...then back to mostly period films, appearing in Eiichi Kudo's magnificent 13 Assassins, then tons of Toei yakuza pictures, girl gang films, several entries in the Lone Wolf and Cub series, Sonny Chiba's The Executioner, and, finally Ronin-Gai. 246 films in total.

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Mizushima is a funny figure in his Suzuki movies, as if Suzuki can't quite take him seriously. In this movie especially he is a bumbling, schlubby freelance photographer; unshaven, unkempt, and lucky to make it through the picture. It doesn't help he is frequently shot next to his far, far more handsome reporter pal, Hideaki Nitani. Nitani has genuine stature, and shows Mizushima for what he is in all these movies; a small, somewhat round, middle-aged man, who looks like a noir hero mostly in closeup. In this way he is something like Humphrey Bogart, but Mizushima is a much less grave, scowling figure than Bogart, willing to appear more bumbling and dopey. The homeliness of the two men is their commonality, but the Hollywood machine goes hard to make Bogart seem menacing and violent, and Mizushima seems less of a tough-guy, more of a fundamentally decent chap.

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The cinematic violence which ultimately defines a Bogart is denied Mizushima in this movie––he spends most of the finale tied up, while Shiraki shoots their way out of a tight spot and sacrifices her character's life for him. In Underworld Beauty Mizushima will be just as schlubby, but a little more in command of violence by the end of the film. Wisely, Suzuki has him wear a bulky jacket throughout that movie, hiding his unimpressive middle-aged physique. In this movie, we keep seeing him in this unflattering light. What's more, Shiraki, frequently placed next to or near him, towers over the guy. And, next to this 20-year-old, statuesque dancer he just...looks...so old. He just doesn't come across as quite the leading man Nikkatsu was selling, and you get the feeling Suzuki knows this and is deliberately undercutting his hero.

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Suzuki also goes out of his way to emphasize how Mizushima's character is a big pervert. We constantly get these shots of him leering through his camera. The camera is a kind of sexual mediation for this character; when Mari Shiraki puts on a vampy seduction for him after he rescues her and clothes her in his coat, he starts furiously snapping photos instead of grappling with her.

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On the bridge where she first runs by him in nothing but her underwear, chased by gangsters, she drops a shoe on the steps, and he leaves her exposed on the bridge while he delicately retrieves the shoe. The effect is less Cinderella than a Bunuelian fetishist. And later, when he suspects the Shiraki from the bridge and the Shiraki from the police station are the same girl, he spies on her, photographing her in the shower with a telephoto lens––a scene Suzuki composes to accentuate the phallic imagery of the telephoto extension.

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There's a clear visual implication that the photographs Mizushima takes of Shiraki and the clandestine views he has of her (through lenses, through frosted windows, etc.) have a greater erotic charge for him than the woman does in the flesh. Standing in front of him, her identity is uncertain, and a host of other men may have some prior claim upon her eroticism––including, perhaps, the villain of the movie, who looks conspicuously like Lenin. But through the camera lens, Shiraki's character is fixed, solid, and belongs to Mizushima alone.

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The voyeuristic aspect of Mizushima's character is a constant in the film. When he and Shiraki are cornered by thugs midway through the picture, Mizushima fights them off using the flashbulb on his camera to blind them (these guys keep getting stunned and literally trip over him, fall into holes, and play themselves left and right in their attempts to lay hands on him). Mizushima's character ultimately turns out to have a brave, plucky girlfriend, who leaps into action when a religious cult who employs the gangsters finally captures him and ransoms him for some sort of "maltese falcon"-like object. The girlfriend is incredibly intrepid, risking her life to get this item from a stranger's house and use it to buy her boyfriend's freedom. The girlfriend's job? She's an actress, and when she gets the ransom call she's just stepped off a soundstage, where the recording equipment capturing her performance is prominently featured.

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This actress is very entertaining, with her comically bulging eyes and her ability to shift register into seriousness and back to dark comedy. This is Sumiko Minami, who started working in 1952 and who held on for a 31-year career which included 97 credits. She seems to have first worked for Shintoho for a while, before becoming a contract player for Nikkatsu for her entire career. She is in Suzuki's first film, Cheers at the Harbor: Victory in My Hands. Immediately before this movie, she plays the female student alongside Hideaki Nitani in Suzuki's Eight Hours of Terror (they lead the Communist anthem the passengers in the bus sing). She's in a number of notable films of the Nikkatsu Akushon era, including Toshio Masuda's Red Handkerchief, Ko Nakahira's Hunter's Diary, Hiroshi Noguchi's Gambling Kitten (starring Yumiko Nogawa), and Umetsugu Inoue's Fangs of Night. But when the Akushon era ends, kind of incredibly, she stays on at Nikkatsu and makes the transition to pinku eiga. Her first foray into the genre is the scandal du jour, Love Hunter (she plays libertine leading lady Kyoko's mother, who poisons Kyoko, herself, and Kyoko's husband at the end of the picture). She is in multiple entries in the Apartment Wife series, the Afternoon Affair series, and she appears in Yasuharu Hasebe's Sukeban Deka: Dirty Mary, the Naomi Tani picture Rope Hell, Lady Chatterly in Tokyo, Noboru Tanaka's Beauty's Exotic Dance: Torture! and finally in Zoom Up: Graduation Photo. She plays mothers to "lewd women" in most of these pink films, lending a bit of her classy poise to some occasionally very arty smut. Love Hunter at least is a genuinely great film, made better by her mother figure's creepy, conservative fanaticism. Needless to say, I'm very impressed by Minami's range.

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Her boyfriend here, Mizushima, plays Suzuki's first major pervert figure. This is in advance of Noro Keisuke taking a lot of the sillier pervert roles, of course (most memorably at the end of Story of Sorrow and Sadness, presumably burning up in a net along with the golfer Reiko's house). Perverts in Suzuki's cinema range from the sadomasochistic Nomoto in Youth of the Beast to the rice-sniffing Hanada in Branded to Kill, to the "no sex, please" incel Phoenix Tetsu in Tokyo Drifter and to the ultraviolent pervert Kiroku, whose sexual drive is made to serve Japan's imperial ambitions in Fighting Elegy.

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Probably the one Mizushima's character resembles most Toshiya Fujita's quiet voyeur Aochi in Zigeunerweisen, secretly thrilled inverted double of the sexually rapacious Nakasago. It's interesting to see Mizushima, much more the creation of Nikkatsu the studio than Suzuki the auteur––who generally is considered decent in spite of his chronic, open voyeurism––and Aochi, who pays for his mostly unsuccessful yearning to peep on and daydream about his friend's conquests by being relentlessly mocked, cucked, and defeated, by both the filmmakers and by Aochi's nominal friend. By comparison, Mizushima seems to get off scott-free. The girl is dead, I suppose, but he has plenty of pictures of her remaining, and that's where his erotic impulse lies, anyway.

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Also, the film draws a clear line between the personal voyeurism Mizushima engages in throughout and more official, overtly sinister forms of surveillance, from the movie set to recording devices the police use in their attempts to catch the villains red-handed. In both events, women are caught in the crosshairs of the viewfinder, or the pistol, or whatever. The film is clearly alert to women's exploitation for men's voyeuristic thrills.

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Other early Suzuki pictures will make similarly feminist observations––Blue Breasts very expertly draws an equation of exploitation between the sexual violence men visit on women and the art men produce that draws inspiration from that sexual violence. And the next Mizushima/Shiraki picture Suzuki makes, Underworld Beauty, will subtly hint that Shiraki's character is in no way going to be satisfied surrendering to her male hero at the end of the picture.

My Take

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Probably if there is something I can draw out of the film itself, without the benefit of the story's finer details, it's the way in which Suzuki and Shiraki both seem to be straining against the limits of this project. I get the sense that the particular sexploitation employed in this movie is just a bit too crude for both of them. Certainly, Suzuki's filmography is full of erotic subject matter––from early pictures like this, Underworld Beauty, Blue Breasts, Smashing the 0-Line and Everything Goes Wrong to the later perversity of Kanto Wanderer, Story of a Bastard: Born Under a Bad Star, the Flesh Trilogy, and Branded to Kill, to Fighting Elegy, to all of the later movies, especially the Taisho Trilogy, A Mummy's Love, Capone Cries Hard and Cherry Blossoms in Spring. But the eroticism on display in those movies doesn't have the bug-eyed frontality that it does in this film. You feel the movie is constantly shoving Shiraki's pseudo-nudity in your face, because it can, dammit. And possibly this was the box-office draw that made the film a hit, and gave the comparatively less obvious Underworld Beauty only an average box office gross. Underworld Beauty is a far more involving picture than this one. The mystery here, the crime elements, are all pretty goofy, like a lurid, adult Tintin adventure. There are other films in Suzuki's early filmography that use this very goofy network of villains––Sleep of the Beast, Smashing the 0-Line, and Passport to Darkness all have elements of this, as does Take Aim at the Police Van. But I think Suzuki is much happier when his villains are out in the open, where he can mock how pathetic they are. The villains in this picture remain menacing a la pulp thrillers, even as they appear as obvious caricatures. And while the Nomoto clan villains in Youth of the Beast, for instance, have caricatured aspects, they are much more fleshed-out characters, with purpose and motivation that––and I think this is often key to Suzuki––undercut their personal sense of potency. They can still be dangerous––the Nomotos are all idiots, but they are very dangerous––and characters like Diamond Fuyu in Kanto Wanderer can be dangerous even as the film makes him out to be pathetic. But none of them have the cover of darkness to exaggerate their sense of personal potency and efficacy. It seems like something Suzuki abandons as the films go on, perhaps in a desire to see malice as malice, cruelty as cruelty, out in the open.

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Meanwhile, the film is still an effective revelation of the talent of Mari Shiraki. Regardless of being constantly thrust into obligatory-feeling states of undress, Shiraki commands the screen. Her every glance, her every change of tone or mood is dynamic and absorbing. She has Mizushima eating out of the palm of her hand and she knows it. The "femme fatale" is actually not a standard figure in Japanese noir––more often the man is the "homme fatale," an erotic force, dragging the woman to her doom. That does ultimately happen at the end of this film, but for these two movies, Nude Girl with a Gun and Underworld Beauty, Shiraki credibly evokes the femme fatale archetype, putting the male characters under her deadly spell. In the end of this film, Shiraki still gets her own back. The villains think they've won, but she sure shows them.

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Cinematography

Umeo Matsubase as cinematographer is a one-off in Suzuki's filmography (almost every other cinematographer Suzuki works with at Nikkatsu comes back around for a second film at least). But to be fair, he only has three film credits of any kind on IMDB. This appears to be Matsubase's first time as a dp. His next shot at it will be six years later on The White Peaks of Mt. Fuji, an Izumi Ahikawa melodrama. He is listed as a dp one more time, five years after that. If I had to guess, he was probably a camera assistant, like Shigeyoshi Mine, who was sometimes elevated to the dp's chair. The cinematography in this movie is quite fine, very functional. I'm not excited about it most of the time. To me, the noir flavors of Suzuki are better served by either Kazue Nagatsuka's carefully-delineated, crisp and thorough lighting setups, or by the serpentine darkness edging in around the margins in Toshitaro Nakao's work on Inn of Floating Weeds and Smashing the 0-Line. This movie is frequently overlit––though particular scenes have more presence and atmosphere, like Shiraki's shower scene, and the sequence where Mizushima discovers a body in Shiraki's apartment. The comic scene where Mizushima flashes his flashbulb at the thugs in order to fight them looks gorgeous. But the scenes in the Ginza look too bright to be believed––and maybe the interior of the ship at the end looks a bit too high-key, as well.

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Still, Suzuki's apparent patience for and sensitivity to elegant, glamorous closeups just seems to be something he always had. The endless closeups on Shiraki are beautiful, highlighting her mystery with elegance. Inoue also photographed her very well, but Inoue shoots scenes mostly in long shot; and, honestly, Inoue just doesn't have the same eye for Sternbergian inner life in a closeup as Suzuki does. Even the closeups on Mizushima are exceptional.

Setting

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A lot of spaces in the film look like soundstage-bound sets, but in fact, Nikkatsu's website lists in obsessive detail every filming location for most of their movies, and it turns out the film was shot all over Tokyo. It looks like Chuo, Setagaya, Chiyoda and Minato Wards are where most of this takes place. My guess is that the temple where the villains hang out is in Chiyoda Ward. The harbor is in Minato Ward. Chuo Ward is where the picture begins. The settings are interesting, mixing the newly rebuilt urban sprawl with what seem to be Tokyo suburbs. I really like the back-house Mizushima's character lives in, on the grounds of some rich person's estate. Not understanding the dialogue, I wonder if the estate belongs to Mizushima's girlfriend––who does show up out of nowhere while he's cooking a fish in the backyard, not really dressed to go out so much as she is just popping in to rile her boyfriend up.

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The Disc

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F*cking immaculate. Nude Girl with a Gun gets a 4k scan, with no restoration. This is a sharp, crystal-clear look at really a very old movie. I'm amazed, after it's almost total unavailability in the past, that such a pristine version exists. There are pops and scratches––you can actually see them all over these screencaps. They are small and totally unobtrusive. There are no violent visual jags in the film. There are splice marks occasionally––I think they might show up in these caps as well. But the film looks luminous, with perfectly-balanced contrast. This is a great way to be able to see the movie, even if the film itself seems like a bit of a lackluster compromise for Suzuki, less engaging than its erstwhile follow-up. I wonder if this film got the 4k scan treatment so many of the other films in these sets didn't get because it was a box office hit back in the day, or because it simply hadn't been scanned for television or home video in the past? Regardless, it's a little unfair-seeming that this somewhat lesser-seeming film gets this kind of treatment, and the masterpiece that is Story of a Prostitute gets the genuinely criminal treatment it gets. But more to come on that.

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I just got screencaps of Story of a Prostitute, but I have to get the corresponding ones from the Elephant disc, and maybe the Criterion 720p version, if I can still find it. I cried hot, bitter tears the whole time. The trailer on the disc is so, so...so beautiful, and the transfer? Oh god, the transfer. So I'll probably do Tokyo Drifter next. More intriguing, less frustrating. And I like to switch up the b&w and color films, too.

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Last edited by feihong on Tue Feb 04, 2025 8:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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feihong
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Re: Seijun Suzuki

#180 Post by feihong »

UNDERWORLD BEAUTY

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Underworld Beauty, Suzuki's seventh film, made in his third year directing, sees a solidifying of Suzuki's more distinct identity as a director. Funnily enough, he has just changed his name, from Seitaro to Seijun (apparently a bolder-sounding name, with more of a dramatic flourish?), and Nikkatsu has just started shooting all its productions in Nikkatsuscope. This means a drastic change to the way Suzuki visually composes his project. That spirit of experimentation informs the entire project, encouraging Suzuki to take what seems to be more creative ownership of this movie than the films he's done prior to this. The most recent two––Eight Hours of Terror and Nude Girl with a Gun––were both homages to filmmakers Suzuki has credited as influences. Eight Hours is a clear remake of John Ford's Stagecoach (down to having an alcoholic doctor aboard the bus, who gets redeemed by delivering a baby on board), and Nude Girl with a Gun is an obvious attempt at the feel of a Hitchcock movie. Underworld Beauty is a different kind of crime movie, and it will turn out to be a lot more like some of Suzuki's later crime movies made in the next few years, including Voice Without a Shadow, Take Aim at the Police Van, and Smashing the 0-Line. There are good films before Underworld Beauty––Inn of Floating Weeds, Eight Hours of Terror, and Satan's Town are that for my money. Underworld Beauty is the first that feels unique to Suzuki, his particular critiques of capitalism and masculinity, and his anarchic, playful nihilism. When I saw it on DVD 21 years ago, I was less impressed with the movie; seeing it again on bluray, I'm struck how much subtle, half-hearted gestures and changing expressions come to mean in the movie, as well as how the lesser visual presentation of DVD obscured what was actually going on in this picture.

[TEXT ONLY]
Spoiler
PLOT + CHARACTERS
Miyamoto appears before us in a literal underworld––the sewers, which carry the detritus of the growing city out of sight. There will be another river later, the Tama river, which will be posited as the opposite; a symbol of purity, of a return to a home village, an old world, a recapitulation of innocence after a long stretch in a fast-rebuilding city full of threats, crime, and moral compromise; but not every character will see it that way. Miyamoto does, but his perspective is particularly weighted by the way he spends so much time in the sewer, so to speak. This is a guy keen to wash away the stench of it. A lot of the film will hang on how we read Miyamoto––in spite of how little this character will develop in the script. As far as the writer's concerned, Miyamoto is an honorable thug who wants to go straight. He gets to go straight in the end by staying true to his old-school sense of honor, defending his friend's sister from being killed by his criminal associates.

Akiko, the sister, confounds Miyamoto. Understandable, because she comes out of a different movie entirely. Miyamoto went to jail in 1955, right when Shintaro Ishihara's novel, Season of the Sun, was published––so he's entirely missed the emergence of the Taiyozoku, or "Sun Tribe" subgenre of movies Nikkatsu made off the backs of their adaptations of Ishihara's novels Season of the Sun and Crazed Fruit. Akiko is square in the center of the Sun Tribe milieu. The film is clear how Akiko differs from other characters in the film. It isn't just that she lives in a world of immediate sensation that surpasses even the most amoral and louche criminals in the film. She isn't just a Sun Tribe Beatnik-cum-hippie; we see her interest in free love with the other kids, in love in general––but only when there's no possessiveness she might have to submit to.

Mari Shiraki gives a standout performance here, a character close to Suzuki's heart––at odds with the world around her, she rebels in the most furious terms. There's a very funny scene in which Miyamoto takes Akiko out for a walk on the bank of the Tama river. It's hilarious to watch Miyamoto struggle to articulate the half-baked inspiration he had for this. He wanted to remind Akiko of her home village, he says, in order to inspire her to buck her Sun Tribe ways. It takes almost nothing for Akiko to throw this back in Miyamoto's face. Lots of Suzuki's films contrast the urbane with the rustic, but Suzuki is not one to trust in hometown nostalgia. What Miyamoto projects that Mihara wants for his sister is a trap for Akiko, which would take away her agency. Living in the city has given Akiko agency she never would have had otherwise. She is the person she wants to be. The ending shot of the film shows her on a hospital-room balcony, with Miyamoto framing the balcony on his hospital bed. The camera closes in, cutting Miyamoto out of the frame and pairing Akiko's lounging figure with a large birdcage. The suggestion at the end is fairly unambiguous; getting together with Miyamoto like this is also a kind of trap for Akiko; forever washing the socks of an old man trapped in the past, an archetype of an outmoded age. With this we see the first complex ending to a Suzuki film, where a supposedly happy conclusion gives way to an image that undercuts it. WIthout radical social change, Akiko's soaring devotion to the anarchic ethos of the Sun Tribe has no perch on which to land. The capitalist hellscape we see being erected in the background of the movie will extract a value from a woman, in the form of some exploitation or another. There is no viable escape.

MY TAKE

This is the early film in Suzuki's canon with the liveliest subtext, and the most adventurous, funny approach. Suzuki is starting to use visual symbolism to condense the narrative, but also to add commentary and enrich themes. A standout visual metaphor in this film is the female dress mannequin. Arita's art studio appears to be supported by his sculpting of these dress mannequins for shop windows.

Several times Shiraki poses in the exact positions of some of these mannequins. Her value in the film's cynical underworld––and to a large extent in her Sun Tribe milieu––is in her body, its pleasing proportions, it's promise of sexual gratification. At one point, to hide the diamonds she's been given and told are hers, Akiko molds the diamonds into the breast of one of the in-production mannequins, hiding them from the crooks. What is the prize at play here? At one point in the crooks' search for the diamonds, Ozawa reaches out to fondle the mannequin breast where the diamonds are concealed, and Akiko slaps his hand away. She needs to stop him from finding the diamonds, but to make her action plausible, she scolds him for his lechery, causing even this most venal of the movie's thugs to recoil. The representation of a woman's body and money are equated relentlessly,.

Later on, when Miyamoto has secured the mannequin, we see him in the depths of the sewer again. He glances into the water, and we see the mannequin, now rent limb from limb, it's breast jarringly and conspicuously torn open for the diamonds, the parts of the woman––sorry, the mannequin––floating in the sewer. Miyamoto looks almost horrified with himself, and he looks away. The mannequin has been used frequently already as a representation of Akiko. He and Akiko have been growing closer over the course of this adventure. Is this what he can think to do with her, when he has her to himself? The inescapability of Miyamoto's violent archetype is suddenly staring him in the face.

It's interesting to me that, starting with Mari Shiraki, Suzuki will frequently look outside of Nikkatsu's stable of starlets for actresses who can create women characters different than the industrial model. From Emiko Azuma and Yoshiko Nezu to Yumiko Nogawa, to Annu Mari, to Michiyo Ookusu in the Taisho Trilogy, Suzuki will find actresses able to portray women against the grain of the popular imaginary. Underworld Beauty is where that impulse begins to bear fruit. The injection of Shiraki's brash Sun Tribe character into a cliche-ridden crime story of archetypal betrayal and honor works the way Kanto Wanderer will later, to juxtapose very contemporary values with the stodgy, shopworn values of the past.
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Spoiler
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I plan to cover Tokyo Drifter afterwards, but I was inspired to pre-empt it by Domino's comments in the thread on the Radiance disc for Underworld Beauty. They're mostly an expression of personal dislike on Domino's part, as I see it, and I don't plan on directly challenging any of them here (though I do have a different read on the scene where Miyamoto enters the Taiyozoku club). But thanks to his very sour experience with the movie, I was inspired to take a fresh look at it. Studying the films for these writeups has afforded me new ways of seeing Suzuki's material, and I'm going to present an alternate look at a movie which I've come to appreciate as more interesting and complex than what I'd initially believed. But I'm not going to change my discursive structure to address any specific critiques I disagree with. It'll be obvious, I think, the differing experience I had with the film to Domino's––and I hope you can see in your own viewing experience some of the things that move me about this picture.

PLOT + CHARACTERS

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The plot is more straightforward than the previous Nude Girl with a Gun, or another twisty thriller like Satan's Town or Passport to Darkness. This approach seems to suit Suzuki more than his thornier plots. Suzuki uses the relatively linear chase for stolen diamonds to give him room to develop a range of the film's vivid characters. The villains, are individualized, given anything from recognizable tics to monologues to narrative sections of their own (as when Mari Shiraki's character's boyfriend takes the lead in the diamond chase for several scenes). This loads up the finale with emphasis, because every antagonist rearing their head becomes an individual whose danger to the protagonists we can now gauge.

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We know "Knife Guy" thinks only about knives entering flesh, and it makes him dangerous. We know Ozawa is dumb, odious and a pervert. And when Miyamoto blows them away, or, when Ozawa gets shot by his own guys, the sense of significance is larger than it would be if the villains were anonymous thugs.

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Miyamoto appears before us in a literal underworld––the sewers which carry the detritus of the growing city out of sight, a literal river of sh*t. There will be another river later in the picture, the Tama river, which will be posited as the opposite; a symbol of purity, of a return to a home village, an old world, a recapitulation of innocence after a long stretch in a fast-rebuilding city full of threats, crime, and moral compromise; but not every character will see it that way. Miyamoto does, but his perspective is particularly weighted by the way he spends so much time in the sewer, so to speak. This is a guy keen to wash away the stench of it.

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Straight from the sewer, Miyamoto literally wafts into Tokyo. No one holds their nose or anything, but the young people dancing at the club clearly sense the presence of someone different; the gangsters around the edges of the club also sense it.

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There is what would be in a standard film a freeze in action, as we see groups of patrons in turn realize the change and react. The editing builds tension, and then releases it in a way we don't expect; Miyamoto just drifts in, straight for the back room. A lot of the film will hang on how we read Miyamoto––in spite of how little this character will develop in the unfolding script. As far as the writing is concerned, Miyamoto is an honorable thug who wants to go straight. He gets to go straight in the end by staying true to his old-school sense of honor, defending his friend's sister from being killed by his criminal associates, who don't have his chivalry.

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Miyamoto doesn't put a foot wrong or make a bad moral choice during the action of the film. He doesn't learn, doesn't have to sacrifice anything to succeed. He is an archetype, more than he is a character. But Suzuki's mis-en-scene and Michitaro Mizushima's canny performance convey a take on the character.

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The filmmakers take pains to suggest the way a sentence to prison has made Miyamoto a man out of time, abstracted and alienated from the modern world. The prison stretch is 3 years, but the filmmakers treat Miyamoto as if he was Rip van Winkle. Everything has changed in Miyamoto's time inside. His comrades on the diamond job have flourished apace with the growth of the Tokyo economic miracle, having grown from jewelry-shop stickups to owning a sauna/massage parlor (a place, it's implied, is a nexus for the sex trade, too) and running a crew of hardened mobsters. His friend (a wonderful, brief performance by Toru Abe, against type––here he's Miyamoto's true friend), crippled in the job, runs an oden cart and struggles with his sister, who he tells Miyamoto is going down a "bad path."

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Akiko, the sister, confounds Miyamoto. Understandable, because she arrives out of a different movie entirely. See, Miyamoto went to jail in 1955, right when Shintaro Ishihara's novel, Season of the Sun, was published––so he's missed the emergence of the Taiyozoku, or "Sun Tribe" subgenre of movies Nikkatsu made off the backs of their adaptations of Ishihara's novels Season of the Sun and Crazed Fruit. And Akiko is square in the center of the Sun Tribe milieu. A Japanese take on the teen figures featured in "Rebel Without a Cause," the Sun Tribe is depicted as a disaffected youth group driven to live hedonistic, sensual lives of abandon––and they are more of a fiction even than the sensitive-but-violent teens of Dean's Rebel. Sun Tribe literature tends to offer sour endings, usually with abortions, death, or car/boat crashes/homicides––all to appease a clucking, tut-tutting public that vicariously thrilled to the Sun Tribe's erotic exploits while publicly condemning them as shameful. The films that made the Sun Tribe a Japanese phenomenon perpetuate this two-handed moralism/voyeurism––and Suzuki will have a lot to say about that relationship in this movie.

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The film is clear in many aspects how Akiko differs from every other character in the film. It isn't just that she lives in a world of immediate sensation that surpasses even the most amoral and louche criminals in the film––rather, Suzuki quickly gets to the core of the difference between Akiko and her society. We see her interest in free love with the other kids, in love in general––but only when there's no possessiveness she might have to submit to.

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We see her struggles for money––we see her as a proto-sukeban, shaking down prissy high school girls for money, and in a wrenching scene after her brother dies, she walks out to the harbor to be alone, angrily cursing her brother for getting himself killed, hot tears streaming down her face. Then an American sailor shows up, seeing if he can score a date (he is staring at her back, and doesn't catch her mood or interpret her solitude). When Akiko turns around, she has a million-killowatt smile almost fully plastered on her face; emotions are fine, so long as no one can see them (the film doesn't hide all the dangers that exist around Akiko even before the diamond heist begins), but survival overrides everything. This sailor might be worth something to her in her struggle to survive, since she's now on her own. And every character except the crude sailor is flustered and disarmed by the way Akiko holds herself. She is everything a Japanese girl grows up believing she should not be; she is loud, brash, angry and outspoken. She throws her weight around, threatens, cajoles, challenges. At one point, when Miyamoto approaches her after her brother dies, he tries to get rough, and she responds by throwing a beer in his face. She is at odds with the very nature of the proposition always put to her, the offer to bend to someone else's will––to conform.

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Conforming, in Underworld Beauty, makes you a stock character. All the gangsters in the film are some form of stock character, from the honorable Miyamoto to the Janus-faced Oyane, to the slatheringly stupid Ozawa, to the luckless, bumbling Mihara. The cop, Watanabe, is also stock, a cliched guy watching the crooks, without enough to arrest them, and hoping Miyamoto will start walking the path of a cliched redemption sometime soon. The Taiyozoku teens we see in the background of the club scenes are even more anonymous stock. The only characters who aren't so are Akiko and her boyfriend, Arita.

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Suzuki is alert to the danger Akiko is in as a woman in a Sun Tribe milieu. Starting with An Inn of Floating Weeds and coursing along through Eight Hours of Terror, Nude Girl with a Gun, this film, Blue Breasts especially, and Everything Goes Wrong, is a discourse Suzuki reads into his movies on the roles of women in modern capitalism. This discourse picks up again later in the "Flesh Trilogy," as well as later films like A Mummy's Love, Story of Sorrow and Sadness, and Capone Cries Hard. The principle image that underlines Suzuki's differentiating interest in the roles women are made to conform to in his society is the scene in Mirage Theater where Shinako is brought onstage at the children's puppet theater and manipulated like a marionette by child puppeteers, each masked and made to be a stand-in for one of the adult characters in the drama. He sees a lot, and there's a lot more to analysis of the special challenges of women than the films often outwardly suggest––certainly more so than in the films of Suzuki's peers, like Toshio Masuda, Koreyoshi Kurahara, or Umetsugu Inoue (in fact, Inoue movies frequently posit an opposite theory, that women in contemporary society of the era would have no problems in the drama of the films if only they'd just be loyal to a "good" man). Akiko is given a different frame than the other Taiyozoku––she is a woman who subscribes to the hedonistic nihilism of the Sun Tribe, but one who is so independent as to be aware of the risk she takes in getting too close to the men in the group. Perhaps she's seen some of the Sun Tribe movies herself? Women often meet a bad end in those movies, leaving a tear in the eye of some valiant, sentimental Taiyozoku man––who, in the case of some of these movies, may have just killed her himself.

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Akiko's boyfriend Arita is quite different. The film needs a character who is the glue that holds the Sun Tribe and the gangster action sides of the picture together. Little did any of the characters know he would turn out to be such crazy glue.

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Arita owns the club where the Taiyozoku congregate. He's a faux-bohemian, a professional artist who moonlights as a Sunday painter (mostly of Akiko), and he uses his bohemian affect to blend with the younger Sun Tribe members on the edges of their bacchanalia. Hiroshi Kondo plays him first as a poindexter, full of esoteric knowledge but with no social graces. Arita's desire to prove himself better than everyone rises like the tide throughout the early part of the film, as he watches the criminals effect their botched diamond heist with such disdain. It reaches its apotheosis when he manages to get Akiko away from her brother's corpse long enough to extract the diamonds Mihara has swallowed from his stomach.

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This scene is not necessarily credited by some western viewers with the valence Suzuki is giving it. When Ozawa sneaks into the morgue to check if they can get the diamonds from Mihara, he backs off before getting a close look and it's because he sees a lone candle in the room with Mihara. Mihara is being given Shinto funeral rites, with a candle set burning to keep evil spirits from entering his lifeless body.

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We see Akiko not entirely respectful of the tradition being observed here when she shows up drunk, lifts the lid on the coffin, and drowsily pours liquor into her dead brother's mouth, but what Arita does when he's alone with the body is something audiences in 1958 would have watched balefully. Shinto proscribes cutting open a corpse as it sits in state for 24 hours. In Japanese folklore, what Arita is doing to extract the diamonds Mihara swallowed will allow evil spirits into the body, preventing the spirit of the deceased from ever being at rest in the afterlife. The scene plays out as in horror––Arita is lit in a frightening way, and chilling bells are heard on the soundtrack. Sweat pours down his body, and there is a look of wonder at his own daring while he breaks a taboo. Everyone in the film reacts differently when they discover what Arita has done. If the scene where Oyane cackles at him seemed strange, it's because the otherwise sober and secretly cynical Oyane is himself freaked out by this corpse-cutter. When Oyane ventillates Arita towards the end of the picture, and then sees Miyamoto's gun trained on him, he seems surprised Miyamoto or anyone would mind his killing this mad dog.

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And Arita is never the same afterwards. Haunted by the act he's committed, Arita gets progressively demented as the film continues. This comes to a head when Miyamoto follows Akiko to Arita's sculpture workshop and discovers the truth. Arita, already having arranged with Oyane to buy the diamonds, gets a call from Arita with the details of the trade––but Miyamoto is able to get ot the phone before Arita. Most of the gangsters in this picture are dumb as rocks, and Miyamoto will be in any number of ways, but Suzuki still gives Miyamoto the street smarts to figure out visual clues and to deduce what has happened. He looks at the knife in Arita's hand, and the diagram of the human stomach on the wall, and thinks about the call he just heard. The look on Miyamoto's face as he regards the antiseptic-looking Arita with this new knowledge is one of so many quick, subtle touches in this film which are winning me over. This is Michitaro Mizushima's best acting in the movie, I think––his best acting in any of his three Suzuki films. And Hiroshi Kondo does wonderfully as the precursor to the kind of brittle psycho Tamio Kawaji would repeatedly play for Suzuki seven or eight years down the line.

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In fact, Hiroshi Kondo was about to become a familiar face in Suzuki movies for the next 3 or 4 years, moving on to the nascent Nikkatsu line of yakuza films just as the "Nikkatsu Akushon" movie was beginning to wane, and he really does seem to be replaced in Suzuki's film world by Tamio Kawaji. He was already a pro with a list of famous credits under his belt. He begins his career in 1947 in Mikio Naruse's The Spring Awakens, and in his first few years as an actor he appears in several classics: Tadashi Imai's 'Till We Meet Again, Joseph Von Sternberg's Anatahan, Naruse's Dancing Girl, and Ko Nakahira's Crazed Fruit. The next year he does his first film for Suzuki, Eight Hours of Terror, where he plays one of the pair of escaped psychopaths who hold the bus hostage in the mountains (he's the one who gets gored by a tree branch late in the film). Underworld Beauty is the next picture for Suzuki, and he follows it with appearances in Voice Without a Shadow and Passport to Darkness. When Nikkatsu Akushon hits its stride, and Suzuki is assigned to Koji Wada's pictures, Hiroshi Kondo shows up in several. He plays the evil developer in Fighting Delinquents, he's in Tokyo Knights, and his last role for Suzuki is in The Wind-of-Youth Group Go Over the Mountain Pass (poetic; he drifted into Suzuki's filmography scrabbling through the mountains to hijack a bus––he ends up getting dropped off at the end of their collaboration "over the mountain pass," so to speak). Kondo amassed 179 credits in a 43-year career. After his Suzuki era, he is in most of Nikkatsu's attempts at "serious" yakuza pictures, several entries each in the Symbol of a Man series, the Crest of a Man series, and the Family Crest series. He's in Immamura's Intentions of Murder, and as Nikkatsu starts to close down he's in a bizarre manga adaptation that seems to be like "Porky's," but aimed at children, called Shameless School: Health Check in the Nude. The film features Jo Shishido as a character called Macaroni, and there is a lecherous teacher in it named "Beard Godzilla." Annu Mari also appears. Kondo doesn't stick around for Nikkatsu's pivot to Roman Poruno, and jumps ship to Toei, where he appears in Ken Takakura movies and women's prison movies (really coming up in the world). He is in Terrifying Girls High School: Lynch Law Classroom, Graveyard of Honor, and then he finds his way into the orbit of Sonny Chiba: he's in Sister Street Fighter, 13 Steps of Maki: The Young Aristocrats, Bullet Train, Wolf Guy, Karate Bear Fighter, Karate for Life, and a bizarre Yasuaki Kurata curio called Which is Stronger Karate or Tiger? Kurata fights a tiger on the poster. At this point he finally ends up in a Pink film: Noboru Ando's Chronicle of Fugitive Days and Sex. He's in Proof of the Man, with Yusaku Matsuda, Mariko Okada, Broderick Crawford and George Kennedy, Port Arthur, Before Spring, and then...INCREDIBLY...he is BACK in a Seijun Suzuki movie, almost 20 years later, in 1980: the made-for-television Claws of the Divine Beast. I believe he plays the villain there, too.

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This most recent viewing really led me to appreciate what Kondo does with this role. He is a strange figure, who ends up pitiful in Akiko's eyes, but still a danger to her throughout. He is in many respects the villain of the movie––everyone seems relieved when Oyane puts him down. If the film holds up Arita and Akiko as the representatives of a new generation––one making a conscious break with the past, Arita stands as the dark opposite of Akiko. His nonconformism is not tied to any anarchic communal life, as Akiko's is. His rebellion is against community, against nature, as the film posits it.

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Akiko, meanwhile, is a much more grounded rebel. Mari Shiraki gives a standout performance, a corrective of the exploitative role she played in Nude Girl with a Gun. There are a few scenes that put actress Shiraki in her underwear again, but these are woven more smoothly into the plot of the film, and have more of a diegetic role in the proceedings. In Nude Girl with a Gun the voyeurism of the audience was the focus of Shiraki's near-nudity. In Underworld Beauty, Akiko being stripped by the villains is evidence of the villains' lecherous savagery. The other times we see Akiko in just a brassiere are moments of the character's own choosing; during the Sun Tribe orgy, and in the end, when the villains corner Miyamoto and Akiko in the boiler room and set the room ablaze, and the two heroes have to dig their way out of a coal sink to escape. Akiko is a very fully-rendered role for Shiraki, a character close to Suzuki's heart––at odds with the world around her, she rebels in the most furious terms.

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The picture is attuned to Akiko's pain, joy, and peril. She is constantly in danger of becoming somebody's woman––the beautiful corpse at the end of a Taiyozoku picture, or the hostage in a criminal deal for a purloined legacy. Midway through the movie, Miyamoto, who has been stalking her throughout, shows her what a venal, traitorous, taboo-breaking sh*t her boyfriend is, and then gives her the diamonds––thereby suggesting strongly to her that he has no personal interest beyond loyalty to her brother. This allows Akiko to finally trust Miyamoto, but there are red flags for Akiko all around. Before this, Miyamoto slapped her in the face. There is a wild sequence early in the film, where the criminals wait outside the hospital for a prognosis on Mihara, then accompany Akiko in the ride to Mihara's quick funeral, and to the cremation. We believe it's all for the diamonds, and Akiko lashes out at them all, convinced they caused her brother's death. Throughout the sequence Suzuki gives Miyamoto a number of moments of reflection that indicate he's after something different than the rest; Miyamoto is trying to honor his friend's last request, and help steer Mihara's sister away from what Mihara and Miyamoto view as the "corruption" of the Sun Tribe.

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There's a very funny scene in which MIyamoto takes Akiko out for a walk on the bank of the Tama river. Akiko challenges him on why he's done this, and it is hilarious to watch Miyamoto struggle to articulate the half-baked inspiration he had for doing this. He wanted to remind Akiko of her home village, he says, in order to inspire her to buck her Sun Tribe ways. It takes almost nothing for Akiko to throw this back in Miyamoto's face. Lots of Suzuki's films contrast the urbane with the rustic, but Suzuki is not one to trust in hometown nostalgia. What Miyamoto projects that Mihara wants for his sister is a trap for Akiko, which would take away her agency. Akiko throws it back in his face. Living in the city has given Akiko agency she never would have had otherwise. She is the person she wants to be. The script will ultimately require her to learn a lesson in humility, and to embrace nostalgia and tradition––by becoming Miyamoto's girlfriend in the end. The lines imply Akiko is sticking around out of a mixture of respect and maybe gratitude for the way he helped her out of the diamond drama. But Suzuki doesn't let this ending pass uncommented-upon. After all, it was Miyamoto and her brother who got Akiko into this mess in the first place. The ending shot of the film shows her on a hospital-room balcony, with Miyamoto framing the balcony on his hospital bed.

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The camera closes in after she indicates hanging out with Miyamoto is unexpectedly exciting, cutting Miyamoto out of the frame and pairing Akiko's lounging figure with a large birdcage, made to resemble a home. The suggestion at the end is fairly unambiguous; getting together with Miyamoto like this is also a kind of trap for Akiko; forever washing the socks of an old man left in the past, an archetype of an outmoded age. We see the first really complex ending to a Suzuki film, where a supposedly happy conclusion gives way to an image that challenges it. WIthout radical social change, Akiko's soaring devotion to the anarchic ethos of the Sun Tribe has no perch on which to land. The capitalist hellscape we see being erected in the background of the movie will extract a value from a woman, in the form of some exploitation or another. There is no viable escape.

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Suzuki is also faintly critical of the Sun Tribe as well; there is the vague feeling that all the men in the group are out for Akiko's body, and none of the Taiyozoku characters come to Akiko's aid when she is kidnapped by her ex-boyfriend right in front of them, the way the kids in the Koji Wada films always rally behind Wada or Mayumi Shimizu whenever they're in trouble. Later, Suzuki's criticism of the Taiyozoku will come to the fore in Everything Goes Wrong, where we learn that Toshimi, the quirky, unique Sun-Triber played by Yoshiko Nezu, was molested by all the male members of her gang of Taiyozoku youths. So group identity will fail Akiko, and marriage to a noir guy stereotype sounds less interesting than she pretends it might be at the end of the film. Akiko didn't get the diamonds, after all. So there is no real escape in mind for the character. Time and again Suzuki will show us these characters who burn themselves out in front of us, in their rage against their society. Harumi is still raging against the machine in Story of a Prostitute, seven years and countless films later. But Underworld Beauty is the first film in Suzuki's filmography to focus upon that singular character so important to him––the nonconformist, burning away their vitality in a futile attempt to upend the system. This is the magic of Mari Shiraki, playing the part she was born to play. Shiraki is in later Suzuki movies (Passport to Darkness, Take Aim at the Police Van, Those Who Bet on Me), but never again to the same vital effect. Here, Shiraki is the whole point of the film, the mercury running through the tired tropes of an already moribund genre and blowing them sky-high. The film has a lot to say about the roles open to Shiraki's character, and the way in which her forceful individualism isolates her, even as it is her only defense.

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One other actor deserves some mention, and that's Shinsuke Ashida, who is recognizable in many of these early Suzuki films. But I'll save him for when I cover some other film that features him. He's interesting.

MY TAKE

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I've mostly been drenching these comments so far in my take on the film, so I imagine people know by now what I think. This is a great film, with a standout performance from Shiraki. It's the early Suzuki film with the liveliest subtext, and the most adventurous and funny approach. The "light humorist," as Tadao Sato calls Suzuki, is more evident in this movie than in any of the other early films.

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Suzuki is starting to use visual symbolism not just to condense the narrative, but to add commentary and enrich themes. A standout visual metaphor is the female mannequin. Arita's art studio appears to be supported by sculpting of dress mannequins for shop windows (foregrounding the reason his studio is covered in anatomical drawings, and explaining without words how he is able to remove the diamonds from the dead man's stomach so quickly).

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Several times Shiraki poses in the exact positions of some of these mannequins, implying she was the model for them. The metaphor works in the opposite direction, too; everyone in the story objectifies Akiko to a certain degree. Her value in the film's cynical underworld––and to a large extent in her Sun Tribe milieu––is in her body, its pleasing proportions, it's promise of sexual gratification. The mannequin is bought and sold and carted around throughout the film. At one point, to hide the diamonds she's been given and told are hers, Akiko molds the diamonds into the breast of one of the in-production mannequins, hiding them from the crooks.

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What is the prize at play here? At one point in the crooks' search for the diamonds, Ozawa reaches out to fondle the mannequin breast where the diamonds are concealed, and Akiko slaps his hand away. She needs to stop him from finding the diamonds, but to make her action plausible, she scolds him for his lechery, causing even this most venal of the movie's thugs to recoil. The representation of a woman's body and money are equated relentlessly.

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Later on, when Miyamoto has secured the mannequin, we see him in the depths of the sewer again, taking the diamonds out of his usual hiding place. He glances into the water, and we see the mannequin, now rent limb from limb, it's breast jarringly and conspicuously torn open for the diamonds, the parts of the woman––sorry, the mannequin––floating in the sewer. Miyamoto looks almost horrified with himself, and he looks away. The mannequin has been used frequently already as a representation of Akiko. He and Akiko have been growing closer over the course of this adventure. Is this what he can think to do with her, when he has her to himself? The inescapability of Miyamoto's violent archetype is suddenly staring him in the face.

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Two movies from now, Suzuki will be making Blue Breasts, a film which focuses very baldly on the dual sexual/artistic exploitation of women in another such situation, where the Sun-Tribe meets the criminal underworld. Suzuki's films frequently express themes that seem to intersect with his personal life. Films even as innocuous as Fighting Delinquents reference Suzuki's own war experience––in fact, the war is the backdrop of most of his mid-career movies–– and later on, Story of Sorrow and Sadness gives us a satire of television and commercialism, following almost a decade in which Suzuki predominantly makes commercials. Sorrow and Sadness, Capone Cries Hard, and Yumeji all seem to reflect Suzuki's experience as an artist. Branded to Kill and Pistol Opera reflect the competitive cultural consequences of the economic miracle. That these early films, from Nude Girl with a Gun through Underworld Beauty and Blue Breasts are very keenly focused on the exploitation of women within a largely male-controlled environment of artistic production seems also to reflect on something Suzuki has seen in his industry, which has given him pause. It's interesting to me that, starting with Mari Shiraki, Suzuki will frequently look outside of Nikkatsu's stable of starlets for actresses who can create women characters different than the industrial model. From Emiko Azuma and Yoshiko Nezu to Yumiko Nogawa, to Annu Mari, to Michiyo Ookusu in the Taisho Trilogy, Suzuki will find actresses able to portray women against the grain of the popular imaginary. Underworld Beauty is where that impulse begins to bear fruit. The injection of Shiraki's brash Sun Tribe character––an outlier, though, even in the Sun Tribe, for her drive for self-determination leaves her more than conscious of the way men in the Sun Tribe also try to objectify and possess her––into a cliche-ridden crime story of archetypal betrayal and honor works the way Kanto Wanderer will later, to juxtapose very contemporary values with the stodgy, shopworn values of the past. The script is not favorably disposed towards the Sun Tribe values, but Suzuki uses performance, editing and visuals to show that the gangsters' conservatism has no place in the modern era. The anarchist in Suzuki wants to take what is valuable from the Sun Tribe, throw out what is old and not working, and remake society. The pessimist in Suzuki supplies the ending, where he indicates he doesn't believe this will happen. Akiko ends up giving her alleged "value," her sexual/romantic/domestic value, in the scheme of the movie's critique, to Miyamoto, who she feels saves her life. Suzuki makes it plain this obligation is a cage for Akiko with the birdcage image. He implies the threat even a domesticated Miyamoto might prove to Akiko in the image of the eviscerated mannequin.

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And he shows a corrective in the finale, when Miyamoto and Akiko are digging their way to freedom, in the heat and pressure of the boiler room inferno, side by side, working together, stripping down all the visual signifiers of their social identities which would influence their gender dynamic in the rest of the film. Fascinating too how neatly the imagery of the film comes back around at the end, the heat of the crematorium in the early part of the film, the description of diamonds being forged in heat and pressure, the villains' sauna, tying at the end into the boiler room as a crucible, testing the characters and reducing their archetypal elements to nothing.

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At the end of this sequence, Suzuki offers a precise image of the stolen diamonds, nestled amongst the coals, in the midst of the room's inferno. Two diamonds; one for Akiko, one for Miyamoto. But then the cops show up, the social order descends; Miyamoto is left holding the bag for the robbery, Akiko volunteers to be his woman in exchange. With the birdcage at the end, Suzuki is implying to us, beyond what's in the script, that Miyamoto's years in stir are not an even trade for Akiko's youth and energy.

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Here Suzuki steps out from the pack, using the techniques of filmmaking to start to differentiate his movies from other filmmakers at Nikkatsu. It's thrilling to see. I wish there had been another such daring Suzuki movie with Shiraki in the lead role. Shiraki doesn't get another chance to play a rich, unique character again. Suzuki seems to be given larger responsibilities after this picture, on a pair of melodramas with Nikkatsu's 2nd-biggest star, Akira Kobayashi––though it's interesting to note that in both those movies, there are women who turn out to be the real protagonists. In fact, The next four movies after Underworld Beauty feature women in leading roles, making one wonder if Nikkatsu was attempting to carve out a space for Suzuki doing women's melodramas (Suzuki had come from Shochiku's Ofuna studios, dedicated to making melodramas, and he was considered to have a particularly special touch with them about this time). Suzuki only really does one true Taiyozoku film, Everything Goes Wrong, coming three years after the craze had in essence passed (Nagisa Oshima's very similar Cruel Story of Youth comes out the same year)––but his filmography from around this time is full of Taiyozoku "types," from Kobayashi's brutish lout in The Boy Who Came Back to Shiraki's bar girl in Passport to Darkness to the porn producers in Blue Breasts. There is even a weird parody of the Sun Tribe in Sleep of the Beast, where the powerful old men of the film's cult worship a solar deity, making them a literal "Sun Tribe" of another sort. Noir-tinged crime films will continue to be a theme within Suzuki's pictures going forward, passing out of phase for the early part of the Koji Wada cycle and then crashing back with Suzuki's brilliant neo-noirs of his mature period, Detective Bureau 2-3 and Youth of the Beast. It's easy to see now how Underworld Beauty provides a key for Suzuki to move forward in various directions. The film is made with an expanded sense of confidence on the filmmaker's part, and the sense that every element of the movie is essentially working. Suzuki even manages, through his unique approach to visual symbolism, to undermine the conventional ending with an alternate reading, which expresses more clearly his own take on the material (this after Suzuki had been forbidden from changing the lines in his scripts, following his total rewrite of Eight Hours of Terror that made it into a musical comedy). It was a real pleasure to rediscover this film and find so many riches in it.

FRAMING

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This is the most striking stylistic difference between Suzuki's earlier movies and Underworld Beauty. It seems to be the 7th or 8th film at Nikkatsu to be released in Nikkatsuscope, and filmmakers are working out ways to shoot in the new ratio. This movie is a catalog of experiments Suzuki can conduct in graphical storytelling and unique visuals. Many shots take advantage of common composition techniques like rule of thirds or symmetrical framing, but Suzuki's more dazzling experiments include things he'll expand upon in his other Nikkatsuscope productions, like using contour lines within the image to draw the eye, or framing figures in the negative space created by characters closer to the camera interacting with their varied environments. Suzuki likes to experiment a lot with different ways of lining characters up in the composition, and he works a lot in this film with depth, often deliberately planning synchronized foreground and background action. The overriding tension in this department is between the shots that ape orthodoxy and the shots which start compositing image elements in new and different arrangements, usually for the benefit of the story.

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CINEMATOGRAPHY

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Toshitaro Nakao, who made the docklands of Inn of Floating Weeds shimmer with a dreamlike noir surrealism is back for his last full film with Suzuki. He'll end up shooting part of Smashing the 0-Line two years and 8 pictures later––though that film will be credited to Shigeyoshi Mine, and it seems Nakao steps in only briefly on the picture. Between the two movies, Suzuki shoots four projects in the noir style; Kazue Nagatsuka, the cameraman with seniority here, shoots Voice Without a Shadow and Passport to Darkness, and Nagatsuka's kohai, Shigeyoshi Mine, shoots Take Aim at the Police Van and Sleep of the Beast. In the Bug Magazine interview, Suzuki says he was able to request cinematographers for his projects, and that his criteria was what kind of working relationship he has with them, above any aesthetic consideration. Obviously he worked well with Nagatsuka, and would later work well with Mine. I don't know if Nakao wasn't a good fit, or if Nagatsuka's protege deserved preference in Suzuki's eyes. Mine repays being favored here by becoming Suzuki's great color cinematographer, pushing forward with a lot of Suzuki's most vivid innovations in the later part of his time at Nikkatsu, but I do miss Nakao's particular way with light after this. Mine's black-and-white movies look very soft and grey to me, whereas Nakao uses creeping, encroaching black tones that look very appropriate for noir pictures.

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He likes dissolving detail into the background black tone, and making visuals a little more challenging and graphical to read with notable backlighting. One of his specialties is the way he illuminates the smoke rising in the atrium of the villains' lair during the darkened shootout at the end. Nakao seems to be the preferred cinematographer for two other workhorse directors in the "B-string" of Nikkatsu filmmakers: Isamu Kosugi and Motomu Ida. He also works a lot for Ren Yoshimura, whose projects are often more liminal melodramas, poised between the A and B categories. Perhaps Nakao is just not available on the later movies, when Suzuki's preferred cinematographers aren't around.

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I love the grim look of this picture, with shadows thick like a curtain of tar boiling up in the edges of every surface. The image on the disc is grungy, with a grittier look than Nakao's previous picture with Suzuki, Inn of Floating Weeds. That picture was much more of a romantic melodrama grafted to a vague crime story, and maybe a smoother look suited the film's bittersweet feel. (or maybe the Nikkatsu 4k transfer of Inn of Floating Weeds looks softer because of choices made while authoring the disc? I am not educated enough to be able to tell). Nevertheless, Underworld Beauty's grunginess adds to the somewhat grotesque feeling of the crime in the picture. The central criminal activity of the film is, in cultural terms, more aberrant and grotesque than in most Suzuki movies, and the strong clash of cultures in a changing Tokyo is made more brutal and point-blank with the tonal grittiness of the film's appearance.

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THE DISC

The more I've sat with this disc, the more impressive it looks to me. Nikkatsu apparently provided a 4k transfer of the film, so I have to assume the grittiness of the image, contra the lustrous smoothness of Nikkatsu's 4k of Inn of Floating Weeds, is what Nakao and Suzuki intended.

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After this interruption, I'll return with Tokyo Drifter. After that I'd like to expand these writeups I'm doing to include more films not included in the Nikkatsu blu ray box sets, so I'm looking at tackling Zigeunerweisen and maybe one of the TV movies.
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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#181 Post by feihong »

TOKYO DRIFTER

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Tetsuya Watari arrives at a Nikkatsu in flux. In 1961 the studio's top star, Yujiro Ishihara, breaks his leg in a skiing accident and is out of film production for 7 months. Within a month, Diamond Line star Keiichiro Akagi has a fatal accident on the Nikkatsu backlot, as the go-cart he is driving slams into a wall. Down two members, and with the most junior member, Koji Wada, losing teen heartthrob status, Kobayashi continues to turn out hits, and Jo Shishido and Hideaki Nitani join the Diamond Line. Ishihara returns and does fewer films. The studio has a deal with distributors for a quota of films. They need new stars.

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[TEXT ONLY]
Spoiler
The studio holds a "new faces" audition. From the audition they find Hideki Takahashi––who will be the studio's main ninkyo star––and then a talent scout spies Tetsuya Watari eating in Nikkatsu's cafeteria, & hires him on the spot. Watari meets the studio's main need: he looks like a young Yujiro Ishihara. Yujiro was beloved; but he was getting older, living high and adventurously, and the plan had been to try and replace him if need be. Watari had the long legs that made Ishihara a sex symbol. Like Ishihara, he had no previous interest in acting, but he had an innate sense of cinema, and a star's role in it.

Trouble was, Watari didn't do quite the gangbusters box office of Ishihara. The studio put Watari in Ishihara movies as a "younger brother." Early solo outings for Watari didn't seem to rate the same. Toshio Masuda, who worked with Watari a lot, lamented that while Watari's and Hideki Takahashi's movies kept the studio going, Watari just didn't command the heights Ishihara had. Apart from Ishihara, he wasn't the icon that could halt the studio's slide.

ICONICITY

A Google search will tell you the film is about loyalty, but to me that theme is subservient to the subtext of being an icon. Thinking on iconicity is the guide to interpreting the stranger aspects of the film. In one sense, though, loyalty to the self is a question throughout the movie. In a world of doubles, followers, commerciality and cheap imitation, how can you be your authentic self? What is that self when compromise surrounds you? Can you hold it in place with a "Light Punch" hair dryer?

The things viewers notice first about Phoenix Tetsu, hero of Tokyo Drifter, are A) his powder-blue suit, and B) he sings his own theme song. Repeatedly, he sings it (a classic enka with lyrics written for Watari––the melody is the same in the opening to Fighting Delinquents). Tetsu retired from the yakuza, along with his boss, but the suit singles Tetsu out, both in mob settings and in real life––it identifies him with the light blue mark of hypercompetency, a flash of a glittering pistol on the horizon, dealing death if drawn forth. We're told he's hell if you push him, and the tension that drives the film is tracking when Tetsu will get pushed too far. What would pushing him too far entail? This idea works in double; as Tetsu is gradually provoked, we see the full self, replete with desires and flaws.

The suit is his psychic veil or girdle, hiding from the world the violent inner nature of the professional killer and keeping him fully repressed. His smile seems angry and predatory, and he holds himself rigid, until the film's finale, when in a flurry of ridiculous action he redefines all his personal and professional relationships, and emerges free of the pinched persona we know. So the suit is a signal of Tetsu's position––his special role as ace among the yakuza––and a warning sign of his repressed danger.

Futher, Suzuki plays up other characters' reactions to the Phoenix's arrival. Other cast members are alerted to Tetsu's presence by hearing his approaching theme song, or by seeing him suddenly revealed as already amongst them. Each reaction has the exaggerated simplicity of someone meeting an icon of hate, admiration, respect, or love. When gangsters kidnap Tetsu's girlfriend Chiharu, only to find out Tetsu is a step ahead of them and has substituted himself for their driver, their reaction is explosive. Chiharu, by contrast, melts against Tetsuin abject desire. Tetsu's boss Kurata fawns over him like a proud father; Yoshii, the owner of Boss Kurata's building glows with respect for Tetsu; negotiating with Tetsu enobles him in the shady real-estate scheme that marks the first section of the story. Tamio Kawaji's "Viper Tatsu" lusts to murder Tetsu, lives in fear of him, and is desperate to be or possess him, their scenes together increasingly homoerotic. Suzuki exploits Watari's inability to memorize lines, posing Tetsu in laconic recline so he can hide someone feeding Watari his lines behind a pillar or nearby door. Note how little Tetsu speaks when not leaning against something or sitting, and think how few lines of dialogue he has in love scenes, for instance. Does he say even 5 lines of dialogue to Chieko Matsubara throughout the movie?

Suzuki fills the movie with wannabes, obviously jealous of Tetsu's ease & presence. Eimei Esumi's gang boss, Otsuka, stays hidden behind sunglasses the whole movie, longing to be as cool as Tetsu. Umetani, the boss in the western saloon, clearly aspires to be Tetsu's equal, throwing himself into the bar fight, to put on a show for Tetsu. When Umetani gets the call from Kurata to rub out his prized guest, it takes all the spring out of Umetani's step. For his time with Tetsu, Umetani basked in the glow of being a comparable figure. Reduced to an ax guy, trying to shoot Tetsu in the back, he visibly deflates. Tamio Kawaji's Tatsu even aspires to be Tetsu's dark double, the "viper" to catch Tetsu's "phoenix"––when he is unable to do it, his own ego starts disintegrating before our eyes. Faced with the impossibility of killing Tetsu––and thus the impossibility of being Tetsu's true double, he kills himself, rather than go on.

The obvious double for Tetsu is Hideaki Nitani's "Shooting Star." In a sense, Phoenix Tetsu is the older former hitman's double. Formerly in Tetsu's role with Kurata, Shooting Star already lives the drifter's lifestyle Tetsu is adopting, and has already been betrayed by Kurata, the way Tetsu is sold out at his boss's hands. Shooting Star seems as if he would gladly help Tetsu weather the devastation of his values, the dissolution of his belief in his boss and the value of his loyalty––but Tetsu rejects Shooting Star's empathy and understanding at every turn. Just as there's doubling of Phoenix Tetsu and Shooting Star, there's a non-diegetic doubling as well, since Hideaki Nitani was once a star, relegated to co-star or supporting player, like Watari. Later on, Nitani achieved brief star status in a series of films with fellow "Diamond Line" promotee Jo Shishido, where he was credited under his odd nickname, "Dump Guy" (promotional materials claimed his punch landed with the force of a runaway dump truck, and somehow audiences embraced "dump guy" on that basis). Tetsuya, the rising star (also "Tetsuya" in the film), was going through a star journey similar to Nitani's. The characters talk to each other as yakuza turned ronin, and as movie stars trying to make a hit with warmed-over "Nikkatsu Akushon" material.

I've never found Tetsuya Watari a credible actor or star. He is handsome, but he never felt like a figure inside a movie, the way his model Ishihara does––and the way Nitani does, in spite of a similar stiffness. He is especially ill at ease when he has to do emotion (whereas Yujiro bounces up and down through the register of emotions without demure), and he routinely fails to create crackling scenes––especially with actresses. With Suzuki's usual resourcefulness, he takes his star's shortcomings and utilizes them in support of the film's themes. And so the awkwardness of Tetsu appears in the film as the deliberate alienation the character holds close in his pose of ironic cool. Tetsu uses his iconic status as his principal weapon––not just against his enemies, but against friends and lovers, too. Everyone must stand at a distance; who knows when he will be pushed too far.

Chiharu, Tetsu's girlfriend, is treated with limited and limiting iconicity, too; she has a prescribed role: "the girl." She has almost no other qualities, and is coded with "feminine yearning"––which, in the film, is yellow (more on that later). She sings in Club Alulu, pining for Tetsu in every line. She looks for Tetsu when he drifts. When Tetsu rescues her, she longs to fall into his arms, and it's clear when he takes her home that, in spite of her very pure, virginal affect, she intends to get it on with her savior. So it's curious how much Tetsu holds his girlfriend at chaste distance. Other characters treat Chiharu like a different icon of womanhood––Kurata assumes Chiharu will "straighten" Tetsu out now as a wife, and the villains use Chiharu as both a bargaining chip and a sexual possession, who should sing for Otsuka, dammit, or nobody. In spite of these expectations, Tetsu ignores Chiharu's needs beyond survival, and he rejects her as if he's been yearning to do it all the time. Meanwhile, Tetsu's encounters with his male doubles have a homoerotic charge.

Tetsu only strips in front of Viper Tatsu and Shooting Star (accidental, but there is some lingering in each case over Tetsu's body, always denied the willing Chiharu). Shooting Star looks after Tetsu with flinty affection, and Viper Tatsu haunts Tetsu's every step. In the saloon he is positively leering at Tetsu, desperate to get his fatal bite. There's an interesting moment when Tetsu arrives at the saloon, meets Umemiya, and sees Shooting Star's familiar green jacket on the table. Tetsu visibly stiffens. The script has it that Tetsu recoils at the presence of this "traitor" he hates, but people don't remove their coats––those shells enclosing their hidden being––easily in this movie. There's a hint of Shooting Star's "drifter promiscuity" here; the man who had Tetsu in his arms a scene before just takes his jacket off and leaves it in Umemiya's office, like he's making a statement. The three men end up having a strong bond––the most emotional sequence in the movie runs from when the three of them come together Jules-et-Jim-style in the saloon brawl to the moment Shooting Star and Umemiya walk away, leaving Tetsu free to kill Kurata.

The splitting up of this trio is heartfelt and sad, full of unspoken caring, in a movie where the hero might as well tell his girlfriend "outta my way" as he leaves at the end. Being a drifter means giving up attachments, but does Tetsu really want no attachments, or is he simply ready to start fresh with new
ones? Ultimately, Tetsu's confrontation is a rite, that will invoke his former self, the icon of yakuza daring and efficacy, the deadly prude. The closing down of Tetsu's iconic yakuza status means annihilation––if not for him, then for everyone else. Will he emerge from this alive, anew? Will Tetsu the Phoenix still be who he is, or must needs be?

COLOR

The clever conclusion of Tetsu the icon's public funeral takes place in a denuded club Alulu, with pale white cast. Tetsu wears a white suit. In Japanese tradition, now abandoned, white means death; Tetsu has come to kill his loyalty to his boss, and his iconic identity, which has become a target on his back.

More than any other Suzuki movie, Tokyo Drifter is color-coded for thematic and emotional expressions. One doesn't remember, perhaps, that after being shot by Viper Tatsu Tetsu abandons his powder-blue suit, trading for a light beige. These changes happen in congress with Tetsu's waning sense of duty, replaced by the cynical, even nihilistic ambiguity of the drifter's life he's leading.

Originally, Suzuki's ending to the film had Tetsu emerge from the all-white club to see a green moon (the executives demand a re-shoot of that ending––I have read different accounts where Suzuki or an assistant shot the new version). Green would have mirrored Shooting Star's jacket, implying that Tetsu learned to see the world "with eyes wide open," like Shooting Star––just as the multicolored neon reflected the suspect lure of new possibility. The world opens to a Tetsu born anew.

On latest viewing, I realized that the decisive gunshots which alter Tetsu's fate, are both accompanied by bright red lighting turning white when Tetsu fires. The red is a code, prompting Tetsu's violence––when he gauges the distance to his foe by spying a red sandal, or a railroad slat painted red. And when Tetsu moves to leave in the end, Chiharu runs towards him, and one of the abstract sculptures Kimura made for the club gets lit faint yellow, reflecting Chiharu's color of passion which is all around her when she sings.

The underworld of Otsuka's club features deep greens and purples, and then there is the murdered secretary, who is coded a pale, frivolous pink, contrasted with deep red all around her as she gains gravitas in death. There is clear logic behind a lot of these color choices, reflecting Suzuki's approach to color from the get-go––Tokyo Drifter is the last Nikkatsu project to feature much color, and there won't be another film in Suzuki's filmography that uses such intense, all-encompassing color until The Fang in the Hole in 1979––though color will continue to have rich meaning in the Taisho films, for instance, and even in Suzuki's segment of the omnibus film, Marriage.

COMPARISON

So far as I know there are now two blurays of Tokyo Drifter: The Criterion Collection 2011 bluray and the Nikkatsu disc in the Nikkatsu box set from late last year. The Nikkatsu disc boasts a 4k transfer of Imagica's restoration of the film. The Criterion disc's transfer notes don't mention whether the 35mm low-contrast print was scanned in 2k or 4k.

Imagica has published an article detailing their restoration process for the color on Tokyo Drifter HERE. The color is the most immediately obvious difference between the two discs. The Criterion disc has what I would call a green bias and a lot of contrast––whereas the color on the Nikkatsu disc has a much broader range of color information and more subtle contrast. The color on the Nikkatsu disc looks much more sophisticated and well-resolved in general.

There are some surprising things––the redness of the image behind the title card, for instance, is not what I was expecting. My 35mm viewing of the picture at the Hammer Museum looked a lot more like the Criterion disc than the new restoration, but Imagica does go over in some detail how they arrived at that color, and they seem very confident in that choice.

The opening scene, originally shot in unstable, expired film stock, comes out much clearer in the restoration than on the Criterion disc. In shots like those of Otsuka talking to Viper Tetsu, you can see Phoenix Tetsu getting beaten up by Otsuka's men in the background––something only hinted at in the much greater grungy blackness on the Criterion disc. Other scenes, like those in the Club Alulu, look splendid on the Nikkatsu disc and much cheaper and more threadbare-seeming on the Criterion version, and in the theatrical screening I saw. Color-wise, the Nikkatsu disc just glows.

In some of these captures it's pretty clear too that the Criterion is cropped further in, uncomfortably so. The framing of these shots looks so much more purposeful on the Nikkatsu disc in a lot of cases.

However, there are some big problems with this new disc. For starters, something the comparison will not quite capture is that the Nikkatsu disc is hell to watch in motion. From the initial scene on, with frequent recurrence, the movement of characters takes on this unnatural, interlaced–looking artificiality, similar to when you turn the "smoothing" up to maximum on a television. Closeups generally look really good on the disc, but long shots look a lot softer. Everything looks a little too smooth––I have frequent trouble spotting the grain in the picture. I'm no expert on compression or grain management, and I don't know what's going on. It looks a little like the Third Window Films bluray of Typhoon Club, with the additional awkward motion of something shot on video before the digital era. At the same time, a lot of visual detail seems to be present and very clear onscreen. I'm guessing that the improved color balance is helping the image retain clarity, while either compression or grain reduction is doing a number on the rest of the experience. I haven't seen the Tokyo Drifter restoration in a theatrical context, so I can't tell if this is an issue made in authoring the disc. By comparison, the Criterion disc looks quite sharp, higher-contrast, and has very visible, albeit pretty large-looking grain. Somehow, the Nikkatsu disc frequently takes the lead in terms of depth-of-field––again I'm guessing the color balance and subtle contrast gives the image the appearance of more depth. But long shots look much, much better on the Criterion disc. I couldn't recommend the new Nikkatsu disc except for curious devotees. It isn't fun to try and watch. These Nikkatsu sets are such a mix of different qualities of reproduction! There are the beautiful unrestored 4k scanned films (Love Letter, Carmen from Kawachi, Nude Girl with a Gun, Inn of Floating Weeds, and Fighting Delinquents), the very high-quality bluray of Branded to Kill with the new restoration (which looks very good next to the Criterion 4k), and some 2k interlaced discs that in spite of themselves look really good (and are huge improvements over previous sources), like Kanto Wanderer, The Flower and the Angry Waves, Youth of the Beast, Gate of Flesh, Detective Bureau 2-3, Tattooed Life and Cheers at the Harbour: Triumph in My Hands. There is the absolute mystery of Hi-Teen Yakuza, which, while interlaced, somehow ends up looking better than the Arrow disc, there's this disc, and then there's the rolling disaster that is Story of a Prostitute (review coming soon!). Hopefully the Tokyo Drifter restoration is available to companies who might do a better job with the film; maybe now that the restoration is out there, Criterion will release it on UHD, like the did for Branded to Kill? I live in hope.

MY TAKE

I don't know that I need to recommend this movie, since people already seem to love it. I always liked Tokyo Drifter, even when I couldn't read very much depth into it. Suzuki's timing, his dramatic shifts and convulsions, his dynamic cutting from long shots to closeups and back again, the vibrant color work; all of it keeps entertaining without much more than the simple idea that the film is about loyalty. Coming to recognize––as I have thanks to Yacavone's book, especially––that so much of the film's self-conscious awkwardness is deliberate only makes the experience richer. We're essentially watching a fresh Nikkatsu star, with deadly good looks, but unstable in his star persona, play a star of the yakuza world, wanted and desired, but with a shaky, unstable hold on his own iconic identity. Stuck in a moribund role (Watari as an "akushon" star in an era where akushon is on the wane, Phoenix Tetsu as an ace yakuza who needs to transcend that concept and find a new part to play), he kills the previous identity he has presented, and is reborn as a drifter, moving on to another iconic identity. Tetsuya Watari was to effect that reinvention finally in Outlaw Gangster VIP––a more popular melding of old Akushon tropes to a ninkyo story than Nikkatsu's experiments of this era with Suzuki and Noguchi. Tokyo Drifter played much longer than most of Suzuki's pictures in that era, but it did not seem to make Watari the next Yujiro Ishihara, as the studio demanded of Suzuki.

Ishihara stuck around at Nikkatsu until 1968, before making his own production company, Ishihara Pro. Tetsuya Watari continued playing lead roles at Nikkatsu until 1971, when he defected to Ishihara Pro and resumed his role as "little brother" to Ishihara. The films of this time offer Watari a lot more range, but are generally pretty awful. When Ishihara died in the mid-80s, Watari took over as the head of Ishihara Pro and kept the company going. He appeared in Takeshi Kitano's awful yakuza picture, Brother, in a remake of the Mel-Gibson-starring Ransom (I think it's called Kidnap!), and he is the voice of Shintaro Kazama in the Yakuza video game series. 124 credits in a 53-year career, ending in 2018. He died in 2020, apparently. He was a star whose iconic status enacted a pressure beyond pretty meager acting skills, and so he was, in a way, perfect to assess the instability of an iconic identity in Seijun Suzuki's definitive movie on that theme.
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Spoiler
Nikkatsu's box office is declining. Toei's ninkyo films about gangster honor & duty are attracting the youth box office away from Nikkatsu's films about young urban rebels, and of Nikkatsu's stars, Kobayashi is the only one who makes a successful transition from "akushon" star into Nikkatsu's version of the ninkyo genre noble gangster.

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The studio holds a "new faces" audition. From the audition they find Hideki Takahashi––who will be the studio's main ninkyo star––and then a talent scout spies Tetsuya Watari eating in Nikkatsu's cafeteria, & hires him on the spot.

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Watari meets the studio's main need: he looks like a young Yujiro Ishihara. Yujiro was beloved; but he was getting older, living high and adventurously, and the plan had been to try and replace him if need be. In fact, Watari was a good deal more handsome than Ishihara, but he also had the long legs that made Ishihara a sex symbol. Like Ishihara, he had no previous interest in acting, but he had an innate sense of cinema, and a star's role in it; or so they thought.

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Trouble was, Watari didn't do quite the gangbusters box office of Ishihara. The studio put Watari in Ishihara movies as a "younger brother." Early solo outings for Watari didn't seem to rate the same. Toshio Masuda, who worked with Watari a lot, lamented that while Watari's and Hideki Takahashi's movies kept the studio going, Watari just didn't command the heights Ishihara had. Apart from Ishihara, he wasn't the icon that could halt the studio's slide.

And hopefully this intro has done double-duty, as an "in" to Tokyo Drifter's rich themes––Iconicity and its' imitation––and as an explanation why, after seven films as a lead, Watari is assigned to Seijun Suzuki for Tokyo Drifter, and Suzuki is told to "make him a star."

ICONICITY

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Peter Yacavone's remarkable book, Negative Nonsensical and Non-Conformist: The Films of Suzuki Seijun builds an argument for this reading of Tokyo Drifter. The observations here are mine, based on ideas Yacavone set forth. A Google search will tell you the film is about loyalty, but to me that theme is subservient to the subtext of being an icon. Thinking on iconicity is the guide to interpreting the stranger aspects of the film. In one sense, though, loyalty to the self is a question throughout the movie.

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In a world of doubles, followers, commerciality and cheap imitation, how can you be your authentic self? What is that self when compromise surrounds you? Can you hold it in place with a "Light Punch" hair dryer?

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The things viewers notice first about Phoenix Tetsu, hero of Tokyo Drifter, are A) his powder-blue suit, and B) he sings his own theme song. Repeatedly, he sings it (a classic enka with lyrics written for Watari––the melody is the same in the opening to Fighting Delinquents). Tetsu retired from the yakuza, along with his boss, but the suit singles Tetsu out, both in mob settings and in real life––it identifies him with the light blue mark of hypercompetency, a flash of a glittering pistol on the horizon, dealing death if drawn forth. We're told he's hell if you push him, and the tension that drives the film is tracking when Tetsu will get pushed too far. What would pushing him too far entail? This idea works in double; as Tetsu is gradually provoked, we see the full self, replete with desires and flaws.

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The suit is his psychic veil or girdle, hiding from the world the violent inner nature of the professional killer and keeping him fully repressed. His smile seems angry and predatory, and he holds himself rigid, until the film's finale, when in a flurry of ridiculous action he redefines all his personal and professional relationships, and emerges free of the pinched persona we know. So the suit is a signal of Tetsu's position––his special role as ace among the yakuza––and a warning sign of his repressed danger. How deliberate is this color-coding? The original script is credited to Kohan Kawauchi, the author of the Moonlight Mask TV show & manga (later a film by Suzuki-gumi veteran Yukihiro Sawada). But Yacavone's book reports that Suzuki and Takeo Kimura completely rewrote the screenplay quickly before filming––and the idea of making the character's inner turmoil visible with costuming is something we see in the other scripts co-credited to Kimura as well. So this piece of design has done so much work defining who Tetsu is, and it's the kind of move we expect from Suzuki & Kimura's collaboration.

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Futher, Suzuki plays up other characters' reactions to the Phoenix's arrival. Other cast members are alerted to Tetsu's presence by hearing his approaching theme song, or by seeing him suddenly revealed as already amongst them. Each reaction has the exaggerated simplicity of someone meeting an icon of hate, admiration, respect, or love.

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When gangsters kidnap Tetsu's girlfriend Chiharu, only to find out Tetsu is a step ahead of them and has substituted himself for their driver, their reaction is explosive. Chiharu, by contrast, melts against Tetsuin abject desire. Tetsu's boss Kurata fawns over him like a proud father; Yoshii, the owner of Boss Kurata's building glows with respect for Tetsu; negotiating with Tetsu enobles him in the shady real-estate scheme that marks the first section of the story. Tamio Kawaji's "Viper Tatsu" lusts to murder Tetsu, lives in fear of him, and is desperate to be or possess him, their scenes together increasingly homoerotic. Suzuki exploits Watari's inability to memorize lines, posing Tetsu in laconic recline so he can hide someone feeding Watari his lines behind a pillar or nearby door. Note how little Tetsu speaks when not leaning against something or sitting, and think how few lines of dialogue he has in love scenes, for instance. Does he say even 5 lines of dialogue to Chieko Matsubara throughout the movie?

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Suzuki fills the movie with wannabes, obviously jealous of Tetsu's ease & presence. Eimei Esumi's gang boss, Otsuka, stays hidden behind sunglasses the whole movie, longing to be as cool as Tetsu. Umetani, the boss in the western saloon, clearly aspires to be Tetsu's equal, throwing himself into the bar fight, to put on a show for Tetsu. When Umetani gets the call from Kurata to rub out his prized guest, it takes all the spring out of Umetani's step.

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For his time with Tetsu, Umetani basked in the glow of being a comparable figure. Reduced to an ax guy, trying to shoot Tetsu in the back, he visibly deflates. Tamio Kawaji's Tatsu even aspires to be Tetsu's dark double, the "viper" to catch Tetsu's "phoenix"––when he is unable to do it, his own ego starts disintegrating before our eyes. Faced with the impossibility of killing Tetsu––and thus the impossibility of being Tetsu's true double, he kills himself, rather than go on.

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The obvious double for Tetsu is Hideaki Nitani's "Shooting Star." In a sense, Phoenix Tetsu is the older former hitman's double. Formerly in Tetsu's role with Kurata, Shooting Star already lives the drifter's lifestyle Tetsu is adopting, and has already been betrayed by Kurata, the way Tetsu is sold out at his boss's hands. Shooting Star seems as if he would gladly help Tetsu weather the devastation of his values, the dissolution of his belief in his boss and the value of his loyalty––but Tetsu rejects Shooting Star's empathy and understanding at every turn.

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Just as there's doubling of Phoenix Tetsu and Shooting Star, there's a non-diegetic doubling as well, since Hideaki Nitani was once a star, relegated to co-star or supporting player, like Watari. Later on, Nitani achieved brief star status in a series of films with fellow "Diamond Line" promotee Jo Shishido, where he was credited under his odd nickname, "Dump Guy" (promotional materials claimed his punch landed with the force of a runaway dump truck, and somehow audiences embraced "dump guy" on that basis). Tetsuya, the rising star (also "Tetsuya" in the film), was going through a star journey similar to Nitani's. The characters talk to each other as yakuza turned ronin, and as movie stars trying to make a hit with warmed-over "Nikkatsu Akushon" material.

IS THIS ON PURPOSE?

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This is the place to say I have never––not once––found Tetsuya Watari a credible actor or star. He is handsome, but he never felt like a figure inside a movie, the way his model Ishihara does––and the way Nitani does, in spite of a similar stiffness. Yujiro doesn't always play a "character," so much as he is just his shining self, but Yujiro is appealing way beyond Watari, without Watari's painful self-consciousness. From Tokyo Drifter and Velvet Hustler to Outlaw Gangster VIP & the abysmal remake of Stray Dog, Watari seems too aware of his own poise and pretense, swallowing his dialogue until it struggles to emerge, a grimace his only expression. He is especially ill at ease when he has to do emotion (whereas Yujiro bounces up and down through the register of emotions without demure), and he routinely fails to create crackling scenes––especially with actresses. With Suzuki's usual resourcefulness, he takes his star's shortcomings and utilizes them in support of the film's themes. And so the awkwardness of Tetsu appears in the film as the deliberate alienation the character holds close in his pose of ironic cool. Awkward coolness keeps friends and would-be lovers at bay as surely as it keeps the villains on their toes around him. Tetsu uses his iconic status as his principal weapon––not just against his enemies, but against friends and lovers, too. Everyone must stand at a distance; who knows when he will be pushed too far.

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Chiharu, Tetsu's girlfriend, is treated with limited and limiting iconicity, too; she has a prescribed role: "the girl." She has almost no other qualities, and is coded with "feminine yearning"––which, in the film, is yellow (more on that later). She sings in Club Alulu, pining for Tetsu in every line. She looks for Tetsu when he drifts. When Tetsu rescues her, she longs to fall into his arms, and it's clear when he takes her home that, in spite of her very pure, virginal affect, she intends to get it on with her savior. So it's curious how much Tetsu holds his girlfriend at chaste distance.

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Other characters treat Chiharu like a different icon of womanhood––Kurata assumes Chiharu will "straighten" Tetsu out now as a wife, and the villains use Chiharu as both a bargaining chip and a sexual possession, who should sing for Otsuka, dammit, or nobody. In spite of these expectations, Tetsu ignores Chiharu's needs beyond survival, and he rejects her as if he's been yearning to do it all the time. Meanwhile, Tetsu's encounters with his male doubles have a homoerotic charge.

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Tetsu only strips in front of Viper Tatsu and Shooting Star (accidental, but there is some lingering in each case over Tetsu's body, always denied the willing Chiharu). Shooting Star looks after Tetsu with flinty affection, and Viper Tatsu haunts Tetsu's every step. In the saloon he is positively leering at Tetsu, desperate to get his fatal bite. There's an interesting moment when Tetsu arrives at the saloon, meets Umemiya, and sees Shooting Star's familiar green jacket on the table. Tetsu visibly stiffens.

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The script has it that Tetsu recoils at the presence of this "traitor" he hates, but people don't remove their coats––those shells enclosing their hidden being––easily in this movie.

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There's a hint of Shooting Star's "drifter promiscuity" here; the man who had Tetsu in his arms a scene before just takes his jacket off and leaves it in Umemiya's office, like he's making a statement. The three men end up having a strong bond––the most emotional sequence in the movie runs from when the three of them come together Jules-et-Jim-style in the saloon brawl to the moment Shooting Star and Umemiya walk away, leaving Tetsu free to kill Kurata.

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The splitting up of this trio is heartfelt and sad, full of unspoken caring, in a movie where the hero might as well tell his girlfriend "outta my way" as he leaves at the end. Being a drifter means giving up attachments, but does Tetsu really want no attachments, or is he simply ready to start fresh with new ones? Ultimately, Tetsu's confrontation is a rite, that will invoke his former self, the icon of yakuza daring and efficacy, the deadly prude.

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The closing down of Tetsu's iconic yakuza status means annihilation––if not for him, then for everyone else. Will he emerge from this alive, anew? Will Tetsu the Phoenix still be who he is, or must needs be?


COLOR

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The clever conclusion of Tetsu the icon's public funeral takes place in a denuded club Alulu, with pale white cast. Tetsu wears a white suit. In Japanese tradition, now abandoned, white means death; Tetsu has come to kill his loyalty to his boss, and his iconic identity, which has become a target on his back.

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Tetsu's expression when his ex-boss opens up a vein is bewilderment meeting disgust. It's the oddest, funniest cap to a ludicrous scene.

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More than any other Suzuki movie, Tokyo Drifter is color-coded for thematic and emotional expressions. One doesn't remember, perhaps, that after being shot by Viper Tatsu Tetsu abandons his powder-blue suit, trading for a light beige. These changes happen in congress with Tetsu's waning sense of duty, replaced by the cynical, even nihilistic ambiguity of the drifter's life he's leading.

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Originally, Suzuki's ending to the film had Tetsu emerge from the all-white club to see a green moon (the executives demand a re-shoot of that ending––I have read different accounts where Suzuki or an assistant shot the new version). Green would have mirrored Shooting Star's jacket, implying that Tetsu learned to see the world "with eyes wide open," like Shooting Star––just as the multicolored neon reflected the suspect lure of new possibility. The world opens to a Tetsu born anew.

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On latest viewing, I realized that the decisive gunshots which alter Tetsu's fate, are both accompanied by bright red lighting turning white when Tetsu fires. The red is a code, prompting Tetsu's violence––when he gauges the distance to his foe by spying a red sandal, or a railroad slat painted red. And when Tetsu moves to leave in the end, Chiharu runs towards him, and one of the abstract sculptures Kimura made for the club gets lit faint yellow, reflecting Chiharu's color of passion which is all around her when she sings.

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The underworld of Otsuka's club features deep greens and purples, and then there is the murdered secretary, who is coded a pale, frivolous pink, contrasted with deep red all around her as she gains gravitas in death. There is clear logic behind a lot of these color choices, reflecting Suzuki's approach to color from the get-go––Tokyo Drifter is the last Nikkatsu project to feature much color, and there won't be another film in Suzuki's filmography that uses such intense, all-encompassing color until The Fang in the Hole in 1979––though color will continue to have rich meaning in the Taisho films, for instance, and even in Suzuki's segment of the omnibus film, Marriage.

CINEMATOGRAPHY

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This is dp Shigeyoshi Mine's last Suzuki film. In fact, he only works for 6 more years, shooting a final 12 films, bringing his total credits to 105 productions (I also see 112 films listed in other sources). Mine is known in Suzuki's notes and recollections as a conceptually-motivated cinematographer, who likes to work with Suzuki assigning color to particular coded meanings. His signature move is the glowing crimson backdrop revealed at the moment Katsuta becomes a killer in the end of Kanto Wanderer, and Tokyo Drifter is full of such huge swaths of bright, primary color. Tokyo Drifter has lots of location shooting, so Mine only gets to flaunt his giant color swatches on the nightclub sets. Club Alulu is bathed in yellow, Otsuka's club draws more color from Takeo Kimura's sets than from the cinematography, and the saloon has some swathes of magenta lighting, plus a good deal of smoke and haze in the air. The first act of the film is the longest, and is filmed in Tokyo. The 2nd is filmed in Tokamachi, allegedly one of the snowiest places on earth. The final act features the saloon, which is a constructed set, but also the outdoor fairgrounds in Sasebo, a town full of canals, modeled after a Dutch township. So while the rest of the world is largely shocked when a multicolored Western Saloon emerges near the end of Tokyo Drifter, Japanese residents who knew of Sasebo might consider it a somewhat more believable––if humorous––oddity of this over-the-top tourist town full of windmills and replica buildings.

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Probably this is the film where Suzuki, Mine and Kimura take the absolute least pain to realistically integrate the studio sets and the exterior locations. When Tetsu enters a building, we never know quite what we'll find "inside," and there is a clear aesthetic contrast between Kimura's very minimalist indoor sets and the more visually-dense outdoor environments shot on location.

I take some pains in these writeups to point out all I love in Kazue Nagatsuka's films for Suzuki, but I have to say his kohai Mine's films are the ones that make a real break with common cinematography of the era. Nagatsuka is a traditionalist, especially where lighting is concerned; he makes Suzuki's films look elegant, even as he fulfills Suzuki's most outrageous, non-traditional requests of the camera. But Mine is the cinematographer who makes Suzuki films look like pop-art.

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He was, I think, much, much better working in color than he was in black-and-white (where Nagatsuka's superb visual delineation is, to my eyes, far preferable––Mine's black-and-white films are softened with such rangy grey space, and lower contrast than Nagatsuka or Suzuki's other cinematographers would allow for––the one exception I know of is Crazed Fruit, where Mine created a glittery twilight fantasy of the beach town for the Sun Tribe to inhabit). And while the use of color as symbolism clearly comes from Suzuki himself (and is obvious in even his first color film, Fighting Delinquents, shot by Nagatsuka), it is Mine who takes that color and blows it up into notably striking thematic moves, visual delights that overwhelm our senses––as in Kanto Wanderer, Gate of Flesh, and Tokyo Drifter (Detective Bureau 2-3, also shot in color by Mine, showcases a more subdued but elegant use of themore reticent color of Suzuki's mentor, Noguchi). Mine and Takeo Kimura famously competed and argued for their ideas together on Suzuki's pictures, and I think it's clear Mine was a dominant force of artistic influence, especially on the color films he worked on. Mine was an assistant to Kazue Nagatsuka, who had struck out on his own in 1947. His early filmography includes some notable classics, from Mikio Naruse's Lightning to Kinuyo Tanaka's The Moon Has Risen. He shot Nikkatsu's early remake of Chuji's Travel Diary, and then he was the cinematographer on Nikkatsu's breakout hit, Crazed Fruit. He seems to stay at Nikkatsu for the rest of his career, making mostly less-famous program pictures until he joins the Suzuki-gumi with Take Aim at the Police Van. He shoots Sleep of the Beast and Smashing the 0–Line for Suzuki before he gets his hands on color for Man with a Shotgun. He shoots three of the Koji Wada pictures, Blood-Red Water in the Channel, Million-Dollar Smash-and-Grab, and Those Who Bet on Me. He shoots Detective Bureau 2-3, The Bastard, Kanto Wanderer, Gate of Flesh, Our Blood Will Not Forgive, Carmen from Kawachi, and Tokyo Drifter for Suzuki. Around this time he shoots a few more notable Nikkatsu productions for other directors: Koreyoshi Kurahara's I Hate But Love (aka That Despicable Guy), Toshio Masuda's Red Handkerchief, and A Colt is My Passport. After Suzuki is fired, Mine shoots a lot of anonymous pictures from the waning days of "Nikkatsu Akushon." In 1973 he tries one pink film under the studio's new regime, a Chusei Sone picture called Overly-Ripe Breasts: Married Women, starring Junko Miyashita and the "Apartment Wife" herself, Kazuko Shirakawa. One appeared to be enough: he retired afterwards, and seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth. I can find not a shred of biographical data on Shigeyoshi Mine.

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COMPARISON

So far as I know there are now two blurays of Tokyo Drifter: The Criterion Collection 2011 bluray and the Nikkatsu disc in the Nikkatsu box set from late last year. The Nikkatsu disc boasts a 4k transfer of Imagica's restoration of the film. The Criterion disc's transfer notes don't mention whether the 35mm low-contrast print was scanned in 2k or 4k.

Imagica has published an article detailing their restoration process for the color on Tokyo Drifter HERE. The color is the most immediately obvious difference between the two discs. The Criterion disc has what I would call a green bias and a lot of contrast––whereas the color on the Nikkatsu disc has a much broader range of color information and more subtle contrast. The color on the Nikkatsu disc looks much more sophisticated and well-resolved in general.

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NIKKATSU

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CRITERION

There are some surprising things––the redness of the image behind the title card, for instance, is not what I was expecting. My 35mm viewing of the picture at the Hammer Museum looked a lot more like the Criterion disc than the new restoration, but Imagica does go over in some detail how they arrived at that color, and they seem very confident in that choice.

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NIKKATSU

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CRITERION

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CRITERION

The opening scene, originally shot in unstable, expired film stock, comes out much clearer in the restoration than on the Criterion disc. In shots like those of Otsuka talking to Viper Tetsu, you can see Phoenix Tetsu getting beaten up by Otsuka's men in the background––something only hinted at in the much greater grungy blackness on the Criterion disc. Other scenes, like those in the Club Alulu, look splendid on the Nikkatsu disc and much cheaper and more threadbare-seeming on the Criterion version, and in the theatrical screening I saw. Color-wise, the Nikkatsu disc just glows.

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CRITERION

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In some of these captures it's pretty clear too that the Criterion is cropped further in, uncomfortably so. The framing of these shots looks so much more purposeful on the Nikkatsu disc in a lot of cases:

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CRITERION

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CRITERION

However, there are some big problems with this new disc. For starters, something the comparison will not quite capture is that the Nikkatsu disc is hell to watch in motion. From the initial scene on, with frequent recurrence, the movement of characters takes on this unnatural, interlaced–looking artificiality, similar to when you turn the "smoothing" up to maximum on a television. Closeups generally look really good on the disc, but long shots look a lot softer. Everything looks a little too smooth––I have frequent trouble spotting the grain in the picture. I'm no expert on compression or grain management, and I don't know what's going on. It looks a little like the Third Window Films bluray of Typhoon Club, with the additional awkward motion of something shot on video before the digital era. At the same time, a lot of visual detail seems to be present and very clear onscreen. I'm guessing that the improved color balance is helping the image retain clarity, while either compression or grain reduction is doing a number on the rest of the experience. I haven't seen the Tokyo Drifter restoration in a theatrical context, so I can't tell if this is an issue made in authoring the disc. By comparison, the Criterion disc looks quite sharp, higher-contrast, and has very visible, albeit pretty large-looking grain. Somehow, the Nikkatsu disc frequently takes the lead in terms of depth-of-field––again I'm guessing the color balance and subtle contrast gives the image the appearance of more depth. But long shots look much, much better on the Criterion disc. I couldn't recommend the new Nikkatsu disc except for curious devotees. It isn't fun to try and watch. These Nikkatsu sets are such a mix of different qualities of reproduction! There are the beautiful unrestored 4k scanned films (Love Letter, Carmen from Kawachi, Nude Girl with a Gun, Inn of Floating Weeds, and Fighting Delinquents), the very high-quality bluray of Branded to Kill with the new restoration (which looks very good next to the Criterion 4k), and some 2k interlaced discs that in spite of themselves look really good (and are huge improvements over previous sources), like Kanto Wanderer, The Flower and the Angry Waves, Youth of the Beast, Gate of Flesh, Detective Bureau 2-3, Tattooed Life and Cheers at the Harbour: Triumph in My Hands. There is the absolute mystery of Hi-Teen Yakuza, which, while interlaced, somehow ends up looking better than the Arrow disc, there's this disc, and then there's the rolling disaster that is Story of a Prostitute (review coming soon!). Hopefully the Tokyo Drifter restoration is available to companies who might do a better job with the film; maybe now that the restoration is out there, Criterion will release it on UHD, like the did for Branded to Kill? I live in hope.

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MY TAKE

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I don't know that I need to recommend this movie, since people already seem to love it. I always liked Tokyo Drifter, even when I couldn't read very much depth into it. Suzuki's timing, his dramatic shifts and convulsions, his dynamic cutting from long shots to closeups and back again, the vibrant color work; all of it keeps entertaining without much more than the simple idea that the film is about loyalty. Coming to recognize––as I have thanks to Yacavone's book, especially––that so much of the film's self-conscious awkwardness is deliberate only makes the experience richer. We're essentially watching a fresh Nikkatsu star, with deadly good looks, but unstable in his star persona, play a star of the yakuza world, wanted and desired, but with a shaky, unstable hold on his own iconic identity. Stuck in a moribund role (Watari as an "akushon" star in an era where akushon is on the wane, Phoenix Tetsu as an ace yakuza who needs to transcend that concept and find a new part to play), he kills the previous identity he has presented, and is reborn as a drifter, moving on to another iconic identity. Tetsuya Watari was to effect that reinvention finally in Outlaw Gangster VIP––a more popular melding of old Akushon tropes to a ninkyo story than Nikkatsu's experiments of this era with Suzuki and Noguchi. Tokyo Drifter played much longer than most of Suzuki's pictures in that era, but it did not seem to make Watari the next Yujiro Ishihara, as the studio demanded of Suzuki.

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Ishihara stuck around at Nikkatsu until 1968, before making his own production company, Ishihara Pro. Tetsuya Watari continued playing lead roles at Nikkatsu, especially in "Outlaw" sequels, until 1971, when he defected to Ishihara Pro and resumed his role as "little brother" to Ishihara. The films of this time offer Watari a lot more range, but are generally pretty awful. There is the miserably conservative remake of Stray Dog, and the standout is Kinji Fukasaku's Graveyard of Honor––which is widely lauded, but I find it––and Watari's performance, especially––monotonous. When Ishihara died in the mid-80s, Watari took over as the head of Ishihara Pro and kept the company going. He appeared in Takeshi Kitano's awful yakuza picture, Brother, in a remake of the Mel-Gibson-starring Ransom (I think it's called Kidnap!), and he is the voice of Shintaro Kazama in the Yakuza video game series. 124 credits in a 53-year career, ending in 2018. He died in 2020, apparently. He was a star whose iconic status enacted a pressure beyond pretty meager acting skills, and so he was, in a way, perfect to assess the instability of an iconic identity in Seijun Suzuki's definitive movie on that theme.

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Last edited by feihong on Tue Apr 08, 2025 10:19 pm, edited 7 times in total.
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Re: Seijun Suzuki

#182 Post by feihong »

STORY OF A PROSTITUTE

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Story of a Prostitute cannot catch a break––which is a shame, because it's one of Suzuki's best movies. The bad luck begins in late 1964, when Suzuki and cinematographer Kazue Nagatsuka open up the film cans on the first day of shooting and discover that the studio has sent black-and-white film instead of the expected color. This seems like a disciplinary measure, aimed to reign in Suzuki's most audacious stylistic expression: his symbolic and sometimes nondiegetic use of color. Following a list of increasingly popular and increasingly expensive-looking color films (Kanto Wanderer, The Flower & the Angry Waves, Gate of Flesh), when Our Blood Will Not Forgive seems to fail, the studio execs start turning their back on Suzuki. The bad luck will continue when the film is released, and savaged by critics, comparing it negatively to the Akira-Kurosawa-scripted Escape at Dawn, a previous adaptation of the same novel; the film runs only 4 days in theaters, which in a way seems like punishment in an of itself. And on home video, the bad luck continues, as the film has been given simply the harshest treatment available.

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Spoiler
Japanese critics have belatedly recognized the film's importance, and the way its exceptional qualities dwarf that of the previous adaptation. The Kurosawa-scripted Escape at Dawn (dr. Senkichi Taniguchi)––manages to pass its runtime without really identifying Harumi and the other women in the film as sex workers. The Suzuki version, by comparison, is not restrained. True, the reference in the shooting script to Harumi being Korean was taken out at the request of the studio management––and the Wikipedia entry spends all its time listing historical inaccuracies––But what the film provides again and again is the singular chance to see Suzuki tackle his own war experience, nearly head-on––something we never see in any other Suzuki picture.

Even films as seemingly divorced from the war as Youth of the Beast are alive with the fallout of war defeat, with the black market looming as a past the villains are desperate to avoid. Remember how Jo and his associates break into a rival gangster's apartment and see dozens of model bombers floating on string from the ceiling? The war, and the betrayal of the common people Suzuki sees in it, is always present in Suzuki's mind, in all of his pictures. Story of a Prostitute just happens to be the only film in his oeuvre which depicts war experiences.

Suzuki described his own wartime with the same kind of absurdist lens with which he visualizes violence in his movies––the harsh absurdism Tadao Sato calls "a masochistic cartoon." There are some hints of that comedy here––though the battlefield is much less humorous, much bleaker and more nakedly nihilistic than in pictures like Youth of the Beast or Tokyo Drifter. A lot of the military action––mostly relayed through Mikami, the Tamio Kawaji character––have a numb, existential dread to them, a detached spectacle marked by a kind of featureless repetition.

We see Mikami run on a featureless landscape, to nowhere. We see him firing a machine gun in repeated bursts, but we see no targets, as burst after burst sails away, swallowed by the night. Whenever Suzuki pulls his camera back, it isn't to record troop movements, victories or defeats in battle; rather, it's to figure the human violence in the context of a mostly featureless earth, to show how petty human drive for violence is tiny in the scope of things. Standing 20 feet away can make it seem inconsequential. What is emphasized is the near abstract, traumatizing labor of bearing witness to war.

On the campaign, Mikami and his fellow soldiers take part in a brutal interrogation, taking the lives of Manchurian villagers, to no result. Then they stumble on a mass grave. Commander Narita assumes this grave holds a missing Japanese commander and their soldiers, but the scene is soaked in ambiguity. Narita says the Chinese army will torture prisoners to death, and later we know this not to be the case. These scenes are processed in a wordless atmosphere bereft of any sentiment. None of the triumphalism of war, very little of any florid or melodramatic sense of tragedy. There is almost no commentary on the grave at all on the part of the filmmakers, leaving the audience to process the discovery for themselves, like Mikami.

Unfortunately, Mikami is a fanatic, and the only thing these scenes of military horror ultimately do is dislodge the certainty of his belief in Japan's victory. As in other Suzuki movies, however, the violence of a violent man is not cured by seeing things for what they are. Mikami is full of an animus that tends towards violence, and once it becomes clear that violence against the state's enemy isn't a place he can bear to expend that violent energy, and looks inwards. This is Mikami's essential arc in the story, diminishing from being a fervent exponent of a cause to a kind of proxy of self-harm––crucial to note that even as Mikami gets alienated from the imperial war aims, his patriotism can still only find a destructive outlet.When he is courtmartialed for desertion (he is wounded and captured by the enemy while unconsious), he looks at his would-be killer with an uncanny, piercing expression, which ruins all the glamour of the moment for the would-be executioner. It seems towards the end that Mikami is seeing the world of military patriotism––which always held for him a conspicuous and furiously repetitive series of humiliations and opressions––through what Peter Yacavone says are "eyes wide open." But the tools of violence at the battalion's disposal will predispose him towards violence as an escape from the flood of existential futility that overwhelms Mikami as the story goes on.

Mikami grapples with the juxtaposition between the objects of his devotion unsuccessfully; Harumi wants him to live, the Emperor and his military code seem to want Mikami to die. We know the emperor will soon give up, and abandon Mikami; while Harumi never will. Still, you never forget your first love, do you?

THEMES

1) War Against the Patriarchy, War Against the State:

Harumi arrives in Manchuria in exile. Always a more politically canny director than he lets on, he envisions a featureless plain, devoid of life, with the ruin of an ancient Chinese fort, to underline the absurdity of Japan's Colonial ambitions for this hinterland. We quickly understand the cause of Harumi's exile: her boyfriend had kept his marriage a secret from her––and in retaliation, she bites off his tongue. We don't know if the boyfriend dies from this––it certainly doesn't look good for him––but this obvious castration metaphor sets up Harumi's conflict writ large. She is her own kind of soldier; her foe is the patriarchy, which oppresses her, making her manipulable, even by sleazebags like this boyfriend.

The boyfriend is played by Toshio Sugiyama, co-star or supporting anti-hero of Hi-Teen Yakuza, playing Tamio Kawaji's best friend there. He isn't striking as an actor, but he is a look Suzuki recreates in many movies––the slovenly, unworthy man. Suzuki is doing a feint here, for Mikami will also prove to be unworthy of Harumi––even though he is, by comparison to the boyfriend, loyal, passionate, trustworthy, desirable, strong...all admirable qualities, but turned against humankind by the indoctrination of war, and treacherously warped by his restless fantacism. As Harumi suffers under the hands of the sadistic adjutant (Isao Tamagawa, in one of his most cuttingly brittle performances, a striver who lives in fear, imagining himself already cucked), she tries to play Mikami against his commander. The war of passions Harumi attempts to ignite is mirrored in and sometimes superseded by the battle outside the fortress walls, against the Chinese uprising.

In the soldier's brothel which serves as her sentence in exile, the enemy in Harumi's war gradually changes, from the patriarchy in general, to a force of evil more fixed in place: the state, which has ensnared the better man she has found and ruined him. For Suzuki, war is one of the large ways a patriarchal, class-based society reorders itself to that the upper class males can reappropriate power. His fixation in this depiction of war is not on the fight with the enemy; rather, it's a fixation on the way camp politics––like who gets what woman for the night––are expressions of larger political struggles Suzuki perceives in his society now. Story of a Prostitute suggests very strongly that the attitudes of the powerful––and their expression in the "system" which represses Harumi and stunts Mikami––do not really change once new information is available. The influence of the hegemonic power is retrenching in Japan, even as Harumi mounts her one-woman revolution against the system.

2) The Putrid Flesh, and the Society Which Births It:

Film critic Tadao Sato talks about the image of Japan conveyed through movies, the aesthetic of stoic acceptance we see in the films of Ozu, Mizoguchi and Naruse––and he contrasts it to what Suzuki is communicating, which is an opposite element of Japanese life, the crudely earthy, ribald, nihilistic bacchanalia that is the undergirding aesthetic contrast in Japanese fiction––what Suzuki would identify later as the Taisho-era tradition of "ero-guro-nansenso." This nihilistic view of the world is on display in Story of a Prostitute. The adjutant, a scowling sadist in fear of failure, laughs raucously as he terrorizes Harumi. The officers' orgies of food and sex are markedly crude and violent––especially since by the end of the film we see the officers are in general untouched by the consequences of their own incompetent violence. The Taijiro Tamura novels of this and Gate of Flesh are apparently more focused on the sexual aspects of the women's experiences, and the idea of finding a world in "flesh" which transcends the violence, horror, humiliation and degradation of the war. I think by comparison, Suzuki's adaptation emphasizes the contrasts of the prostitutes' world and that of the soldiers. The soldiers experience aggressive violence and cruelty––especially demonstrated in the film by their own side (and by comparison, Suzuki casts the Chinese soldiers as understanding and comparatively humane). They are traumatized, turning their trauma on the women who are forced to serve them. The prostitutes themselves, however, have gentle moments together, moments of humor and compassion. They have ideals, they have dreams, they even have political interests, as Kotoe Hatsui's character seems to. But the decentness of the prostitutes is subservient to imperial war aims, and the society the Japanese colonizers represent in this story is something it is clear Suzuki thinks is rotten to the core.

3) Imperialism Abroad, Coming Home:

As for the rotten colonial project depicted in the film, it ends with a quiet scene, where the prostitutes remember Harumi and Mikami as they were, rather than the way the official story goes. It's telling that, while Suzuki shows us almost nothing but defeats for the Japanese army, the army and its poisonous ideology are not unseated in the film. The figures that represent Japan's colonial aims in Manchuria will return to Japan when the war is over, and have prestigious roles in the new economy and government there. Repeatedly in interviews and in other films, Suzuki shows us the way the forces of the Japanese economic miracle rise from the same power groups as before the war. Tamagawa's officer Narita especially is shone to be absolutely reprehensible throughout––and yet, he continues on, facing no consequences. Narita is representative of this elevated class of people, who, Suzuki is saying, are still in charge. And Narita's eventual return to Japan, then, is something to be feared.

MY TAKE

I haven't yet extolled the virtues of Yumiko Nogawa, since I did it a lot already, in my posts on Gate of Flesh and Carmen From Kawachi. She is very inspired and innovative in each of these movies, and while I think her best performance of the lot is in Carmen from Kawachi, I can't ignore the range of expression and the uniquely combative character Yumiko develops for this movie; she seems to have grown from one picture to the next from a performer of good quality in an ensemble to a magnetic leading woman. Her Harumi is animated by a complex, defiant spirit; her attempt to reconfigure the war to one of passions, to transmute it to the confines of the bedroom, end up leading to tragedy, but her passions remain unrelenting.

Mikami is a fascinating figure because of his close resemblance to a Suzuki archetype (the brainwashed boy of violence, the fascist tool, which appears at least here, in the Bastard movies, in Fighting Elegy, and in Tale of Youth at Hirosaki High School, and with close cousins in The Spring That Didn't Come and Naked Age) but Harumi is a unique figure, whose fierceness carves a scar into the pristine surface of the official truth, revealing the lies teeming beneath. She is one of Suzuki's most earnest heroes, electing to die at the end not for country, but for the sake of love, no matter how pathetically warped it is by the machinations of the state.

Summing up the "Nikutai" or "Flesh" Trilogy, since this is the last one I hadn't covered––to me the films underline the way in which in his "mature" period, Suzuki is able to meld his obvious skill with romantic melodrama to his experiences and his sociopolitical ideas and create absorbing modernist pictures totally separate from the yakuza milieu. Beyond that, as Suzuki's main body of films centered upon women, these potentially very exploitative films (certainly that's what the studio wanted from them) underline the lack of chauvinism in Suzuki's movies––even in the films that reflect the very sexist viewpoints of their era. In fact, the films all underline how a culture's insistence on the performance of gender roles is a prison that keeps both men and women preoccupied, lest they begin to perceive their more general roles in their societies as slaves to interests of capitalism, war, cultural propaganda, class division, etc. Yumiko Nogawa's growing skill is evident over the course of the movies, as is her increasing ability to hold the screen in dazzling ways. But the films are full of interesting women; more than anything, they underline the way in which none of the films in Suzuki's oeuvre can really be seen to exclude women––there are always vital roles for women that matter in the films, and the actresses playing these roles are never objectified for reasons of simple entertainment. These movies lay bare the complexity and the thorough characterization Suzuki assigns women's roles in all his films, and it's interesting to see how often Suzuki has to go outside of the Nikkatsu's stable of starlets to create these roles. Nogawa is a perfect example of this; the singular star discovery which can be credited entirely to Nogawa's and Suzuki's combined vision and initiative.
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Japanese critics seem to have belatedly recognized the film's importance, and the way its exceptional qualities dwarf that of the previous adaptation (the movie has more recently ranked in Kinema Junpo's top 200 Japanese films). The Akira-Kurosawa-scripted Escape at Dawn (dr. Senkichi Taniguchi)––manages to pass its runtime without really identifying Harumi and the other women in the film as sex workers. The Suzuki version, by comparison, is not restrained. True, the reference in the shooting script to Harumi being Korean was taken out at the request of the studio management––and the Wikipedia entry spends all its time listing historical inaccuracies––But what the film provides again and again is the singular chance to see Suzuki tackle his own war experience, nearly head-on––something we never see in any other Suzuki picture.

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Even films as seemingly divorced from the war as Youth of the Beast are alive with the fallout of war defeat, with the black market looming as a past the villains are desperate to avoid. Remember how Jo and his associates break into a rival gangster's apartment and see dozens of model bombers floating on string from the ceiling? The war, and the betrayal of the common people Suzuki sees in it, is always present in Suzuki's mind, in all of his pictures. Story of a Prostitute just happens to be the only film in his oeuvre which depicts war experiences directly on-screen.

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Suzuki described his own wartime with the same kind of absurdist lens with which he visualizes violence in movies––the harsh absurdism Tadao Sato calls "a masochistic cartoon." There are some hints of that comedy here––though the battlefield is much less humorous, much bleaker and more nakedly nihilistic than in pictures like Youth of the Beast or Tokyo Drifter. A lot of the military action––mostly relayed through Mikami, the Tamio Kawaji character––have a numb, existential dread to them, a detached spectacle marked by a kind of featureless repetition.

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We see Mikami run on a featureless landscape, to nowhere. We see him firing a machine gun in repeated bursts, but we see no targets, as burst after burst sails away, swallowed by the night. Whenever Suzuki pulls his camera back, it isn't to record troop movements, victories or defeats in battle; rather, it's to figure the human violence in the context of a mostly featureless earth, to show how petty human drive for violence is tiny in the scope of things. Standing 20 feet away can make it seem inconsequential. What is emphasized is the near abstract, traumatizing labor of bearing witness to war.

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On the campaign, Mikami and his fellow soldiers take part in a brutal interrogation, taking the lives of Manchurian villagers, to no result. Then they stumble on a mass grave. Commander Narita assumes this grave holds a missing Japanese commander and their soldiers, but the scene is soaked in ambiguity. Narita says the Chinese army will torture prisoners to death, and later we know this not to be the case. These scenes are processed in a wordless atmosphere bereft of any sentiment. None of the triumphalism of war, very little of any florid or melodramatic sense of tragedy. There is almost no commentary on the grave at all on the part of the filmmakers, leaving the audience to process the discovery for themselves, like Mikami.

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Unfortunately, Mikami is a fanatic, and the only thing these scenes of military horror ultimately do is dislodge the certainty of his devotion to Japan's victory. As in other Suzuki movies, however, the violence of a violent man is not cured by seeing things for what they are. Mikami's animating id tends towards violence, and once it becomes clear that violence against the state's enemy isn't a place he can bear to expend that energy, and looks inwards. This is Mikami's essential arc in the story, diminishing from being a fervent exponent of a violent cause to a kind of proxy of guilt who self-harms––crucial to note that even as Mikami gets alienated from the imperial war aims, his patriotism can still only find a destructive outlet.

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When captured by the Chinese, Harumi sings a Chinese song, and Mikami's wounds begin to flow with blood. Mikami is very torn at the end of the film, it's true. When he is courtmartialed for desertion (he is wounded and captured by the enemy while unconsious), he looks at his would-be killer with an uncanny, piercing expression, which ruins all the glamour of the moment for the would-be executioner. It seems towards the end that Mikami is seeing the world of military patriotism––which always held for him a conspicuous and furiously repetitive series of humiliations and opressions––through what Peter Yacavone says are "eyes wide open." But the tools of violence at the battalion's disposal will predispose him towards violence as an escape from the flood of existential futility that overwhelms Mikami as the story goes on.

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NIKKATSU TRAILER

This is the finest performance from Tamio Kawaji, patron saint of late-Nikkatsu Suzuki movies. Living next to Nikkatsu superstar Yujiro Ishihara gets Kawaji in the door at the company in 1958. His first few years include a lot of Yujiro Ishihara star vehicles. In 1960 the company makes a more serious attempt to make Kawaji a star, in two films which look at the Sun Tribe movies from a more critical vantage point than Nikkatsu was really able to process: He's in Koreyoshi Kurahara's The Warped Ones (stylish & mildly scolding "youth-gone-wild" fare) and Suzuki's Everything Goes Wrong (a more intellectually-challenging version of much the same thing, also very similar to Nagisa Oshima's Cruel Story of Youth, which came out nearly simultaneously). He never becomes an a-list star, but Kawaji is exceptionally good value in supporting roles throughout the company. Cool psychos or hot psychos, stupid guys or smart guys, fun-loving or serious; in all cases, in all characters, he is precisely measured, and he takes care to match his tone to what's required of the role. Of his larger roles I've seen, Story of a Prostitute gives him the most interesting material. Here Kawaji is the military lunatic, whose patriotism is messily entwined in his need for sex, which has been transliterated through repression into a need for violence (Hideki Takahashi's Kiroku in Fighting Elegy will be a striking depiction of the comparative study in the same kind of impulse leading to indoctrination). He seems to be attracted to Harumi, and to death for the emperor's sake, in nearly equal measure.

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Mikami grapples with the juxtaposition between the objects of his devotion unsuccessfully; Harumi wants him to live, the Emperor and his military code seem to want Mikami to die. We know the emperor will soon give up, and abandon Mikami; while Harumi never will. Still, you never forget your first love, do you?

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THEMES

I think there might be an act structure to Story of a Prostitute, but I've never been able to discern it. Instead, I follow different strands of thematic material––3 thematic clusters in particular––which wind their way through the picture, and which I have given extravagant, corny names:

1) War Against the Patriarchy, War Against the State:

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Harumi arrives in Manchuria in exile. Many previous Suzuki films have referenced the "Manchurian Frontier" before this, but now we finally see it! And what Suzuki––always a more politically canny director than he lets on––envisions there is a featureless plain, devoid of life, with the ruin of an ancient Chinese fort, to underline the absurdity of Japan's Colonial ambitions for this hinterland (the Japanese army has taken over the fort and are using it as a base from which to suppress the populace). We quickly understand the cause of Harumi's exile: her boyfriend had kept his marriage a secret from her––and in retaliation, she bites off his tongue.

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We don't know if the boyfriend dies from this––it certainly doesn't look good for him––but this obvious castration metaphor sets up Harumi's conflict writ large. She is her own kind of soldier; her foe is the patriarchy, which oppresses her, making her manipulable, even by sleazebags like this boyfriend.

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The boyfriend is played by Toshio Sugiyama, co-star or supporting anti-hero of Hi-Teen Yakuza, playing Tamio Kawaji's best friend there. These two films seem to be his only roles for Suzuki. He's a creature of "Nikkatsu Akushon" cinema, starting in 1959 right as "Akushon" movies are taking off, appearing in some Koji Wada vehicles and some Jo Shishido westerns, before ending up in a bunch of Hideki Takahashi-starring ninkyo movies. He's in the proto-lesbian-pink-film Midnight Virgin, also with Annu Mari. As Nikkatsu closes its doors to relaunch making a steady diet of Pinku Eiga, he does one or two episodes of television, then seems to retire. 47 credits. The Movie Database insists he is currently 86 years old. He isn't super-striking as an actor, but he is a look Suzuki recreates in many movies––the slovenly, unworthy man. Suzuki is doing a feint here, leading us astray, for Mikami will also prove to be unworthy of Harumi––even though he is, by comparison to the boyfriend, loyal, passionate, trustworthy, desirable, strong...all admirable qualities, but turned against humankind by the indoctrination of war, and treacherously warped by his restless fantacism. As Harumi suffers under the hands of the sadistic adjutant (Isao Tamagawa, in one of his most cuttingly brittle performances, a striver who lives in fear, imagining himself already cucked), she tries to play Mikami against his commander. The war of passions Harumi attempts to ignite are a war of their own, mirrored in and sometimes superseded by the battle outside the fortress walls, against the Chinese uprising.

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In the soldier's brothel which serves as her sentence in exile, the enemy in Harumi's war gradually changes, from the patriarchy in general, to a force of evil more fixed in place: the state, which has ensnared the better man she has found and ruined him. But the film is very ambiguous about the relationship between patriarchy and war.

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For Suzuki, war is one of the large ways a patriarchal, class-based society reorders itself to that the upper class males can reappropriate power. His fixation in this depiction of war is not on the fight with the enemy whatsoever; rather, it's a fixation on the way camp politics––like who gets what woman for the night––are expressions of larger political struggles Suzuki perceives in his society now. Story of a Prostitute suggests very strongly that the attitudes of the powerful––and their expression in the "system" which represses Harumi and stunts Mikami––do not really change once new information is available. The influence of the hegemonic power is retrenching in Japan, even as Harumi mounts her one-woman revolution against the system.

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2) The Putrid Flesh, and the Society Which Births It:

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Film critic Tadao Sato talks in an interview on the Criterion DVD of the film about the image of Japan conveyed through movies, the aesthetic of stoic acceptance we see in the films of Ozu, Mizoguchi and Naruse––and he contrasts it to what Suzuki is communicating, which is an opposite element of Japanese life, the crudely earthy, ribald, nihilistic bacchanalia that is the undergirding aesthetic contrast in Japanese fiction––what Suzuki would identify later as the Taisho-era tradition of "ero-guro-nansenso," or, "erotic, grotesque nonsense."

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This nihilistic view of the world is on full display in Story of a Prostitute. The adjutant, a scowling sadist in fear of failure, laughs raucously as he terrorizes Harumi. The officers' orgies of food and sex are markedly crude and violent––especially since by the end of the film we see the officers are in general untouched by the consequences of their own incompetent violence. The Taijiro Tamura novels of this and Gate of Flesh are apparently more focused on the sexual aspects of the women's experiences, and the idea of finding a world in "flesh" which transcends the violence, horror, humiliation and degradation of the war. I think by comparison, Suzuki's adaptation emphasizes the contrasts of the prostitutes' world and that of the soldiers. The soldiers experience aggressive violence and cruelty––especially demonstrated in the film by their own side (and by comparison, Suzuki casts the Chinese soldiers as understanding and comparatively humane). They are traumatized, turning their trauma on the women who are forced to serve them. The prostitutes themselves, however, have gentle moments together, moments of humor and compassion. They have ideals, they have dreams, they even have political interests, as Kotoe Hatsui's character seems to. But the decentness of the prostitutes is subservient to imperial war aims, and the society the Japanese colonizers represent in this story is something it is clear Suzuki thinks is rotten to the core.

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But a quick note about Kotoe Hatsui; she holds the record for an actress in more Suzuki movies than any other: she's in 13 of his films. Never a lead, she nonetheless filled out the supporting cast in many of his films with deft and varied characterwork. Her first film is actually a German movie, directed by former nazi propagandist Veit Harlan (uncle of Stanley Kubrick's wife Christianne), Verrat an Deutschland. After an independent film for Heinosuke Gosho, she becomes a Nikkatsu contract player for most of the rest of her career.

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Only living to be 61, she spent most of her career playing women far older than she was, secializing on screen and on stage playing widows, old maids, and elderly eccentrics. After working in Toho's children's theater troupe, she helped found the Seinenza Theater Company and performed and taught there throughout her film and television careers. She worked with Suzuki pretty early, and she features in Voice Without a Shadow, Naked Age, Take Aim at the Police Van, Sleep of the Beast, Smashing the 0-Line, Everything Goes Wrong, A Hell of a Guy (aka Living by Karate), The Wind-of-Youth Group Goes Over the Mountain, Bloody Water in the Channel, exceptional in Hi-Teen Yakuza, hilariously grating and intriguingly gender ambiguous in Detective Bureau 23: Go to Hell Bastards! (she also appears in the Detective Bureau sequel by another director), Story of a Prostitute, and Story of a Bastard: Born Under a Bad Star. When her collaboration with Suzuki abruptly ends, she continues working for Nikkatsu into the late period of action movies, and even works in a couple of mid-70s pink films for the company. By this time she is freelancing, appearing in Tadashi Imai's The Possessed, Kaneto Shindo's Edo Porn and Black Board, Chusei Sone's execrable Case of the Disjointed Murder, Masahiro Shinoda's Ballad of Orin, and ends her career in what appear to be a string of Kadokawa pictures. Along the way she does voicework in two landmark animated productions: Osamu Tezuka's Cleopatra, Queen of Sex and she is the voice of Mama Dola in Hayao Miyazaki's Castle in the Sky. She is perfect in this movie, as always, walking away into the plains, clearly staying in Manchuria with Harumi's story in her memory, heading towards a kind of resistance to all she has seen in the Japanese colonial project.

3) Imperialism Abroad, Coming Home:

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As for the rotten colonial project depicted in the film, it ends with a quiet scene, where the prostitutes remember Harumi and Mikami as they were, rather than the way the official story goes. It's telling that, while Suzuki shows us almost nothing but defeats for the Japanese army, the army (especially its corrupt officer core) and its poisonous ideology are not unseated in the event of the film.

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The implication of this is, discreetly, that the figures that represent Japan's colonial aims in Manchuria will, to some extent, return to Japan when the war is over, and have prestigious roles in the new economy and government there. Repeatedly in interviews and in his other films, Suzuki shows us the way the economic and governmental forces of the Japanese economic miracle rise from the same power groups as before the war––or at least, inherit a remarkably similar ideology. Tamagawa's officer Narita especially is shone to be absolutely reprehensible throughout––and yet, he continues on, facing no consequences. Narita is representative of this elevated class of people, who, Suzuki is saying, are still in charge. And Narita's eventual return to Japan, Suzuki seems to be saying, is something to be feared.

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CINEMATOGRAPHY

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Kazue Nagatsuka returns after a couple of movies shot by Shigeyoshi Mine. He'll stick around after this for Story of a Bastard: Born Under a Bad Star, and then he will be out of the Suzuki Gumi until he returns for Branded to Kill. In the interim he shoots two Yumiko Nogawa movies (one for Suzuki's mentor, Hiroshi Noguchi), Yasuharu Hasebe's Black Tight Killers, and, ironically, the much more straightlaced–looking sequel Tokyo Drifter 2: The Sea is Bright Red as the Color of Love. I have a strong sense that the sea is never literally bright red in that movie––though I haven't been able to see it.

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If the surprise of discovering your movie was going to be black-and-white instead of color on the first day of filming threw things off, you'd never know it from Nagatsuka's lensing here. I was tempted to call this Nagatsuka's most striking film, but I watched Blue Breasts last night––a much earlier Suzuki film, and discovered so many of the same techniques, done with equal effectiveness. Is it enough to say Nagatsuka was, for this late stage of his career, simply at the top of his game? I just love the lighting Nagatsuka uses in his black-and-white features. Story of a Prostitute does take that lighting to a sort of transcendent extreme: the walls of the Chinese fort at night have some of the most expressionistic lighting I've seen, awash in splatters and gashes of light, of shadow-shapes intruding from the background. Seemingly new in this film is a hazier look to Nagatsuka's shooting, made with a lot of particulate matter in the air (the dirt and dry grass of the plains seems to just fly into the air in the outdoor scenes), with a few low-contrast scenes (deliberate or not? Nagatsuka planned for the film to be in color), and with what seems like an early version of the "David Hamilton Soft-Focus™." This makes for some surprising new effects in Nagatsuka's work––or perhaps it makes what is old new again. I'm especially struck with how the rim-lighting Nagatsuka usually does to human figures takes on a sort of "holy" or "magical" glow in softer focus––especially in the scenes when Harumi and Mikami make love in the deserted section of the fort.

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It might not be enough to say that this represents how good Nagatsuka is consistently. Nagatsuka's previous film for Suzuki was The Flower & the Angry Waves, a film which seemed in retrospect to have a sort of neoclassical feel to the cinematography––Nagatsuka was there for all the whip-pans of the Koji Wada star era, but Flower had a more stately sense of camera movement and maybe Nagatsuka's most conventionally elegant lighting. It almost seems as if on these later productions, from Story of a Prostitute through Branded to Kill, Nagatsuka and Suzuki are experimenting with more unorthodox camera angles and staging. While a lot of this film is conventional long shots and glamorous closeups, as is common for Suzuki's films, there quite a few odd angles, some extravagant tracking movements, some consciously unstable photography from the bed of trucks, some crane shots, a surprising number of telephoto zooms, and even some Altman-like post-camera zooms. There are deliberately overexposed fantasy sequences and then there is the finale, which becomes as stylistically abstract as Tattooed Life, but in black-and-white, with blatantly artificial lighting and increasing use of wind and smoke to create an unearthly sense of the movie's fantastical, bleak, and striking climax.

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Nikkatsu's website is full of lists of shooting locations, but nothing is recorded there for Story of a Prostitute. Not sure why this film is different. They seem to resent it's existence! There was apparently at one point the intention of shooting in actual Manchuria, but presumably cold war politics made that impossible. As a result, the locations were sourced in Japan.

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Presumably the Chinese fort where almost all of the action takes place––as well as the Chinese resistance fighters' cave network and the Chinese village––are all constructed for the movie. This goes some distance to illustrate the contradictions in this project––clearly at some point the follow-up to the very successful Gate of Flesh was meant to be built on the same scale as that movie (for which Kimura created enormous, multi-level sets of the Tokyo black market, and the previous film featured a much larger cast than in previous Suzuki movies). The scale of the previous film is apparent in larger action scenes than Suzuki shot before or after this film, in the cast, in the scope of filming locations, in all the explosives that rip through various scenes, and in the uncommon post-production effects (the major getting cut apart on the negative, and the optical zooms). But then Our Blood Will Not Forgive does disappointingly ordinary business––not big business––and the disciplinary action ends with Nikkatsu shooting themselves in the foot. Shooting in black-and-white limited the movie's audience appeal (although Nagatsuka goes out of his way to make a visual extraordinary picture all the same, and succeeds). The picture plays only 5 days, after Gate of Flesh's 18 (and Our Blood Will Not Forgive's 7 days). Following this, there were apparently some sequences of Carmen from Kawachi which were shot in color, then abandoned, and that movie ended up black-and-white as well, playing only 4 days in a market increasingly filled with color productions, with their obvious commercial advantage. If the intent was to limit Suzuki's expressiveness with color, the result ended up backfiring for the studio at the box office. But it seems as if it were more important to Kyusaku Hori to discipline his uppity director––who was always asking for more resources, more control––than it was to have another hit like Gate of Flesh.

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COMPARISON

F*ck, here we go. Story of a Prostitute came out on DVD 20 years ago, alongside Gate of Flesh, Fighting Elegy and Youth of the Beast––all from Criterion––a follow-up salvo to their releases of Branded to Kill and Tokyo Drifter. Criterion did not upgrade the four, one presumes, "lesser" titles when Branded to Kill and Tokyo Drifter eventually made it onto bluray. However, when Criterion first weighted into streaming on Hulu, there was a 720p version of the film available to see there––which was later carried over to The Criterion Channel. Then in 2017, French company Elephant released Story of a Prostitute on bluray with no English subtitles, alongside Gate of Flesh, Branded to Kill, Detective Bureau 2-3, Tokyo Drifter, and Youth of the Beast. Now Nikkatsu has put out their own bluray of Story of a Prostitute, as part of its trio of Suzuki boxsets––1080i, no English subtitles on offer.

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NIKKATSU TRAILER

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NIKKATSU FEATURE

Gate of Flesh looked exceptional on the Elephant bluray––still a very good presentation of the film. Story of a Prostitute, on the other hand, looked terrible; the movie was excessively dark and murky, with a soft picture which was scanned-in much closer than the Criterion version was, cropping off a noticeable part of the image. I remember the Criterion Channel 720p transfer of the film looking much sharper, with an image a lot brighter than on the Elephant version, but I can't find an image from that Criterion Channel version any longer. I can say that the version Criterion presented looked a lot closer to what I saw in 35mm at the Hammer Museum about eight years ago. That print looked crisp and beautiful, with a sharp image and perfect contrast. I need to say it again: that 35mm print looked crisp and beautiful.

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I needed to repeat it because the new Nikkatsu disc looks almost exactly like the wretched Elephant version. Contrast and grain look marginally better on the interlaced Nikkatsu disc than on the progressive-scan Elephant disc––but it doesn't matter because the picture quality on both is painfully soft. This hardly looks like a high-definition film at all. The Nikkatsu disc begins with this title card, which I got machine-translated into this statement:

"Although we use the best existing originals, due to the age of the work, this will result in some parts that are hard to see and hear. Note that."

No part of the film is more hard to see than another; to my eyes, the whole disc has uniformly lousy picture quality––almost identically lousy to the Elephant disc from 8 years previous.

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Trouble is, the disc is just like the other lower-tier discs in the set: interlaced transfer, with a 1080p trailer attached. And as in many others on the set, the trailer looks great. Check out these comparisons:

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Charming grain, a sharp image, with a lot of depth...the trailer is pretty comparable to the version I saw in theaters. If the feature looked like that I would be overjoyed. Amongst the other features I noticed that the Nikkatsu and Elephant features crop the image in significantly, and even at the time, seeing the film in 35mm, I was surprised to be able to notice the extra room in the shots, which made their composition look much more deliberate.

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Pretty obviously, the card at the beginning of the Nikkatsu disc feels bogus. The almost decade-old Elephant transfer looks as if it's the same source as the Nikkatsu version. This isn't the "best existing original," just the most recent scan of the film, and who knows what happened there? That scan comes from the same era in which I saw the film theatrically, or earlier. The movie looked sharp as a tack in the theater. I'm pretty sure that, even if the original negative is all kinds of messed-up there are undoubtedly other sources where a better transfer could be obtained. Though the way this look is so rigidly consistent throughout the picture suggests to me that the sourceable quality wasn't the real problem here, but rather the quality of the source used.

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NIKKATSU TRAILER

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This is heartbreaking, by far the number one disappointment in the box sets. Hi-Teen Yakuza is not a good quality disc, but that's not a great movie, either. Our Blood Will Not Forgive needed more picture quality, but it also isn't a great film, and so not a great loss. Story of a Prostitute IS a great movie, and so it hits harder that this presentation remains dismal––especially since it seems likely there was a better version to be had with a new scan––if not from the negative, even from some secondary sources. More should have been done for the film; though I wonder if many of the 4k scans in these box sets were made of the films that didn't have previous scans? I doubt Love Letter or Inn of Floating Weeds played on TV, and neither one appeared in the old Nikkatsu DVD boxsets. But I do have the sense that Carmen From Kawachi got the 4k scan Story of a Prostitute didn't?

Somewhat of a non-sequitur, but the trailer also features a couple of interesting shots:

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I don't believe this is in the finished film, though it seems pretty extreme for a trailer, too.

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Just loved the typography here, over the shot of the the soldier preparing the execute Mikami.

MY TAKE

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I haven't yet extolled the virtues of Yumiko Nogawa, since I did it a lot already, in my posts on Gate of Flesh and Carmen From Kawachi. She is very inspired and innovative in each of these movies, and while I think her best performance of the lot is in Carmen from Kawachi, I can't ignore the range of expression and the uniquely combative character Yumiko develops for this movie; she seems to have grown from one picture to the next from a performer of good quality in an ensemble to a magnetic leading woman. Her Harumi is animated by a complex, defiant spirit; her attempt to reconfigure the war to one of passions, to transmute it to the confines of the bedroom, end up leading to tragedy, but her passions remain unrelenting.

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Mikami is a fascinating figure because of his close resemblance to a Suzuki archetype (the brainwashed boy of violence, the fascist tool, which appears at least here, in the Bastard movies, in Fighting Elegy, and in Tale of Youth at Hirosaki High School, and with close cousins in The Spring That Didn't Come and Naked Age) but Harumi is a unique figure, whose unique fierceness carves a scar into the pristine surface of the official truth, revealing the lies teeming beneath. She is one of Suzuki's most earnest heroes, electing to die at the end not for country, but for the sake of love, no matter how pathetically warped it is by the machinations of the state.

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But Yumiko is far from the only reason to see this movie; it is one of Suzuki's most beautiful black-and-white films––though the only way to really see the beauty for what it is now seems to be at a screening. I hope that changes soon.

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Summing up the "Nikutai" or "Flesh" Trilogy, since this is the last one I hadn't covered––to me the films underline the way in which in his "mature" period, Suzuki is able to meld his obvious skill with romantic melodrama to his experiences and his sociopolitical ideas and create absorbing modernist pictures totally separate from the yakuza milieu. Beyond that, as Suzuki's main body of films centered upon women, these potentially very exploitative films (certainly that's what the studio wanted from them) underline the lack of chauvinism in Suzuki's movies––even in the films that reflect the very sexist viewpoints of their era. In fact, the films all underline how a culture's insistence on the performance of gender roles is a prison that keeps both men and women preoccupied, lest they begin to perceive their more general roles in their societies as slaves to interests of capitalism, war, cultural propaganda, class division, etc. Yumiko Nogawa's growing skill is evident over the course of the movies, as is her increasing ability to hold the screen in dazzling ways. But the films are full of interesting women; more than anything, they underline the way in which none of the films in Suzuki's oeuvre can really be seen to exclude women––there are always vital roles for women that matter in the films, and the actresses playing these roles are never objectified for reasons of simple entertainment. These movies lay bare the complexity and the thorough characterization Suzuki assigns women's roles in all his films, and it's interesting to see how often Suzuki has to go outside of the Nikkatsu's stable of starlets to create these roles. Nogawa is a perfect example of this; the singular star discovery which can be credited entirely to Nogawa's and Suzuki's combined vision and initiative.

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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#183 Post by feihong »

Updating this list of reviews/comparisons. 23 films so far, and more coming. I intend to start incorporating some of the more genuinely rare Suzuki movies that are much harder to see, like Cherry Blossoms in Spring, Marriage, and some of the TV movies, like Choice of Family: I'll Kill Your Husband for You! and The Fang in the Hole. Some of that coming soon!

Branded to Kill
Criterion UHD caps & writeup added

Fighting Elegy

Kanto Wanderer

Carmen From Kawachi

Our Blood Will Not Forgive

Gate of Flesh

Naked Age

Fighting Delinquents

An Inn of Floating Weeds

The Flower & the Angry Waves

The Naked Woman and the Gun

Underworld Beauty

Tokyo Drifter

Story of a Prostitute

Zigeunerweisen

Cheers at the Harbor: Triumph in My Hands

Singing Rope: Innocent Love at Sea

Capone Cries Hard

Take Aim at the Police Van

A Hell of a Guy

The Boy Who Came Back

A Mummy's Love

Blue Breasts


There are, it turns out, character limits on these posts, so I have taken to editing the text-only versions of these posts somewhat. In the versions with text & images I do the disc comparisons and I put in more extensive digressions into actors especially.
Last edited by feihong on Tue Nov 11, 2025 6:37 am, edited 14 times in total.
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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#184 Post by feihong »

Looks like Happinet, distributor for Nikkatsu's blu ray boxsets, blu rays, and dvds of Seijun Suzuki movies, has pulled literally everything they have been releasing over the last year out of circulation, maybe? I had the DVD of Passport to Darkness on pre-order and it was cancelled rather than released. As of now, CDJapan and Amazon Japan list all the box sets, individual blurays, and dvd-only releases are no longer available.

I can't find any announcement of why this would be. So bizarre. It looks like there are used copies of even the new releases online, so I'm going to try to get Passport to Darkness that way. So maddening.
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The Fanciful Norwegian
Joined: Tue Nov 02, 2004 6:24 pm
Location: Teegeeack

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#185 Post by The Fanciful Norwegian »

If you use a Japanese address on Amazon there are still plenty you can order directly from them, though most have low-stock notices with the "more on the way" verbiage. Strangely their listing for Passport to Darkness is missing the latter and simply indicates "Only 4 left in stock - order soon." The Sleeping Beast Within is the only recent Suzuki release that's completely sold out and only available from third-party sellers. Other recent Nikkatsu titles from Happinet (like their Yoshinaga Sayuri series) don't typically carry a low-stock notice, so it might just be that they underestimated demand for the Suzuki films and are between pressings at the moment. Why they are seemingly no longer shipping these to your location is another question entirely (they don't ship them to mine either, but I'm not sure if they ever did).
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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#186 Post by feihong »

Interesting! Thanks for giving me that perspective. I found a copy of the film on ebay. I was afraid of another BCI-like fold-up––I had the blu ray of Life Gamble pre-ordered like 15 years ago or whenever they folded, and it never released. Sure hope the demand for the Suzuki discs is bigger than they thought, maybe that could mean more never-before-released stuff in the future, like Satan's Town or Blood-Red Water in the Channel or Blue Breasts aka Young Breasts. I know there are hi-def sources for A Hell of a Guy aka Living by Karate and Singing Rope: Innocent Love at Sea, so hopefully some more blurays––I hate this downgrade to DVD for some titles.
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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#187 Post by feihong »

I took a look at the Nikkatsu dvds of the two Koji Wada boxing movies, Million-Dollar Smash-and-Grab and Those Who Bet on Me. Just a cursory glance, really. The discs don't look great. I've previously seen standar-def television recordings of these movies, which looked not great either. The Nikkatsu discs have better color and better contrast than the television recordings––all the discs from Nikkatsu, however good or bad, have very nice color and contrast––but they don't offer a substantially sharper picture quality than the television broadcasts did. They are watchable, but not thrilling to watch. I'm hoping Passport to Darkness turns out a little better in black-and-white.
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The Fanciful Norwegian
Joined: Tue Nov 02, 2004 6:24 pm
Location: Teegeeack

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#188 Post by The Fanciful Norwegian »

feihong wrote: Sat Mar 29, 2025 6:09 amSure hope the demand for the Suzuki discs is bigger than they thought, maybe that could mean more never-before-released stuff in the future, like Satan's Town or Blood-Red Water in the Channel or Blue Breasts aka Young Breasts.
Amazon Prime Japan has all three of these supposedly in HD, which probably doesn't help you any given regional restrictions but does boost their chances of a physical release.
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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#189 Post by feihong »

The Fanciful Norwegian wrote: Wed Apr 02, 2025 3:57 pm
feihong wrote: Sat Mar 29, 2025 6:09 amSure hope the demand for the Suzuki discs is bigger than they thought, maybe that could mean more never-before-released stuff in the future, like Satan's Town or Blood-Red Water in the Channel or Blue Breasts aka Young Breasts.
Amazon Prime Japan has all three of these supposedly in HD, which probably doesn't help you any given regional restrictions but does boost their chances of a physical release.
I have seen the "HD" version of Blue Breasts––I have planned to do a writeup here pretty soon. It's quite bad; I'm pretty sure it's taken from an SD source and bumped up to HD:
Spoiler
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Check out the chromatic abberation on Misako Watanabe's kimono in the first shot––that stuff is nearly constant throughout.

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Watching this version is like seeing ghosts moving inside an old-timey postcard.
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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#190 Post by feihong »

Sooooo very late....

ZIGEUNERWEISEN
PART I

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One of the miraculous comebacks of cinema, the largest commercial and critical success of Suzuki’s career, and still, a lot of film fans don’t know Zigeunerweisen. Perhaps it’s because of the way the film is so different from anything Suzuki made before it. Fans of the Nikkatsu films might expect the way Nikkatsu’s “Akushon” genre tropes get woven in with Suzuki’s often discreetly-deployed artistic personality, and are then surprised to find no action in the atmospheric ghost story of the later picture. And Suzuki’s detractors, who mostly feel that Suzuki’s artistic flourishes are poorly-crafted, unwelcome intrusions into what they feel should be unalloyed genre filmmaking are surprised by the unabashed artsiness, the surprise that within Suzuki had always dwelt this Bergmanesque interiority and literary artistic ambition, waiting to emerge.


[TEXT ONLY]
Spoiler
Complicating reactions to the film is the way Japanese cinemagoers fully embraced Zigeunerweisen as an event, and as an artistic achievement (the film won Best Film, Director, Art Direction and Supporting actress {Michiyo Ookusu} in the Japanese Academy Awards of 1981, the movie was listed in the Encyclopedia of Japan in the entry on “Film,” next to Seven Samurai and Ugetsu)––and yet, the picture is gnomically obscure to Western viewers at a glance.


ADAPTATION

Western viewers might recognize writer Uchida Hyakken as protag of Kurosawa’s Madadayo. The real Uchida is grouped with Edogawa Rampo and Kyoka Izumi, early modernist writers who wrote horror in and of the Taisho era.

Japanese viewers were familiar with Uchida, but Suzuki and Tanaka's take would be a playful intellectual challenge even to those familiar readers. There's a story which is reproduced entirely in Zigeunerweisen, Disc of Sarasate. It includes the discussion, repeated a couple of times in the film, about the de Sarasate record, which features one of the first gaffs in music recording (de Sarasate’s voice emerges in furtive, spectral manner, possibly to ask for a page turn, and the protagonists of the film discuss this uncanny intrusion into the experience of the record). There is an evolving relationship between a narrator––who is believed to be Uchida’s author-insert––and a darker, morose professor Nakasago––generally believed to be Uchida’s friend Ryunnosuke Akutagawa, author of Rashomon.

But Disc isn’t the only source of the 2.5-hour film. Also in the mix is the story Bowler Hat. This one gives us Aochi, but while Aochi in the film is a reticent Toshiya Fujita, the Aochi of Bowler Hat seems to go aggressively insane once he first wears the western-style hat of the title. Other stories seem to provide elements of Zigeunerweisen––the tuberculosis ward where Aochi’s sister-in-law is dying seems to be taken from one such source––but neither of the two main sources provide the lion’s share of the plot; in other words, Suzuki and Tanaka adapt by mixing and matching characters and developing a plot all their own.

But a lot of themes remain from Uchida’s work, including the way in which the Taisho-set Bowler Hat story involved an antipathetic conflict between Aochi’s former moral life as a traditional Japanese man, and the Mr.-Hyde-like transformation he undergoes as the wearer of a western bowler hat. You might describe the plot of Zigeunerweisen as Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde, if Jekyll and Hyde were actually separate bodies, so the two could have dinner together.

Bowler Hat was written during the Taisho era, giving us Uchida’s take on it. But Disc of Sarasate came much later, in 1951, a post-war work which self-consciously harkens back to the earlier era, to Uchida’s friendship with then long-dead Akutagawa––much the way Suzuki uses the texts in the movie to look back upon his childhood. A great deal of the adaptation seems an invention of Suzuki and screenwriter Tanaka. The most conspicuous parts of the film which don’t appear to be a part of Uchida’s writing are the erotic sections where the men unwittingly follow Nakasago’s suggestion and “swap wives,” and the doubling devices which figure throughout the picture between Aochi and Nakasago, Koine and Sono, and the main trio and the musicians.

The “realm of the dead,” the setting of several hauntings in the picture, comes from another story in the same collection as Bowler Hat. Concept and motifs from that story seem to have been adapted into the film as well––most especially the presence of disembodied voices, which occur several times throughout the movie, and which become the clue by which the protagonist of the story realizes he has crossed into the world of the dead.


TAISHO

The era of Suzuki's birth, Taisho, runs from 1912 to 1926. Mirage Theater is set in '26, but Zigeunerweisen seems a little earlier. What one comes away with is the clash between the modern and the historical imaginary.

We see elements of Meiji-era Japan in Nakasago's home, but we're made very conscious of the effect of recreation. Nakasago admires the Japanese past the way Suzuki clings to Taisho; i.e., the value of the recreation is in its contrast with the less-desirable present––even though the actual past is fundamentally out-of-reach (and is, according to Rachel DiNitto's essay on the film, something Suzuki feels is impossible to recapture). Meanwhile, we watch a movie which is itself impossible recreation of the past, contrasting with a less-desirable-seeming present. In the case of Taisho, Suzuki offers a warning. Nostalgia for the past is dangerous without critical distance. The need to look back must be modulated by that distance, if anything is to be gained trying to revivify the era. But Suzuki’s very paranoid intellect is always questioning whether or not that revivification is at all possible. Can the past be recaptured, or is it fundamentally transformed in the process of recreation? Is what we remember real, or are our memories constantly mixing with desires, with wanting things to have been a certain way? And even if that past can be recreated, will that recreation ultimately mean anything, or is it destined to be unintelligible to us from the vantage point of the modern day?

So Zigeunerweisen is a recapturing of the imaginary where the object of desire is made significantly unintelligible––like the phantom voice of de Sarasate on the Zigeunerweisen recording, forever embalmed on the record, but unable to be interpreted by the Japanese intellectuals who catch the discrepancy but are removed from its context.

So the melding of Japanese traditional and modern western aesthetics is something Suzuki seems to be saying there is no going back from, and the film discreetly hints at the way the Taisho democracy gives way to the military fascism of the Showa era––the war is never far away in a Suzuki film. But the overwhelming western challenge of the Taisho era has a contemporary double, or maybe an opposite, in the Japan of the 1980s: the bubble economy, where one might say Western and Japanese culture became fully integrated.

And while militarism lingers like the faintest phantom, discreetly in the background, what is more obviously on the table in this dissection of Taisho thought is the idea of the divided self––something more directly applicable to the filmmakers’ present of 1980 than not. If you can’t tell whether you are Japanese or western, sensuous or impotent, the owner of the de Sarasate disc or the phantom voice muttering broken phrases from the other side, you may be in Taisho…but you may just as easily be living in the current moment of 1980.


THEMES

A. Doubling

As I've been through these writeups, I've tried to bring up the recurrence of doubling and the contrast of doubles as it appears throughout Suzuki's movies. It's one of the most persistent "literary" techniques in his whole oeuvre, with the use of doubling getting more structurally complex as the films go on. The apotheosis of this career-long development, Zigeunerweisen revolves around multiple sets of doubles, each set of whom serve as doubles reflecting on other sets of doubles. Kaboom.

At the start Aochi sees a trio of blind musicians. Shortly after, he meets Nakasago, they pick up a geisha, Koine, and the trio becomes a Jules-et-Jim-like group, mired in layers of erotic suggestion. In the midst of this encounter, the blind musicians show up and sing a song scolding the trio’s libertinism.

Quickly, Nakasago, Aochi and Koine form theories about the dynamic between the three musicians. As the pair of trios linger around the neighborhood in the next scenes, Aochi and Nakasago especially watch the trio of musicians and begin to see little clues to the ways their unspoken relationship mirrors the more intellectual trio’s own. Nakasago has made the first move on Koine, shutting the more senior-seeming Aochi out.

In the same way, the younger, daring singer makes a crude pass at the girl in the group, and the older man––whom the main trio has posited as the husband of the young girl––seems shut out of romance in the relationship.

Underscoring this, when Aochi and Nakasago see the singers at the train station, the older singer seems to stare out of the train lobby at Aochi on the platform, through blind eyes which Aochi can’t help staring back at.

The doubling of trios is the backbone of the film’s narrative for about half of its running time. Later on, when Aochi visits Nakasago and sees Koine and Nakasago there raising Nakasago’s child, the three of them drink again, and talk immediately runs to the trio of musicians, and what happened to them. Each have theories, and by entertaining the theories we begin to see where each of the three of them are in their relationship with the other two. Nakasago, angry and predatory towards Koine, insists that the two men in the group fought over the woman and killed each other, while the young woman drifted out to sea. This is visualized for us with Suzuki-an subjectivity, as a cartoonish duel, and we get from that the Looney-Tunes-level malice and sexual frustration in Nakasago’s own mind.

When Koine retorts that Nakasago is wrong, that the trio all married one another and lived together in harmony, we don’t see any such recreation. Instead, Suzuki focuses on Koine’s harrowed gaze, staring straight at Nakasago, while Aochi helps himself to food off to the side.

Later on in the story, Nakasago meets up with the singers again. A strange transformation has taken place here; the singers seem to have all died, a la Nakasago’s spurious-seeming recount from before. But they’ve now been reborn, as blind children, wearing the same clothes they did before and singing the same songs, with their alternately bawdy and preachy lyrics.

Then there is Koine, and her double, Sono. There is always some ambiguity to the existence of Sono. When Aochi visits Nakasago after his marriage, he is shocked to see a woman who looks exactly like Koine, serving as Nakasago’s already long-suffering wife.

Aochi is dazzled at first, but then comes a couple of scenes which bring the Koine/Sono doubling into another dimension of suggestion. Aochi encounters one or the other of the two women on the road to Nakasago’s house. The woman ought to be Sono, but she behaves in the more teasingly sensuous and provocative manner Koine had previously treated Aochi. This leads into the film’s first obvious haunting. Aochi is summoned into Nakasago’s house by the woman, who now seems more like Sono than Koine. The woman vanishes as Aochi enters, and the house becomes haunted, a deserted space lit oddly, with some items moving as in a traditional ghost story film. But the lighting especially is off-kilter. There is a red lamp which appears arbitrarily throughout the scene, which somehow gives off only pale white light. A cloth slides off a mirror, revealing the face of either Sono or Koine, which one we don’t exactly know. Aochi walks on, but is restrained by a woman’s hand grasping his own, and a disembodied voice of Sono or Koine, pleading, “don’t leave.” Then another hand encircles Aochi’s, from another woman, with the same voice.

He whirls around and we see the woman once again, whoever she is. The frustrated Aochi tries to rationalize the experience in terms of pure folklore, recounting being enchanted by a shape-shifting fox, and Koine/Sono admits she could be one, putting one over on Aochi.

Cut immediately to what seems to be the real world. Aochi is sitting with Sono in Nakasago’s house. Nakasago himself is absent. There is strange tension in the air.

Then a sound like theatrical clapsticks erupts and Sono leaps backwards in fear. “Don’t leave!” She cries again––or for the first time. Aochi picks her up from the floor, and Sono’s kimono slides down her shoulders. We can see in Sono’s eyes she is both hoping for and dreading what Aochi will do next.

Cut to Nakasago, hundreds of miles away and seemingly unaware he’s being cuckolded at that very moment, tramping along through a train tunnel, with Koine following him through the tunnel and to a nearby inn. As Nakasago plays cards, Koine waits desperately for him. She seems to feel guilty at first, and the scene cannily functions to carry the remorse Sono feels to her husband through Koine.

The doubling of Sono and Koine becomes increasingly hard to distinguish. Early on there was the suggestion that Sono might have been another persona for Koine, a “respectable wife” who had masked her past as a geisha (one has a hard time imagining Nakasago caring one way or the other, but perhaps this could be for Koine’s own feelings).

There was the sense of Aochi watching Sono as a detective watches a suspect for signs of a “performance.” Then we are told that Sono is dead, that Nakasago kills her by bringing home an infectious disease. Afterwards, Aochi visits Nakasago and sees Sono again, holding the baby––but this time it’s clearly Koine.

Later in the film, Koine changes. Dominated and degraded by Nakasago’s child’s uncanny harassment of her, driven by revenge on Nakasago for never loving her, Koine is bitter and etiolated. At the climax of the film she makes a last act of doubling, transforming into the geisha she once was and attempting to serve Aochi the beer he and the now-deceased Nakasago never finished together.

This a faint attempt at a final haunting––a failed attempt to recapture the past––and Suzuki utilizes another effect which offers commentary, when Aochi sees Koine’s silhouette in the paper screen on the wall, and sees it duplicated over itself through a double-exposure.

There are other such doubles in the film––Aochi’s wife has a double in her own sister––one of the two loves Aochi, the other doesn’t, but neither is quite who you think it ought to be. In a sense, the double seems to reflect the presence of the ghost––another way of saying this is that each character with a double is a character haunted by a ghost, or a past.

A key observation from Peter Yacavone’s book is that the double is not a conceit of Classical Japanese literature so much as a figuration evoked by and evoking the modern era. The double is a figure of the mechanized, automated modern world. In a world where people’s scope is radically expanded through feats of reproduction (a photograph can tell you about a distant location, for instance), we are no longer unique individuals. What’s more, if people are not unique, then the need for privacy falls away––or it can be disregarded, or diminished. More often than not, the threat in Zigeunerweisen isn’t to life and limb, but rather one of revelation of the secret self. Which brings us to the most important doubling in the film: the central pair, Aochi and Nakasago.

Both Aochi and Nakasago are professors of German, from the same military academy. Aochi remains there, embracing modern (i.e. Western) style and living a posh life. Nakasago was fired, and tramps around the countryside. Aochi is nearly celibate, thanks to his modish but (to him) unattractive wife. Nakasago seeks out conquests wherever he is, and is happy to kill a woman after seducing her.

In the beginning of the film, Aochi intercedes on Nakasago’s behalf, using his position of authority to get Nakasago out of a murder rap. But later on, the two of them have a tet-a-tet over lunch beneath a big tree.

The setting groups them by themselves, but Aochi is thinking about all the ways he differs from Nakasago (Nakasago is talking about sexual technique). Nakasago presciently suggests that the two of them swap wives. Aochi is incensed, and calls Nakasago crazy. He walks off into a cave (duplicating Nakasago’s own journey into the train tunnel after Aochi slept with Nakasago’s wife), and Nakasago appears at the cave mouth in complete silhouette, voice echoing, appearing like a phantom, and agreeing with Aochi, but adding this telling accusation. “But you knew that already!”

Then there is the most inexplicable section of the film, when Koine begins showing up at Aochi’s house, asking for Nakasago’s books and the record, Zigeunerweisen. Aochi doesn’t remember borrowing any of this, yet all of it is in his house. Why does Aochi have all these books stamped with Nakasago’s name in them, unless he IS Nakasago? Why does he have the record, even though he doesn’t remember borrowing it?

Thinking of Aochi and Nakasago as the same person can lead to a radical reinterpretation of many of the strange moments in the picture. Early on, Nakasago makes his first sexual advance on Koine, grasping her porcelain arm and running his tanned, rough hands up and down it. Koine turns and looks at Aochi, imploringly, and Aochi appears reluctant to get the drift.

Later, Nakasago grabs Koine and wrestles her into a kiss, as Aochi steps away. Aochi looks back at Nakasago reproachfully, and Nakasago glares at him with incomprehension. These sequences play fantastically differently if Nakasago and Aochi are one. Then when the man they both are grasps Koine’s arm, she looks at him imploringly. When Aochi looks reproachful at Nakasago, maybe Aochi is the conscience, or sense of propriety, attempting to intercede.

If Nakasago and Aochi are one person with multiple personalities, then perhaps Koine/Sono are one person as well, attempting to match the energy of the demented man who is on the one hand sexually rapacious and on the other sexually disinterested, on the one hand obsessed with death, on the other obsessed with keeping up with the Joneses. If part of the time the man that is both men is close to being a wanted outlaw, and the other half of the time would never dream of stepping out of line, well maybe a wife needs to summon dual performances of mother and whore to meet the man’s variegated threats and passages of disinterest?

So Aochi and Nakasago and Koine and Sono are divided figures, split from one another, each taking half of a full measure of personhood. And the other operative element of this doubling is that the twinned characters complete one another’s goals; Koine raises Sono’s daughter when Sono seems to die, Aochi and Nakasago swap wives in a way almost impossible to unpack, and when either Nakasago or Aochi seem to die, the other of them reaches out from beyond the grave to the other world, extending voice and presence in order to reunite with the other of them.
[TEXT & IMAGES]
Spoiler
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Complicating reactions to the film is the way Japanese cinemagoers fully embraced Zigeunerweisen as an event, and as an artistic achievement (the film won Best Film, Director, Art Direction and Supporting actress {Michiyo Ookusu} in the Japanese Academy Awards of 1981, the movie was listed in the Encyclopedia of Japan in the entry on “Film,” next to Seven Samurai and Ugetsu)––and yet, the picture is gnomically obscure to Western viewers at a glance. Plus, the movie is followed by the even more inscrutable Mirage Theater, before the easier-to-unpack Yumeji. But the whole Taisho Trilogy still waits to be discovered for its’ exceptional qualities.

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ADAPTATION

Western viewers might recognize writer Uchida Hyakken as protag of Kurosawa’s Madadayo. The real Uchida is grouped with Edogawa Rampo and Kyoka Izumi, early modernist writers who wrote horror in and of the Taisho era.

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Tatsuo Matsumura as Uchida in Madadayo

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Toshiya Fujita as Aochi in Zigeunerweisen

Japanese viewers were familiar with Uchida, but Suzuki and Tanaka's take would be a playful intellectual challenge even to those familiar readers. There's a story which is reproduced entirely in Zigeunerweisen, Disc of Sarasate. It includes the discussion, repeated a couple of times in the film, about the de Sarasate record, which features one of the first gaffs in music recording (de Sarasate’s voice emerges in furtive, spectral manner, possibly to ask for a page turn, and the protagonists of the film discuss this uncanny intrusion into the experience of the record).

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There is an evolving relationship between a narrator––who is believed to be Uchida’s author-insert––and a darker, morose professor Nakasago––generally believed to be Uchida’s friend Ryunnosuke Akutagawa, author of Rashomon.

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But Disc isn’t the only source of the 2.5-hour film. Also in the mix is the story Bowler Hat. This one gives us Aochi, but while Aochi in the film is a reticent Toshiya Fujita, the Aochi of Bowler Hat seems to go aggressively insane once he first wears the western-style hat of the title.

Plotwise, more of Disc is adapted, but curiously, characterization of Aochi from the story seems to be passed in film to Nakasago. It’s Nakasago who seems unbalanced, disturbed by the approach of modernism, while Aochi in the movie more resembles the nameless, circumspect, Uchida-like narrator of Disc of Sarasate. Other stories seem to provide elements of Zigeunerweisen––the tuberculosis ward where Aochi’s sister-in-law is dying seems to be taken from one such source––but neither of the two main sources provide the lion’s share of the plot; in other words, Suzuki and Tanaka adapt by mixing and matching characters and developing a plot all their own.

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But a lot of themes remain from Uchida’s work, including the way in which the Taisho-set Bowler Hat story involved an antipathetic conflict between Aochi’s former moral life as a traditional Japanese man, and the Mr.-Hyde-like transformation he undergoes as the wearer of a western bowler hat. You might describe the plot of Zigeunerweisen as Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde, if Jekyll and Hyde were actually separate bodies, so the two could have dinner together.

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Bowler Hat was written during the Taisho era, giving us Uchida’s take on it. But Disc of Sarasate came much later, in 1951, a post-war work which self-consciously harkens back to the earlier era, to Uchida’s friendship with then long-dead Akutagawa––much the way Suzuki uses the texts in the movie to look back upon his childhood. A great deal of the adaptation seems an invention of Suzuki and screenwriter Tanaka. The most conspicuous parts of the film which don’t appear to be a part of Uchida’s writing are the erotic sections where the men unwittingly follow Nakasago’s suggestion and “swap wives,” and the doubling devices which figure throughout the picture between Aochi and Nakasago, Koine and Sono, and the main trio and the musicians.

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The “realm of the dead,” which seems the setting of several hauntings in the picture, comes from another story in the same collection as Bowler Hat, whose title, “Realm of the Dead,” is shared with the collection. Concept and motifs from that story seem to have been adapted into the film as well––most especially the presence of disembodied voices, which occur several times throughout the movie, and which become the clue by which the protagonist of the story realizes he has crossed into the world of the dead.


TAISHO

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The era of Suzuki's birth, Taisho, officially runs from 1912 to 1926. Mirage Theater is set in '26, but Zigeunerweisen seems a little earlier. This is the fourth movie Suzuki has made in the era. It's striking that Suzuki uses the Taisho period as a setting as frequently as he does. In the case of Nikkatsu films, the era is represented through location filming (The Bastard) and through more expensive-looking period recreation (The Flower & the Angry Waves).

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Zigeunerweisen is made on a budget I've heard was equal to Suzuki's early Nikkatsu films or even smaller. The result is shrewd Taisho recreation based on well-sourced locations and a collection of props and costumes that fill the space with the colors and textures of the era. What one comes away with is the clash between the modern and the historical imaginary.

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We see elements of Meiji-era Japan in Nakasago's home, but we're made very conscious of the effect of recreation. Nakasago admires the Japanese past the way Suzuki clings to Taisho; i.e., the value of the recreation is in its contrast with the less-desirable present––even though the actual past is fundamentally out-of-reach (and is, according to Rachel DiNitto's essay on the film, something Suzuki feels is impossible to recapture). Meanwhile, we watch a movie which is itself impossible recreation of the past, contrasting with a less-desirable-seeming present.

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Zigeunerweisen is a hit which proceeds other exercises in nostalgia for a vanishing Japan, like Ghibli's My Neighbor Totoro. Not perhaps a coincidence that both films are heavily forested, at a time when the Japanese were becoming painfully aware of how much deforestation had made its mark on the country. The use of Kanazawa forest and carefully-selected settings and props conjure a past that is both cozy and sinister, mysterious and familiar, a return and a sealing-off of what can never be recaptured, no matter how shrewdly or fully evoked. The attraction of the past has an essential mystery––one Suzuki can’t explain away, for he is at once driven by nostalgia and aware of its “essential illusion.”

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What is the “essential illusion” Suzuki is talking about? The quote comes from notes he wrote on Takeo Kimura, but the deeper one goes into the earlier work, it becomes clear Suzuki is conscious of the illusory creation at the heart of cinema early on. Film is, after all, a full-bore illusion––hardly an element of it is ever fully real. And while most of his peers at Nikkatsu, from slick craftsmen like Toshio Masada and Umetsugu Inoue to more style-conscious filmmakers like Koreyoshi Kurahara and Ko Nakahira, aspire to create verisimilitude, hiding the seams of their cinematic illusions, Suzuki’s artistic trajectory takes him in the opposite direction, calling attention to the fakery and construction of film, rather than crafting a life-like simulation (this maybe speaks to some of the ways Suzuki is misunderstood by his company, critics, and audiences over the years).

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What’s the purpose of piercing the veil, then pointing out for everyone that the veil has been pierced? In the case of Taisho, Suzuki offers a warning. Nostalgia for the past is dangerous without critical distance. The need to look back must be modulated by that distance, if anything is to be gained trying to revivify the era. But Suzuki’s very paranoid intellect is always questioning whether or not that revivification is at all possible. Can the past be recaptured, or is it fundamentally transformed in the process of recreation? Is what we remember real, or are our memories constantly mixing with desires, with wanting things to have been a certain way? And even if that past can be recreated, will that recreation ultimately mean anything, or is it destined to be unintelligible to us from the vantage point of the modern day?

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So Zigeunerweisen is a recapturing of the imaginary where the object of desire is made significantly unintelligible––like the phantom voice of de Sarasate on the Zigeunerweisen recording, forever embalmed on the record, but unable to be interpreted by the Japanese intellectuals who catch the discrepancy but are removed from its context.

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So the melding of Japanese traditional and modern western aesthetics is something Suzuki seems to be saying there is no going back from, and the film discreetly hints at the way the Taisho democracy gives way to the military fascism of the Showa era––the war is never far away in a Suzuki film. But the overwhelming western challenge of the Taisho era has a contemporary double, or maybe an opposite, in the Japan of the 1980s: the bubble economy, where one might say Western and Japanese culture became fully integrated.

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And while militarism lingers like the faintest phantom, discreetly in the background, what is more obviously on the table in this dissection of Taisho thought is the idea of the divided self––something more directly applicable to the filmmakers’ present of 1980 than not. If you can’t tell whether you are Japanese or western, sensuous or impotent, the owner of the de Sarasate disc or the phantom voice muttering broken phrases from the other side, you may be in Taisho…but you may just as easily be living in the current moment of 1980.

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THEMES

A. Doubling

As I've been through these writeups, I've tried to bring up the recurrence of doubling and the contrast of doubles as it appears throughout Suzuki's movies. It's one of the most persistent "literary" techniques in his whole oeuvre, with the use of doubling getting more structurally complex as the films go on. The apotheosis of this career-long development, Zigeunerweisen revolves around multiple sets of doubles, each set of whom serve as doubles reflecting on other sets of doubles. Kaboom.

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At the start Aochi sees a trio of blind musicians. Shortly after, he meets Nakasago, they pick up a geisha, Koine, and the trio becomes a Jules-et-Jim-like group, mired in layers of erotic suggestion. In the midst of this encounter, the blind musicians show up and sing a song scolding the trio’s libertinism.

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Quickly, Nakasago, Aochi and Koine form theories about the dynamic between the three musicians. As the pair of trios linger around the neighborhood in the next scenes, Aochi and Nakasago especially watch the trio of musicians and begin to see little clues to the ways their unspoken relationship mirrors the more intellectual trio’s own. Nakasago has made the first move on Koine, shutting the more senior-seeming Aochi out.

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In the same way, the younger, daring singer makes a crude pass at the girl in the group, and the older man––whom the main trio has posited as the husband of the young girl––seems shut out of romance in the relationship.

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Underscoring this, when Aochi and Nakasago see the singers at the train station, the older singer seems to stare out of the train lobby at Aochi on the platform, through blind eyes which Aochi can’t help staring back at.

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The doubling of trios is the backbone of the film’s narrative for about half of its running time. Nakasago, fascinated by the musicians, follows them out of the main narrative. Later on, when Aochi visits Nakasago and sees Koine and Nakasago there raising Nakasago’s child, the three of them drink again, and talk immediately runs to the trio of musicians, and what happened to them. Each have theories, and by entertaining the theories we begin to see where each of the three of them are in their relationship with the other two. Nakasago, angry and predatory towards Koine, insists that the two men in the group fought over the woman and killed each other, while the young woman drifted out to sea. This is visualized for us with Suzuki-an subjectivity, as a cartoonish duel, and we get from that the Looney-Tunes-level malice and sexual frustration in Nakasago’s own mind.

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When Koine retorts that Nakasago is wrong, that the trio all married one another and lived together in harmony, we don’t see any such recreation. Instead, Suzuki focuses on Koine’s harrowed gaze, staring straight at Nakasago, while Aochi helps himself to food off to the side.

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Later on in the story, Nakasago meets up with the singers again. Deep in his travels, Nakasago has become a glue-huffing ball of dementia––and Aochi is narrating the tale, describing a scene he hasn’t seen for himself. As before, there is garish falsity on-hand, a papier-mache mountain road on which Nakasago follows the singers in delirium. A strange transformation has taken place here; the singers seem to have all died, a la Nakasago’s spurious-seeming recount from before. But they’ve now been reborn, as blind children, wearing the same clothes they did before and singing the same songs, with their alternately bawdy and preachy lyrics.

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Following this scene of rebirth, Nakasago finally makes contact with the singing trio, crossing in front of them on the road. The girl remarks that a man crossed her path, looking like the shadow of death. We only see Nakasago’s feet and his shadow over her. In the next scene, Nakasago dies.

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Another in the wide-ranging series of essentially doubled shots in the movie, here's Nakasago in his death scene. Suzuki self-consciously frames only his head, subjectively "disembodied." Earlier in the film, when Aochi has told Nakasago about a phantom voice he and his wife heard, which Nakasago fears comes from the "other side," we see him filled with morbid dread, framed in a deliberate zoom which closes in on just his head, above the table.

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These reduplicated shots appear again and again to reinforce particularly meaningful ideas and to help the viewer make these uncanny connections.

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Then there is Koine, and her double, Sono. There is always some ambiguity to the existence of Sono. When Aochi visits Nakasago after his marriage, he is shocked to see a woman who looks exactly like Koine, serving as Nakasago’s already long-suffering wife.

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Sono is an inverse of everything about Koine––where Koine is forthright, independent-minded and confrontational, Sono is mild, submissive, meek and repressed (though it has been suggested that her relentless, apparently very exaggerated shredding of konnyaku is meant to represent boiling-up sexual desire).

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Aochi is dazzled at first, but then comes a couple of scenes which bring the Koine/Sono doubling into another dimension of suggestion. Aochi encounters one or the other of the two women on the road to Nakasago’s house. The woman ought to be Sono, but she behaves in the more teasingly sensuous and provocative manner Koine had previously treated Aochi. She doesn’t speak at first, and she leads Aochi deeper into the forest.

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They come to a deserted temple in the mist, and there’s a bridge in the distance. Aochi sees figures on the bridge and asks what they’re doing there. The woman, seeming more like Koine, has an answer at the ready: they’re watching the fireworks.

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Here we see, uncannily before us, every character, major or minor, in the movie, save Aochi himself. Aochi’s wife is there, and Nakasago lingers in the background. But we see the innkeeper from the beginning too, as well as the undertaker from later in the picture. And we see the other woman, Koine or Sono, lingering on the bridge as well, curiously out-of-step with the other characters present (she seems to brood, rather than talk to anyone).The rest converse together gaily, and we certainly HEAR fireworks echoing in the distance, but already reality is coming unstitched, because the light of the fireworks is missing.

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This leads into the film’s first obvious haunting. Aochi is summoned into Nakasago’s house by the woman, who now seems more like Sono than Koine. The woman vanishes as Aochi enters, and the house becomes haunted, a deserted space lit oddly, with some items moving as in a traditional ghost story film. But the lighting especially is off-kilter. There is a red lamp which appears arbitrarily throughout the scene (Peter Yacavone in his book compares this red lamp to the red lighting common in Nobuo Nakagawa’s ghost story movies from the 50s and 60s), which somehow gives off only pale white light.

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A cloth slides off a mirror, revealing the face of either Sono or Koine, which one we don’t exactly know.

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Aochi walks on, but is restrained by a woman’s hand grasping his own, and a disembodied voice of Sono or Koine, pleading, “don’t leave.” Then another hand encircles Aochi’s, from another woman, with the same voice.

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He whirls around and we see the woman once again, whoever she is. The frustrated Aochi tries to rationalize the experience in terms of pure folklore, recounting being enchanted by a shape-shifting fox, and Koine/Sono admits she could be one, putting one over on Aochi.

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Cut immediately to what seems to be the real world. Aochi is sitting with Sono in Nakasago’s house. Nakasago himself is absent. There is strange tension in the air. Pebbles are falling on the roof; Aochi can hear them, Sono either can’t, or refuses to hear them.

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Then a sound like theatrical clapsticks erupts and Sono leaps backwards in fear. “Don’t leave!” She cries again––or for the first time. Aochi picks her up from the floor, and Sono’s kimono slides down her shoulders. We can see in Sono’s eyes she is both hoping for and dreading what Aochi will do next.

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Then another curious experience occurs. In a flash-cut, we see Sono, now in just a shift pulled down to her waist. Facing away, and in another room entirely, she whirls towards us––and by extension, Aochi––and snaps her fingers jauntily. Aochi folds his hands, and it’s implied that Aochi has sex with Nakasago’s wife, in spite of his misgivings (there is a later scene in which Sono appears to present Nakasago’s child to Aochi for the first time, heavily implying that both of them believe it to be Aochi’s child with Sono, not Nakasago’s child).

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The immediate cut is to Nakasago, hundreds of miles away and seemingly unaware he’s being cuckolded at that very moment, tramping along through a train tunnel, with Koine following him through the tunnel and to a nearby inn. As Nakasago plays cards, Koine waits desperately for him. She seems to feel guilty at first, and the scene cannily functions as a carrying the remorse Sono feels to her husband through Koine.

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Throughout this sequence, the doubling of Sono and Koine becomes increasingly hard to distinguish. Early on there was the suggestion that Sono might have been another persona for Koine, a “respectable wife” who had masked her past as a geisha (one has a hard time imagining Nakasago caring one way or the other, but perhaps this could be for Koine’s own feelings).

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There was the sense of Aochi watching Sono as a detective watches a suspect for signs of a “performance.” Then we are told that Sono is dead, that Nakasago kills her by bringing home an infectious disease. Afterwards, Aochi visits Nakasago and sees Sono again, holding the baby––but this time it’s clearly Koine.

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Later in the film, Koine changes. Dominated and degraded by Nakasago’s child’s uncanny harassment of her, driven by revenge on Nakasago for never loving her, Koine is bitter and etiolated. At the climax of the film she makes a last act of doubling, transforming into the geisha she once was and attempting to serve Aochi the beer he and the now-deceased Nakasago never finished together.

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This a faint attempt at a final haunting––a failed attempt to recapture the past––and Suzuki utilizes another effect which offers commentary, when Aochi sees Koine’s silhouette in the paper screen on the wall, and sees it duplicated over itself through a double-exposure.

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There are other such doubles in the film––Aochi’s wife has a double in her own sister––one of the two loves Aochi, the other doesn’t, but neither is quite who you think it ought to be. In a sense, the double seems to reflect the presence of the ghost––another way of saying this is that each character with a double is a character haunted by a ghost, or a past.

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A key observation from Peter Yacavone’s book is that the double is not a conceit of Classical Japanese literature so much as a figuration evoked by and evoking the modern era. The double is essentially a figure of the mechanized, automated modern world. In a world where people’s scope is radically expanded through feats of reproduction (a photograph can tell you about a distant location, for instance), we are no longer unique individuals. There are people like us all over the world, duplicating our experiences, moods, and motivations (the way the trio of singers reflects the intellectual trio of the protagonists); there are people ready to pick up the ball we’ve thrown and carry it (the way Koine and Sono seem to carry one another’s emotions and desires through the middle of the movie). But as in the famous story of Katherine the Great setting fire to her own doppelgänger, the double haunts our steps, puts the lie to our pose of individuality and self-determination. If there is another us out there, ready to replace us, what value to our lives, feelings, and the meanings we’ve attested to make for ourselves might in fact be?

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What’s more, if people are not unique, then the need for privacy falls away––or it can be disregarded, or diminished. Obliquely, this is a subject Suzuki has dwelt upon his entire career––though more trenchant than most is the obsessive surveillance of the Nomoto gang in Youth of the Beast, and the realist art analogized to film in Blue Breasts, exposing the hidden inner world of protagonists and antagonists and illuminating it.

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Frequently Suzuki’s heroes are beset less by threat to life and limb than by the revelation of their secret inner lives to others. The discovery of who Joe really is in Youth of the Beast. The revelation of the stepmother's past in Blue Breasts. The endless revelation of secret lives for Shinsuke Ashida in film after film (Take Aim at the Police Van being a standout here, but Sleep of the Beast even moreso, where his sedate salaryman father has been secretly worshipping a sun god against his will with a bunch of cultist office workers––here the villains have colonized his inner life, and the threat of its revelation keeps the salaryman in check until the end, when he’s forced to reveal himself to his daughter.

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More often than not, the threat in Zigeunerweisen isn’t to life and limb, but rather one of revelation of the secret self. Which brings us to the most important doubling in the film: the central pair, Aochi and Nakasago.

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They seem different from Koine/Sono, but that’s probably mostly because they’re played in different ways, by different actors. But let’s look a little closer. Koine/Sono is the key here, in the way they contrast one another and yet serve to carry one another’s feelings and deeds forward. Let’s look at the similarities.

Both Aochi and Nakasago are professors of German, from the same military academy. Aochi remains there, embracing modern (i.e. Western) style and living a posh life. Nakasago was fired, and tramps around the countryside. Aochi is nearly celibate, thanks to his modish but (to him) unattractive wife. Nakasago seeks out conquests wherever he is, and is happy to kill a woman after seducing her.

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In the beginning of the film, Aochi intercedes on Nakasago’s behalf, using his position of authority to get Nakasago out of a murder rap. But later on, the two of them have a tet-a-tet over lunch beneath a big tree.

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The setting groups them by themselves, but Aochi is thinking about all the ways he differs from Nakasago (Nakasago is talking about sexual technique). Nakasago presciently suggests that the two of them swap wives. Aochi is incensed, and calls Nakasago crazy. He walks off into a cave (duplicating Nakasago’s own journey into the train tunnel after Aochi slept with Nakasago’s wife), and Nakasago appears at the cave mouth in complete silhouette, voice echoing, appearing like a phantom, and agreeing with Aochi, but adding this telling accusation. “But you knew that already!”

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In the cave we see a second haunting, where Nakasago stands atop the pale blue bodies of his victims––including the woman on the beach. We’re reminded of Nakasago’s booming voice when Aochi looks back at him from the cliffside in at the beginning of the story––the phantasmal voice of Nakasago shouting in a voice only Aochi can hear, “I pushed her off the cliff!”

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Just as the ambiguity between Koine and Sono seems to suggest they are the same person, or think at least in the same mind, Aochi here seems privy to Nakasago’s thoughts––and Nakasago knows it. Why is it that Aochi knows enough details of Nakasago’s travels to reconstruct his journeys?

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Then there is the most inexplicable section of the film, when Koine begins showing up at Aochi’s house, asking for Nakasago’s books and the record, Zigeunerweisen. Aochi doesn’t remember borrowing any of this, yet all of it is in his house. Why does Aochi have all these books stamped with Nakasago’s name in them, unless he IS Nakasago? Why does he have the record, even though he doesn’t remember borrowing it? Why does Koine look at him with such suppressed rage when he seems to disbelieve he has the record?

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Thinking of Aochi and Nakasago as the same person can lead to a radical reinterpretation of many of the strange moments in the picture. Early on, Nakasago makes his first sexual advance on Koine, grasping her porcelain arm and running his tanned, rough hands up and down it. Koine turns and looks at Aochi, imploringly, and Aochi appears reluctant to get the drift.

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Later, Nakasago grabs Koine and wrestles her into a kiss, as Aochi steps away. Aochi looks back at Nakasago reproachfully, and Nakasago glares at him with incomprehension (Suzuki constantly but unobtrusively repeats sequences of action like this throughout––and minus any formal framing, it’s hard to spot when the action is being repeated or reflected, as it is here). These sequences play fantastically differently if Nakasago and Aochi are one. Then when the man they both are grasps Koine’s arm, she looks at him imploringly (understandable––she did not want to serve as a geisha since she was still in mourning, and has just recounted the haunting visage of her dead brother when Nakasago decides it’s time to f*ck.) When Aochi looks reproachful at Nakasago, maybe Aochi is the conscience, or sense of propriety, attempting to intercede.

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If Nakasago and Aochi are one person with multiple personalities, then perhaps Koine/Sono are one person as well, attempting to match the energy of the demented man who is on the one hand sexually rapacious and on the other sexually disinterested, on the one hand obsessed with death, on the other obsessed with keeping up with the Joneses. If part of the time the man that is both men is close to being a wanted outlaw, and the other half of the time would never dream of stepping out of line, well maybe a wife needs to summon dual performances of mother and whore to meet the man’s variegated threats and passages of disinterest? What does it mean over lunch when Nakasago, failing to get a rise out of Koine, violently hurls his kimono at her, and Aochi perfectly anticipates the move and catches the topcoat? Watch too as Aochi lets Nakasago’s discarded coat fall over his own shoulders, as Octave’s coat settles over Andre Jurieux at the climax of Rules of the Game. One dons the other’s coat, and unwittingly accepts an identity that goes with it.

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Another very modern way of saying it is this: that Aochi and Nakasago and Koine and Sono are divided figures, split from one another, each taking half of a full measure of personhood. It suggests just how the two doubles seem to contrast so completely, even as they seem to have access to one another’s thinking. And the other operative element of this doubling is that the twinned characters complete one another’s goals; Koine raises Sono’s daughter when Sono seems to die, Aochi and Nakasago swap wives in a way almost impossible to unpack, and when either Nakasago or Aochi seem to die, the other of them reaches out from beyond the grave to the other world, extending voice and presence in order to reunite with the other of them.

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CONTINUED in the next post...
Last edited by feihong on Tue May 27, 2025 10:50 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Seijun Suzuki

#191 Post by feihong »

ZIGEUNERWEISEN
PART II

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[TEXT ONLY]
Spoiler
B. Modernism

Doubling has always been one of Suzuki’s recurring themes, but it has never taken the place of action in a film the way it does in Zigeunerweisen. The pressure of the double is one of modernism’s striking themes, representing progress, and the new, modern world, as the betrayal of the unique. Taisho is the period in which the modern world pours into traditional Japan, where Western fashion, thinking, values, and morals are suddenly shoudler-to-shoulder with past Japanese beliefs and ideals. In the film, the two leads are coded to represent one or the other.

Aochi, in his western tweed suits and manicured sideburns (and, on one occasion, in the dementing English bowler hat), makes a dapper pitch for modernism. He is also depicted as rootless, apathetic, and profoundly alienated from his own desires. Nakasago, in his tattered kimono and wooden geta, his flowing hair, represents the link to Japanese tradition. He can play the shamisen, and has an appetite for traditional Japanese delicacies.

He is also infected with a conspicuous air of morbidity. Long before he seems to expire, Nakasago is thinking about death, while Aochi seems threatened by the subject. Suzuki’s films have frequently been critical of the progress Japan has made via modernization; his somewhat innate anarcho-communist outlook seems to prefer the values of the pre-modern Japanese world to the pre-war militarism as well as the postwar hyper capitalism. But he leaves lots of room to criticize the past values Nakasago represents. The death-drive of Nakasago was easily co-opted into military fascism only a few years after the events of the movie. And Nakasago’s old-world Japanese brand of eroticism is as alienated from love or caring as Aochi’s more repressed modernist eroticism.

In the cave in the middle of the movie, where Aochi and Nakasago confront one another, Nakasago seems to make a curious bet with Aochi. The terms are never explained, but the stakes are. We’re to understand they are betting their skeletons, as Nakasago cradles Aochi’s chin in a gesture of possessive intrusion (it’s established just how wet his hands are just a moment previous, too––thanks for that, Nakasago). But what are the terms of the bet? The only terms in which we know these characters are the different ways they live their lives––Aochi hip, modern and flashy, but timid, repressed, proprietous; Nakasago old-fashioned, resentful and grim, but full of vigor and a dangerous possessiveness. Which lifestyle––each clearly the product of the perhaps-different men’s differing ethos––is most substantial? Which sustains one, modern convulsion or past conservatism (though ironically, it is the traditional Nakasago who is the libertine, and the modern Aochi who is the bigger prude)? If the Taisho period is the staging ground for the bet and the larger battle between ways of life, what fate will befall a Japan subjected to modern pressures? Will the productive values of the past be able to persist? Will the helpful attitudes of the modern (Suzuki means this to be read as “western” as well) be useful in a Japan being assaulted by the modern?


C. Ghosts

Suzuki explains in a passage cited in Yacavone’s book that his conceptualization of a ghost is different from those of past artists of the ghost story, like Nobuo Nakagawa. While in those films, the ghost is seeking vengeance, the righting of a wrong done to one in life, Suzuki sees the ghost as a figure drifting between two worlds. This explains both why the hauntings in Zigeunerweisen seem to deliberately “break apart” tropes of traditional ghost story movies (like the red light producing the wrong color light), and why the ghosts in the film exist entirely apart from any filmic concept of morality. The ghosts are in the film long before the wife-swapping begins, and after human morality has bled away from the film almost entirely, and reality has fallen apart in key ways, there is still definitely a ghost or two, wandering between the world of the living and the dead. We’re told it is Nakasago who has died, and then at the end we’re told it’s the opposite, and it’s Aochi who is dead. Which is dead, and why? Are they both ghosts, passing between reality and a netherworld of the psyche?

Throughout Zigeunerweisen we see western culture, philosophy, and influence shuffling into the same space as pre-existing Japanese ways of life. The conflict of the movie is the bet between the two ways of life, which our two professors each embody one of: Aochi, in his dapper tweeds, with his flapper wife and his successful work teaching German at a military college (this is a Suzuki detail if there ever was one––never will WWII be far away from his mind), stands in for the integration of Western mores, perhaps to a fault. Nakasago, in a battered kimono, having lost his own position as a professor of German at a military college, roams wild throughout the countryside, an exponent of the darkest, rawest aspects of Japanese culture. The contrast between the two friends reveals Suzuki and Tanaka’s formulation of the conflict inherent between western and Japanese values, between tradition and modernism, which animates the Taisho period (and, by extension, our own time––1980, if you were a viewer when the movie arrived). The unresolved nature of what Suzuki calls “Japan’s Belle Epoque” will continue to bear fruit in two subsequent films in the trilogy. There are phantom-like presences in the other movies, but nothing quite so ambiguous, crucial, and omnipresent as the ghost in Zigeunerweisen, who may be one main figure or the other, or both, if they’re in fact one in the same person. The film’s dialectic conflict between the modern and the traditional is mostly unique to the one film, and it makes for gripping fascination in the myriad nontraditional ways Suzuki sets out to frame the conflict.

[TEXT & IMAGES]
Spoiler
B. Modernism

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Doubling has always been one of Suzuki’s recurring themes, but it has never taken the place of action in a film the way it does in Zigeunerweisen. If the film is presented to us as a puzzle, unravelling the way the doubling technique works is the central method of solving that puzzle. Why would you make a movie this way?

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The pressure of the double is one of modernism’s striking themes, representing progress, and the new, modern world, as the betrayal of the unique.

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Modernism is a striking break with the line of tradition of the past; Taisho is the period in which the modern world pours into traditional Japan, where Western fashion, thinking, values, and morals are suddenly shoudler-to-shoulder with past Japanese beliefs and ideals. In the film, the two leads are coded to represent one or the other.

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Aochi, in his western tweed suits and manicured sideburns (and, on one occasion, in the dementing English bowler hat), makes a dapper pitch for modernism. He is also depicted as rootless, apathetic, and profoundly alienated from his own desires. Nakasago, in his tattered kimono and wooden geta, his flowing hair, represents the link to Japanese tradition. He can play the shamisen, and has an appetite for traditional Japanese delicacies.

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He is also infected with a conspicuous air of morbidity. Long before he seems to expire, Nakasago is thinking about death, while Aochi seems threatened by the subject. Suzuki’s films have frequently been critical of the progress Japan has made via modernization; his somewhat innate anarcho-communist outlook seems to prefer the values of the pre-modern Japanese world to the pre-war militarism as well as the postwar hyper capitalism. But he leaves lots of room to criticize the past values Nakasago represents. The death-drive of Nakasago was easily co-opted into military fascism only a few years after the events of the movie. And Nakasago’s old-world Japanese brand of eroticism is as alienated from love or caring as Aochi’s more repressed modernist eroticism.

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In the cave in the middle of the movie, where Aochi and Nakasago confront one another, Nakasago seems to make a curious bet with Aochi. The terms are never explained, but the stakes are. We’re to understand they are betting their skeletons, as Nakasago cradles Aochi’s chin in a gesture of possessive intrusion (it’s established just how wet his hands are just a moment previous, too––thanks for that, Nakasago). But what are the terms of the bet? The only terms in which we know these characters are the different ways they live their lives––Aochi hip, modern and flashy, but timid, repressed, proprietous; Nakasago old-fashioned, resentful and grim, but full of vigor and a dangerous possessiveness. Which lifestyle––each clearly the product of the perhaps-different men’s differing ethos––is most substantial? Which sustains one, modern convulsion or past conservatism (though ironically, it is the traditional Nakasago who is the libertine, and the modern Aochi who is the bigger prude)? If the Taisho period is the staging ground for the bet and the larger battle between ways of life, what fate will befall a Japan subjected to modern pressures? Will the productive values of the past be able to persist? Will the helpful attitudes of the modern (Suzuki means this to be read as “western” as well) be useful in a Japan being assaulted by the modern?


C. Ghosts

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Suzuki explains in a passage cited in Yacavone’s book that his conceptualization of a ghost is different from those of past artists of the ghost story, like Nobuo Nakagawa. While in those films, the ghost is seeking vengeance, the righting of a wrong done to one in life, Suzuki sees the ghost as a figure drifting between two worlds. This explains both why the hauntings in Zigeunerweisen seem to deliberately “break apart” tropes of traditional ghost story movies (like the red light producing the wrong color light), and why the ghosts in the film exist entirely apart from any filmic concept of morality. The ghosts are in the film long before the wife-swapping begins, and after human morality has bled away from the film almost entirely, and reality has fallen apart in key ways, there is still definitely a ghost or two, wandering between the world of the living and the dead. We’re told it is Nakasago who has died, and then at the end we’re told it’s the opposite, and it’s Aochi who is dead. Which is dead, and why? Are they both ghosts, passing between reality and a netherworld of the psyche?

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Throughout Zigeunerweisen we see western culture, philosophy, and influence shuffling into the same space as pre-existing Japanese ways of life. The conflict of the movie is the bet between the two ways of life, which our two professors each embody one of: Aochi, in his dapper tweeds, with his flapper wife and his successful work teaching German at a military college (this is a Suzuki detail if there ever was one––never will WWII be far away from his mind), stands in for the integration of Western mores, perhaps to a fault. Nakasago, in a battered kimono, having lost his own position as a professor of German at a military college, roams wild throughout the countryside, an exponent of the darkest, rawest aspects of Japanese culture. The contrast between the two friends reveals Suzuki and Tanaka’s formulation of the conflict inherent between western and Japanese values, between tradition and modernism, which animates the Taisho period (and, by extension, our own time––1980, if you were a viewer when the movie arrived). The unresolved nature of what Suzuki calls “Japan’s Belle Epoque” will continue to bear fruit in two subsequent films in the trilogy. There are phantom-like presences in the other movies, but nothing quite so ambiguous, crucial, and omnipresent as the ghost in Zigeunerweisen, who may be one main figure or the other, or both, if they’re in fact one in the same person. The film’s dialectic conflict between the modern and the traditional is mostly unique to the one film, and it makes for gripping fascination in the myriad nontraditional ways Suzuki sets out to frame the conflict.



FRAMING & BLOCKING

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Very purposefully, framing in the film vacillates drastically between elegant nostalgia and the uncannily-awkward/avant-garde. Suzuki and Nagatsuka’s decision to shoot the film in the 1.33:1 ratio of the Taisho era (also the ratio Suzuki and Nagatsuka began working in together 25 or so years prior) others our way of looking at the shots and challenges us to process the highly differential and differentiated framing styles.

The breakdown is quite specific: what is thought to be the “real world” is given the most elegant, largely traditional storytelling framing Suzuki and Nagatsuka can muster, as in many of these shots:

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When the lines blur between the realm of the living and the dead, between the subjective and the objective––i.e., whenever the ghost is present––the framing becomes not so much angular and aggressive as deliberately awkward and uncanny. Much more of the uncanny action is given unnaturally centered framing, or vignetting, or a very warped perspective:

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It’s a very subtle gesture, as when Suzuki indicates a change in a character by a change of clothing…in a black-and-white film (see Love Letter when I cover that one). What I’m saying is that I forgive myself for basically missing this the first 10 or so times I’ve seen Zigeunerweisen. What’s most remarkable is the way mirrored sequences of action are presented again and again, but each time staged and captured from a different angle, so as to other any sense of familiarity. This level of subtlety is common throughout Suzuki’s career, and I think tends to be missed or simply unappreciated by detractors. For the rest of us, this is one of the rewarding challenges of getting deeper into these movies. Restaging all these repeated scenes is one of the most subtle and sophisticated things going on in Zigeunerweisen, and it’s become great fun trying to pick out the repetitive sequences occurring. This is a game you can apply to earlier Suzuki films too, albeit not so constantly throughout those earlier movies.

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Incidentally, this particular shot has a double of it’s own in Kanto Wanderer, a movie which––while not set in Taisho, has a similar vibe of modern and old-world cultures clashing.


CINEMATOGRAPHY

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Cinematographer Kazue Nagatsuka was there when Suzuki was working as an AD for Hiroshi Noguchi on films like Song of the Underworld, he was there for Suzuki as his go-to cinematographic mentor as early as Suzuki’s second directorial effort, he was there for Suzuki on Branded to Kill, when the director was at his previous high point of experimental cinema––and he retired almost immediately after Suzuki was fired from Nikkatsu. Magically, after nearly 10 years of retirement, Nagatsuka returns to shoot two last movies for Suzuki––this one and Mirage Theater. Nagatsuka’s work was always elegant, even in the most straightened of circumstances. Shooting an indie production for the first time in his life, the master cinematographer’s work here is no less elegant. Nagatsuka was great value for Suzuki’s mentor Noguchi, but I think the return here speaks to the way Nagatsuka himself seemed especially thrilled with the work he did with Suzuki. In spite of incredible pedigree (a dp from the silent age all the way to 1980, an eminence at Nikkatsu), it’s safe to say he is remembered for the Suzuki films above all.

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The first two Taisho Trilogy films add a remarkable capper to Nagatsuka’s career. They are, by far, his most moving and remarkable work in color. The color on display is subdued, but individual colors––browns, and blues especially––have a richly-burnished feel to them. Brass––which we see frequently in settings to denote both modernism and luxury and nostalgia––has a soft luster. Whenever the haunting scenes call for a hazy ambiguity, rather than shooting with a smoke machine, Nagatsuka whips out the soft focus he used so aggressively in the later black-and-white movies, like Story of a Prostitute and Branded to Kill. Using the soft-focus look for a specific purpose here is quite striking. In spite of the softness of many of the images, Nagatsuka’s chief cinematographic attribute is still apparent––his relentless visual indication of purpose within any individual shot. No matter what the situation, whether the focus is soft or hard, singular or split between people, an object or a person, Nagatsuka always lights, frames, moves, or saturates/desaturates for maximum visual clarity. This is something his kohai, Shigeyoshi Mine, did not perhaps do quite as well, for all his riotously creative color and careful shading––and the cinematographers who follow Nagatsuka on Suzuki films are more intent on saturating the color in the scenes than in perfect delineation. From early on, Suzuki likes complex compositions, and essential action buried in the background of shots. Nagatsuka’s primacy on visual clarity works to make those instincts of Suzuki’s into valid and vital cinematic expression.

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Nagatsuka is the master of noir shadow detail, but the lighting in Zigeunerweisen runs the gamut in a lot of ways. There are noir-ish scenes to be sure, but also striking scenes using dappled, natural light. I especially love the way Nagatsuka films this gateway of rock which runs between Nakasago’s and Aochi’s houses. The first major haunting is emphasized by a change what looks like natural light around this gateway. The effect is lustrous and moving––I’d venture to say if you aren’t drawn in by that striking sequence of cinema, you probably won’t enjoy what’s coming afterwards.

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I’ll have more to say about Nagatsuka in the other films I profile where he appears, and I’ll try and sum up his career more in the Mirage Theater entry. Enough here to say that Zigeunerweisen relies upon a very particular look and feel, and Nagatsuka’s work stands out here for that reason. Mirage Theater, which follows, is equally beautiful, and actually equally distinct––the two films do not look like one another that much––all though all three films in the trilogy have recognizable qualities in all departments, the personnel changes throughout. Takeo Kimura, for instance, does production design on Zigeunerweisen, but not on Mirage Theater and Yumeji. The most striking absence from Suzuki’s team on Zigeunerweisen is the editor, Akira Suzuki. A collaborator with as long a history with the director as Nagatsuka, Akira Suzuki edits Story of Sorrow and Sadness, Mirage Theater, Capone Cries Hard,Yumeji and Pistol Opera, but for some reason Zigeunerweisen is edited by Nobutake Kamiya, instead.

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Kamiya has an odd career, starting with the fact that Zigeunerweisen is only his second theattrical movie as editor. He starts in 1969 on a TV program called Zero Fighter, and the his credits are presumably below the line until 1978, when he edits a TV film about the Nishiyama Incident. Then comes Zigeunerweisen, but what follows isn’t a prestigious career in live-action cinema. Kamiya’s most notable later live-action credit is editing on Takeshi Kitano’s Violent Cop. For the most part, he works as an editor in the anime industry, where he racks up his more conspicuous credits editing on projects like Bubblegum Crisis, Gall Force, Genesis Surviver Gaiarth, Iczelion, Silent Mobius: The Motion Picture, and Super Dimensional Fortress Macross II: The Movie. He is maybe more infamous as the editor on the execrable OVA Burn Up, and less infamous for the OVA Sexorcist. He ends his career around 2001, swallowed up by minor anime projects and an endless series of dull-looking V-cinema gangster movies. Zigeunerweisen does have a different-feeling rhythm––Akira tends to cut action a little shorter, crack the whip more. But the most remarkable aspect of Kamiya’s work is that he doesn’t get in the way of the material, and that there isn’t that striking a difference in the movies. It speaks to the way Suzuki’s concept of these movies, as much as he loves to follow his collaborators’ impulses on the set, is still very coherent in his own mind throughout the process. I think this in turn speaks to how few duds there are in the filmography, as well as how when the evolution in his filmmaking begins in the 60s, it develops in a consistent trajectory for most of the rest of his career.

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Regardless of Suzuki being his own creative presence, let’s say a last thing about Nagatsuka’s work on the film. Zigeunerweisen is one of the richest of films, to my eyes, and that’s in large part Nagatsuka’s endless brilliance. No other movie looks much like this one, and the cinematography is one place where its uniqueness is always readily apparent.

THE DISC

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TCEntertainment released the boxset offering 4k digital restorations of all three films. There is a 4k UHD of each film and a bluray taken from the same source. I’ve seen each of these films a minimum of twice on 35mm––and the 4k UHD is the only thing that has come close to replicating that experience. These discs are stunning, rich, and full of incredible depth. Color and the contrast are perfect.

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The Arrow set was high quality when it came out––and a huge upgrade over the KimStim DVDs––but the unrestored image on the Arrow discs just isn’t close to what the discs in the TCEntertainment set are, both UHD and bluray alike.


MY TAKE

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This is, for me, in the top 5 or 10 films. Discovering its has been rewarding and a challenge. The movie was, for many years, beguiling, a capsule description in Asian Cult Cinema. Seeing it, the mystery deepened, for the it seemed to be both impenetrable and intriguing, an enigma for the ages. There were things I could discern way back when, but until Peter Yacavone’s book––which does a close read––I couldn't put together all the ideas I thought I saw in the film. Meantime, each element of Zig––every performance, every sound on the soundtrack––shone brilliantly every time I watched it. It's about an era of massive renovation, about being present when everything seemed to be going up, and yet rivulets of new culture were paving the way for the disasters of the future and the eventual present. You can see Suzuki tracing the cultural clashes of Taisho to the turn towards fascism in early Showa, to ultra-capitalist hedonism of the economic miracle and the bubble economy. Something happens, and the wrong things from the past are left behind, while other wrong things are elevated and brought forward. Perhaps the wrong person dies, and history changes as a result. Zigeunerweisen makes that flux more than vivid, but actually vital to be aware of. Survival in the present depends upon it all.

There are some collaborators worth mentioning here:

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A lot of what I’ve read about producer Genjiro Arato I can’t get corroborated by other sources. Maybe he's an actor and impresario in 60s experimental "Red Tent" theater. He appears in Hasebe’s The Naked Seven, and next year he produces and stars in Atsushi Yamatoya’s pinku remake of Branded to Kill, Trapped in Lust––written by Taisho Trilogy scribe Yozo Tanaka. Yamatoya and Tanaka were writing scripts for Suzuki comebacks and shopping them everywhere, and it’s possible Arato met Suzuki through the efforts of Yamatoya/Tanaka. But I have two other origin stories; on her audio commentary for Story of Sorrow and Sadness, Samm Deighan says Arato was a producer at Shochiku on Story of Sorrow and Sadness (credits on the Radiance disc don’t list Arato). There's another interview with Suzuki in which he claims that Arato was his nephew, and that family members pointed Arato to Suzuki. None of it is clear. In William Carroll’s book, he claims that, in addition to Taisho Trilogy, Arato also produced Suzuki’s V-Cinema experimental Cherry Blossoms in Spring. It seems likely, given the extreme experimental approach of the film––but the credit is not duplicated in any other source I found. Arato's work is sometimes credited as "producer," sometimes "executive producer," and his Cinema Placet company releases only a handful of films, the Taisho Trilogy movies being the most famous. Between Zigeunerweisen and Mirage Theater, Arato produces a film for director Makoto Naito called Daughter of Time, which is based on a script by Atsushi Yamatoya and Guryu Hachiro called A Ballad Dedicated to Mother and which was originally intended as a comeback film for Suzuki.

Notable too are Arato’s appearances as an actor. He's awkward in Trapped in Lust, but he continues to appear in unusual projects: in Sogo Ishii’s Shuffle & August in the Water, in Koji Wakatmatsu’s Erotic Liaisons, in Mystery of Rampo, and in Loved Gun. He also directs three films, beginning with The Girl of Silence (which the poster insists might actually be called Father F*cker), Akame 48 Waterfalls, and The Fallen Angel. He dies in 2016, a few months before Suzuki.

Other collaborators recall that Arato and Suzuki had a chef on hand to fix hot meals for the cast and crew, and shot in a longer, more measured shooting schedule than what Suzuki was allowed to do in his Nikkatsu days. Suzuki claims he and Arato slept on the sets and generally had a rich creative experience making the films. Arato’s willingness to let the product be radically creative rather than commercially viable enabled Suzuki to leave a far richer ouvre than the first half of his career alone would have been. Suzuki the more freely-expressive artist wouldn’t exist without Arato’s support.

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Toshiya Fujita plays Aochi. He joined Nikkatsu the same year as Suzuki, in publicity. Eventually he was an AD, esp. for Koreyoshi Kurahara & Shogoro Nishimura. Fujita debuted as director in '67, and was a vocal supporter of Suzuki during the "Suzuki Seijun Incident" protests and trial. Fujita was one of the last directors of action movies at Nikkatsu, working on the weaker Stray Cat Rock series (Fujita's reputation for improvising isn't well served in Wild Jumbo & Beat '71) before a directorial career that included Nikkatsu pink films alongside mainstream projects for other companies. So he did Scent of Eros & So Soft So Cunning for Nikkatsu, he did Lady Snowblood for Toho and Play It Boogie-Woogie for Kadokawa.

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Fujita debuts as an actor in Funeral Procession of Roses, as one of Peter’s Johns. He also appears in Visitor in the Eye, a Jo-Shishido-starring adaptation of Tezuka's Blackjack manga by Nobuhiko Obayashi––which features a host of Suzuki actors. Suzuki and Fujita seem to have been friends before the picture. But allegedly Fujita didn't like Suzuki's directorial style. Ironic for a man who loves to have his actors improvise whole scenes, Fujita was frustrated that Suzuki didn’t tell the actors what the scenes were about. I suspect Suzuki and producer Genjiro Arato wanted Fujita back for Mirage Theater, and maybe he declined. Whatever the case, Fujita continued as a director through 1988's Revolver, and kept acting until his death in 1997. HIs most notable acting appearance after Zigeunerweisen is in Fruits of Passion: Story of O, by Shuji Terayama.

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Regardless of the Japanese academy awards recognizing the delightful Michiyo Ookusu first and foremost, the actress who makes the strongest impression in this movie is Naoko Otani. In the film she switches from sensitive, clever geisha Koine to dopey wife Sono while never quite letting the viewer be certain they aren't the same person. The disconcerting nature of this lack of total division between the characters is what really galvanizes the persistent doubling which is the very essence of this film. Her performance is key to unlocking the movie's meanings. At the moment of the film, Otani is the most beautiful actresses in all the medium. She has this strangely-shaped, enormous head, and such big, luminous eyes. Suzuki gets a ton out of the different ways she looks from varied angles.

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You would think Otani was in more pictures as a result of this––but I'm not sure I see a difference. Her film career is always more sparse than more famous actress peers; while she's in a surprising number of notable films, she often plays lesser roles in them. She debuts while still in high school in Kihachi Okamoto's The Human Bullet. She's also in Okamoto's Battle of Okinawa, and she's in Zatoichi at Large. Approaching 1980, she works again for Okamoto in UFO Blue Christmas, which I'm afraid to say I've fallen asleep watching twice now. After Zigeunerweisen she is in Mishima: a Life in Four Chapters (playing Mishima's cold mother), Yoichi Higashi's River with No Bridge, Kaneto Shindo's Ikitai, a Sion Sono film called The Land of Hope, and her most recent movie is in 2020, a film called Peaceful Death. Throughout her whole career she does a ton of TV.

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She appears again for Suzuki in TV movie Claws of the Divine Beast (not making an impression), and she plays a lead for BigZig costar Toshiya Fujita in the Pinku erotic drama Double Bed in 1983, wherein she wears an unfortunate perm and is in a scene which features an extended cameo by Suzuki.

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In spite of a more sparse career than actresses of a previous generation, she appears to be something of a celebrity in Japan––mostly due to Zigeunerweisen, it seems. When Suzuki died, Otani was interviewed about him for sports newspaper Sponichi, and she had some interesting things to say about the film:

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"If I hadn't been in Zigeunerweisen, I think my life as an actress in my 30s and 40s would have been different. During filming, we were served warm meals prepared by a chef both day and night, thanks to the consideration of the director and producer Genjiro Arato, rather than on-location meals. It was an asset to be able to be a part of this work in a place where teamwork was outstanding. As his appearance suggests, he's a lanky guy, and he doesn't talk much. He was a well-balanced, intelligent, and sexy man. I remember afterwards feeling like, 'I was able to come across such a wonderful piece of work.'" Naoko Otani doesn't appear in the rest of the Taisho Trilogy, though I think I can spot roles in both Mirage Theater and Yumeji written for her. In the case of Mirage Theater, she was pregnant during the shoot, and it wouldn't have worked for the role I believe was intended for her), but in a way, this might be for the best; Zigeuenweisen is possibly as curiously individual as it is because of the startling performances like hers, never to be replicated again. Her uncanny mystery in this movie radiates outwards and makes her more regular, lumpen work disappointing. If only she were this magical, ambiguous and frightening character in real life, rather than just expertly conjuring the figure––or figures––she inhabits here.

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There are big omissions here: especially Yoshio Harada & Michiyo Ookusu, and Takeo Kimura. I have other discs where I plan to talk about them in detail. Needless to say, their work here is remarkable, first rate. But there's a character-count on these posts, and it's a struggle to make them work. And I wanted to include this last section without fail:



IMITATORS:
Lake of Illusions & Horror: Koheji Lives! + The Girl from Silence


Zigeunerweisen’s success spawned a collection of imitators, good, bad, and ugly. As it’s a struggle to try and explain why the great film is a great one, it's imitators are a fascinating study in how a director’s unique touch made rich and absorbing material out of something which, in other hands went terribly, terribly wrong:


Lake of Illusions

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In 1981 screenwriter Shinobu Hashimoto, part of Akira Kurosawa’s vaunted writing team on Rashomon, Ikiru, etc., on other films like Sword of Doom, Hitokiri, and Kobayashi’s Harakiri, decided it was time to attempt to direct again. Though he hadn’t attempted it since 1959’s I Want to Be A Shellfish––or possibly a 1961 film called The Wind and Waves––Hashimoto was given a blank check to make a big anniversary project for Toho. The nearly 3-hour psychic horror/historical/“sexual” melodrama Lake of Illusions became a famous disaster which basically resulted in a box-office vote of no confidence which put a stop to Hashimoto’s career. I have no proof Lake of Illusions was inspired by Zigeunerweisen, but what else could explain the extraordinary, awkward weirdness of the film, and the studio’s confidence in the undertaking?

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You’ve maybe never heard of it, I’ll break it down quick. Michiko, a prostitute, jogs with her beloved dog around mystical-looking Lake Biwa. When dog is murdered, Michiko gets psychic vibes the dog was killed by musician Saburo, who knifed the dog for stealing his fish.

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With the help of another prostitute, Rosa––who is actually a CIA agent trying to stop terrorists from hijacking the space shuttle??!?––Michiko tracks dog-killer to Tokyo. Following on his morning jog, she loses him to the Tokyo smog (all the action scenes in this movie are these pathetically-filmed jogging sequences).

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Is it meant to be this phallic? These two have no hint of a sexual anything happen between them.

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Despairing, Michiko returns to Lake Biwa, and meets Nagao, playing a wooden flute by the lake.

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Nagao tells Michiko a long, digressive story of lovers separated by Nobunaga and fated to be apart back in the Sengoku era, in a lakeside castle. Nagao and Michiko seem to share a deep connection, but Nagao is a scientist who will be on the next space shuttle launch, so their connection goes nowhere (neither does Nagao’s potential connection to Rosa, who is investigating the upcoming launch, and the fact that both Saburo dog-killer and Nagao are musicians also seems to mean nothing).

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Michiko meets a banker by the lake, and they go to a temple and see a Goddess statue. Filled with feelings, Michiko decides to give up being a soap lady and marry the banker. She spends a last day working in the brothel, where her last client turns out to be Saburo.

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She chases him out of the brothel and a final jogging competition begins. Michiko fakes an injury and when Saburo lets his guard down, she stabs him. The dying Saburo wants to know what he’s done to deserve this, Michiko won’t answer. The camera pans up from Lake Biwa into space, and we see the space shuttle, successfully launched. On a spacewalk, Nagao looks down, supposedly directly at Lake Biwa, from space, and leaves his shakuhachi flute floating there in the stars.

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Parallels with Zigeunerweisen are hard to ignore. Both films offer stunning natural settings––Zigeunerweisen's mysterious Kanazawa forests and Lake of Illusions with picture-postcard glitter of Lake Biwa. Both offered a mixture of sex and mysticism, and they harkened back to past eras to comment on the present. Both films linger around three hours long. Both relied almost entirely on uncanny connections to make the plot of the movie work, rather than logical story progression. Zigeunerweisen was a celebrated hit; not inconceivable that Hashimoto felt pressure to ape many of the elements which seemed to appeal so much to viewers. Both the mysticism and the eroticism intended in Lake of Illusions are not subject matter Hashimoto usually addressed. Was he working out of his comfort zone, trying to appeal to what seemed like new hotness?

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What this illustrates is the difference between a sure hand and a shaky one. Making the loose, intuitive connections between elements in the Zigeunerweisen story work took a director extraordinarily confident in his effects––a director who had been experimenting for decades with the nature of artifice and its overlap with what most people believed to be the reproduction of truth on-screen. There is a sense of control and just plain confidence in the abstract associations Suzuki is counting on viewers to get. Hashimoto’s film, by comparison, comes off as random, disconnected events––which Hashimoto seems to have no faith will mean anything when smushed together. Most pathetic is Hashimoto’s very green handling of eroticism and mysticism. Michiko’s Soapland adventures are hardly depicted, as if Hashimoto were shy of showing us desire on-screen. What nudity and eroticism is there is...so very, very awkward.

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Eroticism in Zigeunerweisen, by contrast, benefits from Suzuki's decades of work on the forefront of depicting sex in Japanese cinema. I don't want to sound a prude about it––there is nudity in Zigeunerweisen, there is sex (which is entirely elided in Lake of Illusions)––but see the ways Suzuki conjures desire, intimacy, dread, self-loathing, hatred...in other words, he gets genuine meaning out of not just these scenes, but even single shots:

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And one of those images is of a guy trying to sneak a peak at another guy's cremated ashes. Why is that just as sensual an experience as the other images (especially when the film implies they might actually be the same guy)?

In terms of mysticism, Lake of Illusions tries to push a romantic idea of buddhist reincarnation hard. The implication of the Sengoku era foiled lover story between samurai and courtesan is that Michiko and her dog are reincarnations of the lovers, and Saburo is the reincarnation of evil Nobunaga, who kept the lovers apart. Wildly, Michiko seems to be the reincarnation of the samurai, and her dog the reincarnation of the courtesan. See what I mean? Hashimoto has to f*cking idea what he’s doing.

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Side-note, Reiko Nanjo is mind-bogglingly bad in the film's central role. I've tried to highlight some of the absolutely bizarre facial expressions she registers consistently throughout the movie. Every emotion is vomited full-force right in your face. I don't think this is Nanjo's fault exclusively––she was the winner amongst over 1600 women from all over Japan, who auditioned publicly for the role, one imagines there were good things she did in that process. But clearly a mistake has been made with this choice––which reeks of stunt-casting to equal Zigeunerweisen's mix of movie stars, theatrical actors, and sort-of non-actors like Fujita. Nanjo is not credible as a prostitute, not credible in love, or in the throes of psychic visions. She isn't even credible in the copious jogging scenes. The only believable relationship she has on-screen is with the dog. And unquestionably, the writer and the director deserve significant blame for this role being inert, and for it being allowed to be played this awfully––oh, hey! That writer and director turn out to be the same person.

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One comes away from Lake of Illusions with a sense of the filmmaker’s own frustration (unsurprisingly, Hashimoto didn’t direct again, and soon afterwards retired for good); his befuddlement with the nature of this style of storytelling, and his inability to mine good material from allegedly similar sources. Lake of Illusions isn’t the kind of entertaining bad movie worth remembering. What it shows us about Zigeunerweisen is how the confidence and experience of one of Japan’s deftest filmmakers could confidently turn limited resources into an expansive, invigorating challenge to the intellect, the “new kind of cinema” Suzuki wanted. Clarity of Suzuki’s purpose and his choice of techniques made an abstruse picture connect with mainstream audiences in a rare way. In some sense, Suzuki’s entire artistic journey was building up to this point.


Horror: Koheji Lives!

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Also in 1982, seemingly inspired by Suzuki’s journey into supernatural cinema, veteran horror director Nobuo Nakagawa ended 10 years of retirement to direct a final film, Horror: Koehji Lives! Made on an absolute shoestring, it's produced by the Art Theatre Guild, the eventual theatrical distributors of Zigeunerweisen. Koehji Lives is an erotic horror story, featuring Pinku Eiga star Junko Miyashita as part of a Jules-et-Jim-like trio of traveling actors. Sexual jealousy inspires one of the actors competing for Junko’s attentions to murder the other, but the allegedly dead man turns up alive again almost immediately, ready to join their travels again. The ambiguity of whether or not Koheji is a ghost is the artistic life’s blood of the story. Though the outcome is never really in doubt, as Koheji progressively degenerates over the course of their travels.

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Nakagawa is a master filmmaker, and his skill makes Koheji Lives an interesting enough movie to watch. Especially good is the interplay between the actors; their polished repartee speaks to the time they’ve spent on the road with one another, and informs the almost childlike friendship between them that is always poised on the verge of the sexual and competitive. Nakagawa’s Koheji has a connection to his traveling companions; he returns as a ghost to inspire their guilt and balance a moral wrong.

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The ghosts in Zigeunerweisen, more ambiguous and subtle, long to communicate with an “other side” the boundary between life and death, awareness and torpor, understanding and confusion––speaking to the cultural meanings inherited from one time period to another. I like Koheji Lives! It’s pretty, it’s atmospheric, well-made. It’s modest and it feels satisfying. But Nakagawa comes from a tradition which Suzuki rebelled against long ago, the sense that one had only to tell a good story, package it well, and satisfy an audience (in a way, Nakagawa’s moral universe resembles the conservative morality of Inoue Umetsugu’s Nikkatsu pictures––something Suzuki was constantly in trouble for departing from as a model in the Nikkatsu days). And Koheji Lives shows us by contrast the depths that Zigeunerweisen achieves building off Nakagawa's honestly archaic approach.


The Girl from Silence aka Father F*cker

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This is Genjiro Arato’s directorial debut, a movie about familial incest and abuse (though with a stepfather, feinting slightly in the face of a biological taboo). The uncomfortable eroticism of the movie resembles Zigeunerweisen, but without the saving ambiguity of sensuality. It's clear the experience of stepfather's molestation is emotionally damaging to the heroine.

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The film looks a lot like Zigeunerweisen, with lots of dark interiors and isolated bright colors, surprising patterns and textures, surreal images, meaningful use of natural settings, and a general feeling of the interiority of the dramatic situation.

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Also, there are imaginary sequences that play out metaphors, as in the Taisho trilogy. Most striking is a scene where the unwilling “father f*cker” of the film sees her parents passing in another train, going the opposite direction in a dream. She is unable to reach them. It must mean something, right?

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And hey, there's Yoshio Harada, playing the absent father!

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There is an air of discomfit throughout, aided by shrewd casting of Michio Akiyama, the warped young man from Koji Wakamatsu's Go, Go Second Time Virgin in the role of the stepfather. Arato does not let us down in terms of making the heroine's horrific yet banal trap painfully claustrophobic.

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However, all this magical filmmaking feels in a way not quite appropriate to the subject matter. The consenting adults of Zigeunerweisen have an existential mystery on their hands, which merits the kind of heated magical-realist visualization the movie receives. "Father F*cker" here is grimly emotionally fraught, but the creative visualization never makes the situation feel very real. And if, at the end of the day, all you the artist want to say is "this is wrong," then it's a worthwhile question what all this style is in aid of.

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What it underscores for me about Zigeunerweisen is the far more nimble intellect of Suzuki, the sly and extraordinarily accomplished visual storyteller, who can make scenes feel taboo, feel menacing, without there being any clear object of menace. Somehow Zigeunerweisen feels more meaningful, while being composed purely of the musings of a bunch of old artists, thinking about short stories they like and about the past in a radically creative way. The Girl From Silence isn't a bad movie, but it doesn't engage your intellect, nor does it hold you interest like the Taisho Trilogy pictures do. But it's interesting to see the things Arato took from Suzuki in terms of how to visualize a story. It plays loads better than Lake of Illusions, for sure.

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Suzuki actually advances on the artistic success of Zigeunerweisen almost immediately––his following films Mirage Theater and Cherry Blossoms in Spring are even more strikingly avant-garde. I plan to cover them both, but this writeup took me quadruple the usual time. These movies are so complex, and I'm far from any kind of film academic. So next I'll write about Suzuki’s shorter, less complex debut. I hope you enjoy Zigeunerweisen. Cheers!

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Last edited by feihong on Sun Jun 08, 2025 7:14 am, edited 1 time in total.
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feihong
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Re: Seijun Suzuki

#192 Post by feihong »

CHEERS AT THE HARBOR: TRIUMPH IN MY HANDS aka VICTORY IS OURS

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Here is Suzuki's first movie, a 65-minute B-feature sprung from a popular song of the moment. Two months prior, Suzuki served as assistant director for what seems to be the last time, on a HIroshi Noguchi mystery/crime drama called Evil Reward with Michitaro Mizushima, and he seems to roll straight into the new project with no fanfare. Cheers at the Harbor has elements of the crime drama, a lot of horseracing in lieu of much in the way of action, and The movie would screen behind Confessions of Love (Iro Zange), a 90-minute romance movie with Masayuki Mori, Hisano Yamaoka, and Mie Kitahara.

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Spoiler
I've seen the movie a couple of times now, without the benefit of English subtitles. As with other such untranslated Suzuki projects, it's easy to understand some of the generic elements, and most of the drama––but things like the precise nature of the crime in the film, or of the romantic relationship at its core, is harder to suss out.

Perhaps the place to begin is that a film called Cheers at the Harbor takes place mostly at the racetrack. This is the Oi Racecourse in Shinagawa ward––the same setting Suzuki will return to later in the year for his third movie, Satan's Town. At the time, the racecourse had been open for only about 6 years.

One of the interests of the movie is this setting, which appears almost by itself in Shinagawa of 1956––a symbol of development in the region. There will be some other settings in the film which echo this evidence of a growing metropolis, including scenes on a new train platform and some nightclub sequences.

This is contrasted somewhat with the wharf setting. One of the thematic elements of the movie is this contrast between new urban development and new urban dreams and a kind of underworld of sailors with secret pasts, gangsters' molls, etc. There's the sense the movie takes place in the specific space where the two worlds meet, and the love story near the center of the movie will revolve around different views of what success seems to mean in this rapidly-changing milieu.

At the start, the film is about two friends, apparently as close as brothers. One is the sailor, Shinkichi, who seems to be running from a secret past. He's returning to his home town, and immediately is ensconced in the world of seaport taverns. But it looks like he stays with his friend Jiro, in a small house in the slums. Jiro is coming up in the world. He and Shinkichi grew up in hard times together, but when Shinkichi had to escape town on a ship, Jiro stayed, and now he's a horse jockey. The sailor watches his friend race at the new stadium. There is a girl who waits tables in a tavern by the docks, Sanae, who grew up with them. She watches Jiro with admiration. If he asked her, she would gladly be his wife...if he asked her. But the hotshot jockey has his eyes on what seems to him an unlimited horizon. He's becoming successful, and catching the eye of the wealthier patrons of the track. He can see a fancier future in store, with a woman befitting his growing standing in higher echelons of society.

Enter Sumiko Minami, playing Asako, the high-tone dame to kill for, a rare femme fatale in Suzuki's early noir pictures (mostly we'll see homme fatale. Asako is an elegant woman, one the jockey feels is more worthy a pursuit in his climb to the top of the heap. She comes to watch him race, wearing a sumptuous fur coat and simmering in gravure glamour. Thing of it is, Minami's character isn't a rose without thorns. Turns out, she's maybe dating a mobster. Turns out that relationship might still be pretty serious.

Here is an omission in every listing of the movie credits I can find in English; IMDB, Letterboxd, both the Carroll and Yacavone books, no one seems to list the actor playing Misawa, the mobster. But it's definitely:

SHINSUKE ASHIDA

In the early years after the war, stage actors who signed with Nikkatsu could make better money than they could in shinpa theater, and when they were successful, Nikkatsu built films around them. Shinsuke Ashida is one of the actors recruited from the stage in the early days––around 1955. He did radio dramas in Manchuria for the New Beijing Broadcasting Theater Company. Returning to Japan he founded the Cocco Theater and later joined the Mingei Theater Company.

Back in 1958, during the Suzuki run, Ashida plays a supporting role in an adaptation of a Seicho Matsumoto short story, called Stakeout, and nets who would be his longest-term collaborator, director Yoshitaro Nomura. Nomura will cast Ashida frequently over a nearly 30-year period, in Seicho Matsumoto adaptation after adaptation. Ashida makes 10 movies with Suzuki. By Underworld Beauty Ashida has been in a violent car accident which ends up severing some nerves in his face. In the later films Ashida's face is less expressive. He is a very restrained actor, one of that school that feels you should only move on screen when there's a damn good reason to call attention to your movement. Though Suzuki seems to prefer more physical performances even early on, he seems to make an exception for Ashida, whose stillness often works as a counterpoint to more animated characters in a picture.

Ashida is the wild card in Cheers at the Harbor. His Misawa seems to be in love with Minami's Asako. There is a very nice sequence where Jiro and Asako are dancing together at a bar, and Misawa looks over his shoulder at them from a bar stool and has a look I'd describe as the intersection of danger and longing. Asako looks legitimately scared. For reasons of jealousy, it seems, Misawa elects to drag Jiro down, hooking him into a situation where he can convince Jiro he's already committed a crime, and now he needs to fix his next race so Misawa can clean up betting the long odds. That's what I think happens. This part of the film is hard to parse without subtitles.

But it's really clear that Misawa is able to leverage some hold over Jiro. This becomes the most interesting sequence in the movie, thanks to Ashida's kind of scary dominance over Jiro, and how he seems to revel in it. Suzuki brings out his first notable visual effect––one he'll use again and again throughout the Nikkatsu films: the double exposure. The effect of it here is to show Jiro losing his grip and becoming essentially dommed by Misawa.

ZIGEUNERWEISEN

There's an interesting parallel in the way Nakasago dominates Aochi in that picture, and what happens between Misawa and Jiro in this picture. The idea, even in the earlier film, is that this is a kind of overwhelming of the other being, with sort of sexual overtones (not so much that the characters are homoerotic figures as it is that one looks to dominate and delimit the sexuality of the other). Jiro will end up spiraling deeper into trouble with Misawa, until the climax, where he seems to be signing his life away to Misawa in some sense.

This is where Shinkichi appears, and finally takes over the narrative. Jiro has been thoroughly emasculated by Misawa, is about to give up everything, and suddenly––this is very Zigeunerweisen-like––his dark double walks through the door and stands up to Misawa in the way Jiro no longer can. Jealousy is apparently a hell of a drug, because this conflict goes extraordinarily far, and Shinkichi ends up ganking Misawa.

Earlier on, there is a lovely-looking scene between Jiro and Shinkichi, in the small room where Shinkichi is staying. Jiro seems to be talking up how great his life is going, and Shinkichi listens, playing gently with a cat. There is a lovely light over the scene, and the setting seems to speak to the contrast between the two men. Jiro, we sense, is lost in the delirium of his success. He looks out at a world with no limits for him. Shinkichi has learned a different, harder lesson from life, a very Suzukian one––that chance can simply f*ck you up for no godd*mn reason. His life might have come out like Jiro's, but a choice early on has fated him to walk a different path. Now, at the end of the story, Shinkichi's different path has enabled him to do the exact thing he needs to do to save Jiro. Thus the redemption Shinkichi hoped for upon his return home, he also passes on to Jiro. The end is strikingly bitter. Jiro and Asako seem to report in to the police on the homocide. They see each other in front of the station, and look in different directions, both of them obviously uncomfortable after all they've been through with one another. They really look like they're through, and who can blame them? Both have seen the depths of one another's degradation, is what I think the film is saying at this point. They both wished to see the world through rose-colored lenses, and they can no longer do it.

Shinkichi, who looks at the world with wide open eyes, nevertheless holds out one hope––even if he can't go home again, he can at least hop on a ship and get away. He makes it to the quay, but there's a looming shadow in black waiting for him. It's Seizaburo Kawazu, who will star in Satan's Town later in the year. Here's he's doing a scene playing a cop, who seems kind enough to Shinkichi, but who isn't about to let the sailor get away. The film ends with Shinkichi in handcuffs, finally facing his crimes, whatever they were.

The comparison to Zigeunerweisen is interesting to me because it shows the way in which certain themes were part of Suzuki's filmmaking from the very start. The double serves in this film, albeit in a more limited function than in Zigeunerweisen, but a very specific Suzukian theme, already here in this first movie. Twice I've read Suzuki say he thinks Cheers at the Harbor was his most unfairly overlooked movie, and looking at the emergence and the artful handling of this theme, I can see why he might feel that way. In this first movie he stumbles upon––or introduces into the process––one of the key methods he will utilize again and again in order to enrich his films, and make them about something more than what Nikkatsu throws at him.

MY TAKE

This first movie is one of the most conventional, genre-bound pictures to my eyes. It's cast is largely unexceptional––it's male heroes––the sailor and the jockey––make little impression. It wouldn't be much of anything without Shunsuke Ashida.

Ashida plays the first great role in a Suzuki movie. His underplaying––which can look like disinterest in later movies, where he is wielded a little more like a seal of quality sometimes than a rangy performer––is revealed here as a way of removing vibrato from an already flashy role. The better to beguile us with, then; and beguile is what he does. Ashida's dominance of the jockey and his lover is chilling, but his own private desperation, the fear that seems to drive him to destroy the young racer, teeters on the edge between sympathy and the pathetic. He is a figure you can watch and feel electrified, in spite of an apparent lack of traditionally filmic traits––his unusual combination of his ugly face, his reserve, and yet-undeniable charisma reminds one of an actor like Conrad Veidt in the Archers' films.

He clearly inspires Suzuki's artistic potential and his daring. The film gets immediately more notably stylish and interesting when he's around. Ashida steals the show in a way he rarely will again. When Misawa puts the screws to Jiro, it's in a club Misawa seems to own. Dancing girls are performing in the background (a standard for Nikkatsu movies of the era, the studio was the essential seat of the nightclub musical), and Jiro is either drugged or simply gets hysterical. Suzuki uses a double-exposure to show Misawa's gaze dominating Jiro's vision.

Misawa himself gets up and gets more jovial than we'll ever see Ashida again in a Suzuki movie. He seems to be swinging a little. The ambiguity of this scene is a clear precursor to Zigeunerweisen––most especially to the scene in the cave, where Nakasago appears all around Aochi, almost seducing him into accepting a wager of bones.

There are some other beautiful scenes in the movie. Jiro and Asako quarrel in a train station and Shinkichi shows up to take Jiro home. There is a desperate feeling to Asako's thwarted desire to communicate with Jiro here, to Jiro's overwrought feelings, and there's a tenderness to the way Shinkichi lifts Jiro onto his shoulders and the jockey wraps his arms around Shinkichi's neck and they walk off together, seeming almost to return to their shared childhood in that momentary relief from the pressures of their adult lives. There is a lot of the potent visualization Suzuki would bring to bear in later movies, though in this film it's more demonstrative and obvious in a handful of very good scenes. The rest of the movie seems more like anonymous studio product than Suzuki's pictures would seem even the next year after this one was released.

Cheers at the Harbor was not a hit movie, but it played for an absolutely average amount of screen-time for the era. Not a hit, not a flop. So Nikkatsu kept Suzuki in roughly the same place for a while, trying him out on more pop-song films (Singing Rope: Innocent Love at Sea, An Inn of Floating Weeds) and having him try his hand at the hado-boiriudo, or, "hard-boiled," films his mentor was known for. This lack of any decisive success in his first salvo would become key to Suzuki's relationship with his company going forward. It was apparently in Nikkatsu's interest to slot its filmmakers into roles within tiers, and, like his mentor, Suzuki ended up in the lower-tier, in riskier territory. It left the paranoid filmmaker with the clear impression no one at the company had his interests at heart, and it complemented an already nihilistic worldview. Mixed with the frustration of what are clearly artistic ambitions, it's easy to see how Suzuki came to feel he was working against his studio, and competing with filmmakers like Immamura for resources and privileges of artistic expression. One wonders if this hothouse environment of pressure and paranoia, coupled with a lack of the kind of immediate success that worked for filmmakers like Koreyoshi Kurahara and Toshio Masuda was what led Suzuki to experiment as much as he did in later films, in increasingly subversive ways. Suzuki comes to discover the nature of film's illusory quality and in later movies he will call attention to it and play in its margins in a way that makes his later movies feel fresh even now––whereas Kurahara's and Masuda's movies look predominantly "of their time," and little more.
[TEXT & IMAGES]
Spoiler
I've seen the movie a couple of times now, without the benefit of English subtitles. As with other such untranslated Suzuki projects, it's easy to understand some of the generic elements, and most of the drama––but things like the precise nature of the crime in the film, or of the romantic relationship at its core, is harder to suss out.

Image

Perhaps the place to begin is that a film called Cheers at the Harbor takes place mostly at the racetrack. This is the Oi Racecourse in Shinagawa ward––the same setting Suzuki will return to later in the year for his third movie, Satan's Town. At the time, the racecourse had been open for only about 6 years.

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One of the interests of the movie is this setting, which appears almost by itself in Shinagawa of 1956––a symbol of development in the region. There will be some other settings in the film which echo this evidence of a growing metropolis, including scenes on a new train platform and some nightclub sequences.

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This is contrasted somewhat with the wharf setting (actually filmed in Yokohama, while the rest of the film is shot in Tokyo), which we return to occasionally. One of the thematic elements of the movie is this contrast between new urban development and new urban dreams and a kind of underworld of sailors with secret pasts, gangsters' molls, etc. There's the sense the movie takes place in the specific space where the two worlds meet, and the love story near the center of the movie will revolve around different views of what success seems to mean in this rapidly-changing milieu.

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But at the start, the film is at least nominally about two friends, apparently as close as brothers. One is the sailor, Shinkichi, who seems to be running from a secret past. He's returning to his home town, and immediately is ensconced in the world of seaport taverns. But it looks like he stays with his friend Jiro, in a small house in the slums. Jiro is coming up in the world. He and Shinkichi grew up in hard times together, but when Shinkichi had to escape town on a ship, Jiro stayed, and now he's a horse jockey. The sailor watches his friend race at the new stadium. There is a girl who waits tables in a tavern by the docks, Sanae, who grew up with them.

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She watches Jiro with admiration. If he asked her, she would gladly be his wife...if he asked her. But the hotshot jockey has his eyes on what seems to him an unlimited horizon. He's becoming successful, and catching the eye of the wealthier patrons of the track. He can see a fancier future in store, with a woman befitting his growing standing in higher echelons of society.

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Enter Sumiko Minami, playing Asako, the high-tone dame to kill for, a rare femme fatale in Suzuki's early noir pictures (mostly we'll see homme fatale. I've profiled Minami in my writeup of Nude Girl with a Gun. The year after Cheers at the Harbor, she appears in Eight Hours of Terror, as the communist student opposite Hideaki Nitani, and in Nude Girl with a Gun, where she plays the schlubby photographer's plucky, harrowed actress girlfriend.

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She never appears thereafter in any other Suzuki film. She is a company actor through and through, working at Nikkatsu from the akushon era on through the era of roman poruno. Starting at Shintoho in '52, she joins Nikkatsu in '54 with a Kenji Morinaga film, Gakusei Shinju. She stays at Nikkatsu then until her apparent retirement in 1983. In 1964 she's in Ko Nakahira's Hunter's Diary––an erotic murder mystery that comes out on the same day as Gate of Flesh and which seems to be another experiment for Nikkatsu in marketing baldly erotic material. Minami seems game for the erotic experiment––though by this point she's presumably in her 40s at least, and not doing the nudity in the movies.

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Then she's in Nikkatsu's next big erotic cause celebre, Love Hunter (playing the conservative mother who kills her daughter because the woman is such a free lover). She is in 16 pinku eiga after Love Hunter, including the third Apartment Wife film ("Afternoon Bliss"), Afternoon Affair: Rear Window, Afternoon Affair: Kyoto Holy Tapestry, Apartment Wife: Secret Call Girl, Sukeban Deka: Dirty Mary, Lady Chatterly in Tokyo, Noboru Tanaka's Beauty's Exotic Dance: Torture! and Zoom Up: Graduation Photo. I can't find any info on whether she is still living.

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She isn't the kind of very physical actress Suzuki will look for and encourage in later movies; she's very interior. But her eyes and her subtle facial expressions reveal a lot. Suzuki puts her in some surreal, seriocomic scenes later in Nude Girl with a Gun, taking advantage of her ability to convey subtle shifts with her expression.

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In this movie Minami plays a version of the generic femme fatale. Asako is an elegant woman, one the jockey feels is more worthy a pursuit in his climb to the top of the heap. She comes to watch him race, wearing a sumptuous fur coat and simmering in gravure glamour. I like how Suzuki photographs her alone in the stands. There might be an audience there really, but in the subjective register of Suzuki movies, we see her as the jockey sees her––the only one worthy of his attention.

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Thing of it is, Minami's character isn't a rose without thorns. Turns out, she's maybe dating a mobster. Turns out that relationship might still be pretty serious.

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Here is what is, at time of writing, an omission in every listing of the movie credits I can find in English; IMDB, Letterboxd, both the Carroll and Yacavone books, no one seems to list the actor playing Misawa, the mobster. But it's definitely:

SHINSUKE ASHIDA

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No mistaking him; I thought I must be wrong, since not a single source listed him. But then I matched a mole on the actor's lower right cheek to other photographs for irrefutable, Sherlock-Holmes-level suspect confirmation. He looks younger than in most of his Suzuki movies, but Ashida is, in spite of his notably stiff, unchanging mien, a bit of a chameleon.

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During WWII, several of the major film studios in Japan were nationalized and consolidated into a company called Daiei. Nikkatsu was part of that action, and when the studio was in the process of separating from Daiei following the war, it had no production arm left, but it kept a lot of its distribution chain. So in the early years after the war, Nikkatsu distributed Hollywood movies. By 1950s the studio was cautiously wading into film production again, still with very few production resources. Before the action movie crystallized, Nikkatsu tried a host of different genres, and it staffed its films with performers largely sourced from the stage. Stage actors who signed with Nikkatsu could make better money than they could in shinpa theater, and when they were successful, Nikkatsu built films around them. This explains to a certain extent why there were no real "movie stars" at Nikkatsu prior to the public and then the studio discovering Yujiro Ishihara; the actors prior to that weren't usually scouted for looks or general appeal, but for experience. They were elevated when they did well, but most of them were already known commodities, and older, and as a result they never seemed to get as "box-office hot" as Nikkatsu's young discoveries of the late 50s onward. Suzuki's mentor, Hiroshi Noguchi, and other filmmakers for the company would make their own minor stars, and work with them in a genre––this is how Michitaro Mizushima and Seizaburo Kawazu became some of Nikkatsu's leading men of the period.

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Shinsuke Ashida is one of the actors recruited from the stage in the early days––around 1950, I read in a bio––but his first credit for the company on IMDB is in 1955. He had cut his teeth in broadcasting, doing radio dramas in Manchuria for the New Beijing Broadcasting Theater Company (Ashida is an actual person who did what some of Suzuki's yakuza heroes fantasize about, escaping to occupied Manchuria to make their fortunes). Returning to Japan he founded the Cocco Theater and later joined the Mingei Theater Company. In the early 50s, Nikkatsu needs experienced actors, and Ashida, already with approximately 15 years of acting under his belt, is ready.

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Ashida had already been in film for around five years by that point, and already had a patron in director Kaneto Shindo. His second film is Shindo's Children of Hiroshima, and he would make several other movies with Shindo early on. In 1955 he's in his first Nikkatsu film, Yuzo Kawashima's Burden of Love. All through his time with Nikkatsu he would continue to work with Shindo on independently-produced films. Early on Ashida would appear in Yuzo Kawashima movies, then in 1956 he appears here and in Satan's Town for Suzuki. He's also in Crazed Fruit in the same year. Throughout his whole career, Ashida shows up in famous movies for other companies. He's in The Human Condition Part I, in Yoshida Yoshihige's The Woman of the Lake, Yasuzo Masamura's Red Angel (playing the 2nd lead, the impotent doctor addicted to morphine), Junya Sato's Thirst for Love (not the Koreyoshi Kurahara Thirst for Love, released the same year), and Sands of Kurobe for Toshiro Mifune's production company. For Nikkatsu he is in tons of movies, but standouts include Shohei Immamura's Endless Desire, Tokyo Mighty Guy, Toshio Masuda's Red Handkerchief (looking dishy as an internal affairs cop––I wish the movie was about him), in a late-stage Koji Wada vehicle called Whistling in the Dark, in Ko Nakahira's The Jungle Block, The Battle of Manchuria, and all three Men in War movies.

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Back in 1958, during the Suzuki run, Ashida plays a supporting role in an adaptation of a Seicho Matsumoto short story, called Stakeout, and nets who would be his longest-term collaborator, director Yoshitaro Nomura. Turns out Ashida has the perfect stoic–to–nearly–frozen face for the Seicho Matsumoto detective stories Nomura loves. Nomura will cast Ashida frequently over a nearly 30-year period, in Seicho Matsumoto adaptation after adaptation. As Nikkatsu reaches the end of it's Akushon era, and the end of Ashida's contract, the actor moves smoothly into a mixture of Nomura films, tons of television, and continued work in a huge number of notable movies. He's in the atrocious remake of Stray Dog, the Sonny Chiba joints Yagyu Clan Conspiracy and The Fall of Ako Castle, in the remake of Sanshiro Sugata, in Kihachi Okamoto's insane but boring UFO Blue Christmas (with Naoko Otani, soon to star in Zigeunerweisen). He's in A Taxing Woman for Juzo Itami, and then he appears in two Hideo Gosha movies, the remake of Gate of Flesh called Carmen 1945, and he plays the prime minister in Gosha's weirdly melodramatic version of the defeated military coup, 226 (aka Four Days of Snow & Blood). He's in Masahiro Shinoda's Childhood Days, Kei Kumai's Death of a Tea Master, a very late 1990 movie by that former Nikkatsu hack, Buichi Saito, called Sea of Wandering, and some of his last work is in 1992's aptly-titled The Setting Sun, which looks like a fake movie. Letterboxd says it stars––if you can believe this––Diane Lane, Yuen Biao, Donald Sutherland, Tamio Kawaji, Jo Shishido, "Miss Holland" of 1983, Nancy Lalleman-Heynis, and it has a score by Maurice Jarre. There are a lot of Japanese credits on the picture, and apparently Diane Lane plays a Chinese woman in the film, and sings some songs. The only clips of the movie I can find are spectacularly interlaced, but there is a stylized Hong Kong kung fu scene between Yuen Biao, Miss Holland of 1983 Nancy Lalleman-Heynis, and a Chinese actress/stuntwoman who throws a butcher's knife at Miss Holland. I wonder if all of it could be AI? I need to find this movie. I have come across a laserdisc and some chirashi posters and a program from the movie, attesting that this seems to be a kung fu/heroic bloodshed/period mashup, with Yuen Biao doing gunplay in a series of the slickest suits I've ever seen. I'm getting distracted; back on track....

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So this is the film's impressive actor. In all, Ashida makes 10 movies with Suzuki, mostly early on. The last of those is The Bastard, closing out his collaboration pretty much exactly when Suzuki's career kicks into a higher gear. Most appearances are in key roles, but small ones. He's the restrained villain in Underworld Beauty who heroically shoots Hiroshi Kondo's lunatic sleazy character. He's part of the cop squad in Passport to Darkness, and he's Misako Watanabe's mysterious father in Take Aim at the Police Van, the Fantomas-like secret pimp hidden behind sunglasses, who runs the whole operation...or does he (I'm going to cover this movie soon, it's more interesting than I've credited it for in the past)? There are some more significant roles too, like Jiro's gentle stepfather in Everything Goes Wrong, who may have, in an abstract way, killed Jiro's real father via capitalism. The standout role of these later pictures is in Sleep of the Beast, where he for once plays the film's central figure, a salaryman-turned-middle-manager, dilligent father and caring husband, who is secretly part of a criminal cult with his work buddies, and has a crisis of conscience when his daughter's reporter boyfriend uncovers the truth and reveals him to her. Until that film, 4 years later, Ashida's role in Cheers at the Harbor is his largest and most effusive.

By his third appearance in a Suzuki movie, in Underworld Beauty, Ashida the real guy has been in a violent car accident which ends up severing some nerves in his face, it seems. This will lead to him looking like an older man––though he's only 40 at the time––and in all the later films Ashida's face is less expressive. But generally, he is a very restrained actor, one of that school that feels you should only move on screen when there's a damn good reason to call attention to your movement. Though Suzuki seems to prefer more physical performances even early on, he seems to make an exception for Ashida, whose stillness often works as a counterpoint to more animated characters in a picture.

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But Ashida is really the wild card in Cheers at the Harbor. Look at this acting, friend-o. Here he is eating the rose of heartbreak, like a beast:

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His Misawa seems to be in love with Minami's Asako. There is a very nice sequence where Jiro and Asako are dancing together at a bar, and Misawa looks over his shoulder at them from a bar stool and has a look I'd describe as the intersection of danger and longing. Asako looks legitimately scared. For reasons of jealousy, it seems, Misawa elects to drag Jiro down, hooking him into a situation where he can convince Jiro he's already committed a crime, and now he needs to fix his next race so Misawa can clean up betting the long odds. That's what I think happens. This part of the film is hard to parse without subtitles.

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It's clear Misawa is able to leverage some hold over Jiro. This is the most interesting sequence in the movie, thanks to Ashida's kind of scary dominance over Jiro, and how he seems to revel in it. Suzuki brings out his first notable visual effect––one he'll use again and again throughout the Nikkatsu films: the double exposure. The effect of it here is to show Jiro losing his grip and becoming essentially dommed by Misawa.

ZIGEUNERWEISEN

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Why bring up a film Suzuki will make a quarter-century later? There's an interesting parallel in the way Nakasago dominates Aochi in that picture, and what happens between Misawa and Jiro in this picture.

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The idea, even in the earlier film, is that this is a kind of overwhelming of the other being, with sort of sexual overtones (not so much that the characters are homoerotic figures as it is that one looks to dominate and delimit the sexuality of the other). Jiro will end up spiraling deeper into trouble with Misawa, until the climax, where he seems to be signing his life away to Misawa in some sense.

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This is where Shinkichi appears, and finally takes over the narrative. Jiro has been thoroughly emasculated by Misawa, is about to give up everything, and suddenly––this is very Zigeunerweisen-like––his dark double walks through the door and stands up to Misawa in the way Jiro no longer can. Jealousy is apparently a hell of a drug, because this conflict goes extraordinarily far, and Shinkichi ends up ganking Misawa.

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Earlier on, there is a lovely-looking scene between Jiro and Shinkichi, in the small room where Shinkichi is staying. Jiro seems to be talking up how great his life is going, and Shinkichi listens, playing gently with a cat. There is a lovely light over the scene, and the setting seems to speak to the contrast between the two men.

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Jiro, we sense, is lost in the delirium of his success. He looks out at a world with no limits for him. Shinkichi has learned a different, harder lesson from life, a very Suzukian one––that chance can simply f*ck you up for no godd*mn reason. His life might have come out like Jiro's, but a choice early on has fated him to walk a different path. Now, at the end of the story, Shinkichi's different path has enabled him to do the exact thing he needs to do to save Jiro. Thus the redemption Shinkichi hoped for upon his return home, he also passes on to Jiro. The end is strikingly bitter. Jiro and Asako seem to report in to the police on the homocide. They see each other in front of the station, and look in different directions, both of them obviously uncomfortable after all they've been through with one another. They really look like they're through, and who can blame them? Both have seen the depths of one another's degradation, is what I think the film is saying at this point. They both wished to see the world through rose-colored lenses, and they can no longer do it.

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Shinkichi, who looks at the world with wide open eyes, nevertheless holds out one hope––even if he can't go home again, he can at least hop on a ship and get away. He makes it to the quay, but there's a looming shadow in black waiting for him. It's Seizaburo Kawazu, who will star in Satan's Town later in the year. Here's he's doing a scene playing a cop, who seems kind enough to Shinkichi, but who isn't about to let the sailor get away. The film ends with Shinkichi in handcuffs, finally facing his crimes, whatever they were.

The comparison to Zigeunerweisen is interesting to me because it shows the way in which certain themes were part of Suzuki's filmmaking from the very start. The double serves in this film, albeit in a more limited function than in Zigeunerweisen, but a very specific Suzukian theme, already here in this first movie. Twice I've read Suzuki say he thinks Cheers at the Harbor was his most unfairly overlooked movie, and looking at the emergence and the artful handling of this theme, I can see why he might feel that way. In this first movie he stumbles upon––or introduces into the process––one of the key methods he will utilize again and again in order to enrich his films, and make them about something more than what Nikkatsu throws at him.

FRAMING & BLOCKING

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By the next year, when he makes An Inn of Floating Weeds, Suzuki is beginning to frame shots in unconventional ways. This first outing is a much more normal-looking Nikkatsu film of the era, if one with more elegant angles than, say, your average Ko Nakahira film. Not to say Nakahira doesn't have a good cinematographic eye; rather, Suzuki's eye is unusually sharp for image composition, right from the jump.

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And when Suzuki wants to get more subjective with his viewpoint, the Sternbergian influence takes over, and we get some more expressionistic framing that really dazzles.

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A lot of the movie, though, is shot in the deep-focus style which was standard for Nikkatsu at the time, and which is something Suzuki will early on start to subvert. By Underworld Beauty, with the introduction of Nikkatsuscope, Suzuki shoots more unusual framing and blocks action in a way people aren't used to. In this movie, you can feel that tension, and in some scenes there seems to be some unusual things to look at.

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CINEMATOGRAPHY

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Kumenobu Fujioka is the cinematographer here. He shoots one more film for Suzuki, the Keiichiro Akagi vehicle Naked Age. That film is in cinemascope, but it features the same kind of murky greyness and low-light or natural-light-seeming sequences as Cheers at the Harbor. This seems to be Fujioka's signature, a little reminiscent of the look of some French New Wave movies. It's a good look––if the action on screen is particularly visually demonstrative.

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By the time of Naked Age Suzuki has mastered this, encouraging very physical performances and staging for demonstrative movement. Even his next movie following this will feature more demonstrative action and event. At this early point, though, the emphasis is on more subtle characterization. It's hard to tell what some of the characters are doing or intending sometimes, and that's something Suzuki will get past very quickly. By Inn of Floating Weeds you can watch the film without sound and parse it cleanly. The emphasis on framing in this movie is also on deep-focus, with frames full of background action. Fujioka does okay here, but with his generic lighting, this is one of the least visually-distinct of Suzuki's movies. Adding to this are some pretty but unoriginal Ozu-like "pillow shots" which Suzuki will abandon pretty quickly after this movie.

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Fujioka seems to have come to Suzuki via his mentor, Hiroshi Noguchi––who worked with Fujioka on a movie between Evil Reward and his next film, which comes out the same month as Cheers at the Harbor (this seems to be Noguchi's most productive period; in the two months between Suzuki leaving his gumi and making his debut, Noguchi has made two more movies). Most of the Suzuki-gumi is not yet in the picture. Cinematographer Kazue Nagatsuka worked on Evil Reward with Suzuki, but he doesn't shoot for Suzuki until the second picture. In the time in-between he is cinematographer on three films for other directors, including two Sazen Tange movies for Masahiro Makino. Even editor Akira Suzuki––probably Suzuki's longest-serving collaborator––isn't there yet.

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One notable name, though, is Suzuki's assistant director: Koreyoshi Kurahara. Kurahara comes from Shochiku with Suzuki, part of a large group of assistant directors (including Suzuki's mentor Noguchi, who accepted a demotion from director after the war in order to get back into filmmaking) about 20 places back in line for promotion at Shochiku, who took Nikkatsu's offer of fast promotion and a much larger paycheck and switched companies. Kurahara purportedly worked with Suzuki at Shochiku (Suzuki's more-than-casual acquaintance with most of the Shochiku New Wave directors––especially Shinoda and Oshima––comes from this era when they were all assistants at Shochiku together). 4 or 5 months later Kurahara will serve as assistant to Ko Nakahira on Crazed Fruit. That film makes Yujiro Ishihara a movie star, and changes the trajectory of Nikkatsu filmmaking from then on. And when Kurahara gets to make his directorial debut the next year, it's with a vehicle for the company's new star, called I Am Waiting.

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The success of I Am Waiting propels Kurahara's position a little past Suzuki's at the company. Kurahara gets a lot of the leeway Suzuki wants with later pictures. Suzuki will have some insight into Kurahara's productions, since they come to share editor Akira Suzuki between their pictures. The most criticism Suzuki seems to have delivered about Kurahara is that "maybe he shoots too much film" for his scenes. Director later on of The Warped Ones, Black Sun, I Hate But Love and others, Kurahara was, according Jo Shishido, heavily inspired by French new wave cinema. His films remind me a bit of Jacques Rozier, especially. Kurahara would have a lot of hits for Nikkatsu. In addition to I Am Waiting and The Warped Ones, and his hits with the company's big stars (I Hate But Love, Flame of Devotion, Ginza Love Story), he also had a couple of hits with Jo Shishido, including Drifter in Mexico and Glass-Hearted Johnny: Looks Like a Beast––a bizarre remake of La Strada where Izumi Ashikawa plays the Giulietta Masina role.

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Later, as the Akushon era ends at Nikkatsu, Kurahara jumps ship and goes to Toshiro Mifune's studio along with Yujiro Ishihara and Ruriko Asaoka for a dastardly movie about the Paris-Dakar rally, Safari 5000––which also stars Mifune, Tatsuya Nakadai, Emanuelle Riva (from Hiroshima Mon Amour) and Juzo Itami. Ishihara's later career goes all over the place, including melodramas like Gate of Youth and Strawberry Road (with Mifune and Mariska Hargitay, of all people), as well as a documentary on Arctic Foxes, and the sled-dog melodrama Antarctica.

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I don't much like Kurahara's taste for obvious melodrama and over-the-top histrionics. I Hate But Love is probably the film I liked most, given Yujiro Ishihara's more subdued and interesting performance there. The Warped Ones is initially very flashy and superficially nihilistic, but that pose burns off as the movie goes on to present a "youth gone wild" premise without any social or economic analysis. Oshima's Cruel Story of Youth and Suzuki's own Everything Goes Wrong are movies on the same subject (in Suzuki's case, with the same lead actor) that have more probing and understanding viewpoints, without The Warped Ones' more extreme stylization. Glass-Hearted Johnny is as over-the-top and mawkish as its source, and Safari 5000, at almost 3 hours, is very tedious.

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Not much of Kurahara seems to intrude upon Cheers at the Harbor, but I think his parallel journey through Nikkatsu with Suzuki is interesting. Kurahara had more obvious stylistic difference from other Nikkatsu filmmakers early on, and he got better opportunities once his debut was a giant hit. The company seemed to slot him into an upper-tier of directors which they gave more artistic freedom.

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The one Suzuki clearly resented was Shohei Immamura, and it's interesting Suzuki never seemed so jealous of Kurahara. Ultimately, I think Kurahara had so much less to say as a filmmaker. Like many of the upper-echelon filmmakers at Nikkatsu––Umetsugu Inoue, Toshio Masuda, that hack, Buichi Saito––Kurahara's talent was mod-ish and detachable. It made for popular films in an era, but I don't think inspiration or any more personal thematic concerns––like Suzuki's or Immamura's––sustained him for the long-run. Unlike a fellow stylist at the company, Ko Nakahira, Kurahara never seemed to arrive at a marriage of style and subject matter that felt very essential. While the company seemed more ready to relegate Nakahira to the bottom-tier of their filmmakers, his movies are more consistently interesting than Kurahara's some 70 years later.

MY TAKE

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Suzuki's rep, established by Shigehiko Hasumi in his book on Suzuki from the 70s, is that the first 20 or so films were unspectacular genre entertainments, and that Suzuki starts to become a more interesting filmmaker around the time of Youth of the Beast and Kanto Wanderer. The implication is that the earlier films aren't worth much artistic merit, but as Peter Yacavone points out in his book, Hasumi was making that assessment at a time when those earlier films were some of them almost 20 years old, hadn't screened since, and were shown at a time no one knew who Suzuki was, or was looking out for him (though as early as The Spring That Didn't Come critics took note and Nikkatsu's publicity department was touting Suzuki's "genius"). My own path of discovery has led me to realize how many of the early films are remarkable and interesting movies of their own, from promising developments to outright exceptional and even fairly particular products of a singular artist. Still, this first movie is one of the most conventional, genre-bound pictures to my eyes. It's cast is largely unexceptional––it's male heroes––the sailor and the jockey––make little impression. It wouldn't be much of anything without Shunsuke Ashida.

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Ashida plays the first great role in a Suzuki movie. His underplaying––which can look like disinterest in later movies, where he is wielded a little more like a seal of quality sometimes than a rangy performer––is revealed here as a way of removing vibrato from an already flashy role. The better to beguile us with, then; and beguile is what he does. Ashida's dominance of the jockey and his lover is chilling, but his own private desperation, the fear that seems to drive him to destroy the young racer, teeters on the edge between sympathy and the pathetic. He is a figure you can watch and feel electrified, in spite of an apparent lack of traditionally filmic traits––his unusual combination of his ugly face, his reserve, and yet-undeniable charisma reminds one of an actor like Conrad Veidt in the Archers' films.

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He clearly inspires Suzuki's artistic potential and his daring. The film gets immediately more notably stylish and interesting when he's around. Ashida steals the show in a way he rarely will again. When Misawa puts the screws to Jiro, it's in a club Misawa seems to own. Dancing girls are performing in the background (a standard for Nikkatsu movies of the era, the studio was the essential seat of the nightclub musical), and Jiro is either drugged or simply gets hysterical. Suzuki uses a double-exposure to show Misawa's gaze dominating Jiro's vision.

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Misawa himself gets up and gets more jovial than we'll ever see Ashida again in a Suzuki movie. He seems to be swinging a little. The ambiguity of this scene is a clear precursor to Zigeunerweisen––most especially to the scene in the cave, where Nakasago appears all around Aochi, almost seducing him into accepting a wager of bones.

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There are some other beautiful scenes in the movie. Jiro and Asako quarrel in a train station and Shinkichi shows up to take Jiro home. There is a desperate feeling to Asako's thwarted desire to communicate with Jiro here, to Jiro's overwrought feelings, and there's a tenderness to the way Shinkichi lifts Jiro onto his shoulders and the jockey wraps his arms around Shinkichi's neck and they walk off together, seeming almost to return to their shared childhood in that momentary relief from the pressures of their adult lives. There is a lot of the potent visualization Suzuki would bring to bear in later movies, though in this film it's more demonstrative and obvious in a handful of very good scenes. The rest of the movie seems more like anonymous studio product than Suzuki's pictures would seem even the next year after this one was released.

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Cheers at the Harbor was not a hit movie, but it played for an absolutely average amount of screen-time for the era. Not a hit, not a flop. So Nikkatsu kept Suzuki in roughly the same place for a while, trying him out on more pop-song films (Singing Rope: Innocent Love at Sea, An Inn of Floating Weeds) and having him try his hand at the hado-boiriudo, or, "hard-boiled," films his mentor was known for. This lack of any decisive success in his first salvo would become key to Suzuki's relationship with his company going forward. It was apparently in Nikkatsu's interest to slot its filmmakers into roles within tiers, and, like his mentor, Suzuki ended up in the lower-tier, in riskier territory. It left the paranoid filmmaker with the clear impression no one at the company had his interests at heart, and it complemented an already nihilistic worldview. Mixed with the frustration of what are clearly artistic ambitions, it's easy to see how Suzuki came to feel he was working against his studio, and competing with filmmakers like Immamura for resources and privileges of artistic expression. One wonders if this hothouse environment of pressure and paranoia, coupled with a lack of the kind of immediate success that worked for filmmakers like Koreyoshi Kurahara and Toshio Masuda was what led Suzuki to experiment as much as he did in later films, in increasingly subversive ways. Suzuki comes to discover the nature of film's illusory quality and in later movies he will call attention to it and play in its margins in a way that makes his later movies feel fresh even now––whereas Kurahara's and Masuda's movies look predominantly "of their time," and little more.

THE DISC

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This film was released on DVD long ago, as part of two Nikkatsu box sets where I just learned Suzuki picked the selections himself. But there is no comparison with the new Nikkatsu bluray, so I won't really bother to make one. No, this isn't the strongest bluray it could be; the film is interlaced, like most others in the collection that didn't have a rescan or restoration.

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Like the others in the collection there aren't many obvious signs of interlacing, save for on the disc of Naked Age, where there are banding effects when the camera pans or characters move fast (presumably this is due to the film sharing space on the disc with the 4k scan of Love Letter). The film does begin with a title card, which reads thus in my machine recognition/translation:

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"This work may have some imperfections due to the original plate. There is some film noise. It is a worthwhile piece. Thank you for your understanding."

I think almost all of these discs go a bit soft on the film grain, unfortunately. Where they attempt to make up for it is in better contrast and image balance. That definitely happens here. The film looks soft, and softer due to Fujioka's cinematographic approach. But this isn't one of the films I'd care about seeing improved in some way (Kanto Wanderer or The Flower and the Angry Waves, definitely, but not this). I think the disc is fine, and I agree it's a "worthwhile piece."

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Cheers!
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Next I'm moving on to another quicker one. We'll get the key early members of the Suzuki-gumi, Kazue Nagatsuka and Akira Suzuki, entering the picture, with Suzuki's second movie, Singing Rope: Innocent Love at Sea. After that I'm planning to do Capone Cries Hard for a change of pace, along with Take Aim at the Police Van, Passport to Darkness and the two Akira Kobayashi melodramas, which I find I keep mentioning more and more as these go on. I plan to tackle A Mummy's Love and Fang in the Hole soon, too. Not too sure of the exact order, but the whaling musical will come next.

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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#193 Post by feihong »

Singing Rope: Innocent Love at Sea aka Pure Emotions of the Sea

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Most of Suzuki's movies are funny––whether you find yourself laughing or not––but only a few are outright comedies. Suzuki's ability to find or create humor in ostensibly serious films probably accounts for how few comedies he does later on. He uses this to make the noir movies distinct and memorable, his sense of humor makes the Koji Wada action movies feel light and breezy, and his sardonic and critical take on life, as well as a bawdiness that is often underappreciated take over to make the yakuza movies, the flesh trilogy, and the later Nikkatsu movies so distinctly Suzuki's own. What's more, not a lot of Nikkatsu's output is that comic. Jo Shishido will appear in a line of action pastiche later on (including films like Murder Unincorporated and lots of the films where he teams up with Hideaki Nitani). And even amongst the Nikkatsu comedies, Suzuki's frequently end up feeling like they belong more naturally to some other genre more readily (I'm thinking of Carmen from Kawachi, Tokyo Knights, Fighting Delinquents, Story of a Bastard: Born Under a Bad Star and Detective Bureau 2-3: Go to Hell, Bastards! mostly). Of the post Nikkatsu movies, probably only Capone Cries Hard and maybe Suzuki's segment of the omnibus film, Marriage count as movies which are principally comedies (maybe the Lupin III movie should be included?). So Singing Rope is an unusual film in Suzuki's oeuvre.

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Spoiler
It's essentially a romantic comedy about a singing seaman who works the harpoon aboard a whaling vessel. Popular singer Hachiro Kasuga is the harpoon man and first mate, innocently wooing his captain's daughter with songs of yearning he sings from the deck of the ship (in one of Suzuki's early incongruities, the woman is never in earshot when Kasuga sings). The obstacles in his way are his captain, who feels the unassuming Kasuga is showing him up and trying to take his place, and three local women, all of whom fall for Kasuga in one way or another, and who each make intense come-ons to the shy lead. Yes, somehow, this is a musical romantic comedy about whaling.

The title is one of Kasuga's singles from the era, but he sings a number of other songs throughout the picture, too. At this point, Suzuki is still not getting real movie stars to lead the pictures. Kasuga is terribly wooden and brittle. He appears again for Suzuki as a supporting player and title song singer in An Inn of Floating Weeds, by which point Suzuki has a real star in a young Hideaki Nitani (making his debut). The result is a much better performance from Kasuga than what happens here. In this film, Kasuga goes in and out of being just baseline passable and genuinely terrible. He's okay in his scenes with actresses, and with comic actors. He's atrocious in scenes where he's supposed to be "hanging out with the guys," but the possibility exists that Suzuki may have decided not to help him get through those sequences, since he is meant to be ill-at-ease in that environment specifically.

It could be deliberate; a lot of experiments in style and approach are happening in this loose but very short 48-minute B-picture. Amongst other elements, Suzuki is going to start to figure out where to put humor.

FRAMING & BLOCKING

In this film especially, Suzuki puts the humor all over the place. Most of the picture is a collection of humor set-piece sequences, and in each one of them we see Suzuki expanding the way he visualizes his actors and their places in the action There are joke sequences which entirely rely upon blocking a big group of people, such as the one where everyone in the maritime office attempts to read a sign that was put up slanted by all canting their heads at the same angle.

The previous film featured a very small cast, without a lot of complex blocking. This whaling comedy has a much larger cast, seemingly representing most of the denizens of the local harbor. There are also several plan sequences, made up largely of complex panning or tracking shots, as when the local geisha walks past the maritime office with her portable radio blaring, and the camera pans from window of the office to the next to the next, charting her path towards the building. And there is the signature sequence and gag of the movie, a very long horizontal tracking shot that follows Kasuga as he flees a very pushy girl––unaware his sweater is caught on the post he had been leaning against, and leading it to unravel behind him. This new camera mobility is brought on perhaps because Suzuki is now paired with cinematographer Kazue Nagatsuka for the first time.

CINEMATOGRAPHY

I've written a lot about Kazue Nagatsuka, who I think is an under-appreciated member of Suzuki's crew a lot of the time. To summarize, he is one of Nikkatsu's top cameramen, a cinematographer since the silent era, who will work with Suzuki intermittently from this point until his death in 1982, just after the release of Mirage Theater––his last film with Suzuki, a testament to their spectacular work over decades together. Suzuki and Nagatsuka already know each other at this point; Nagatsuka was first Suzuki's mentor's preferred cameraman, and Suzuki worked with him as AD on several of Hiroshi Noguchi's movies. From this point on, Suzuki and Noguchi will both work with Nagatsuka frequently. Nagatsuka's skill makes it possible for him to work, somehow, on more films a year than Suzuki, even. The year of this film, 1956, he shoots two movies for Suzuki, two for Noguchi, two for Masahiro Makino, of a total of 10 films. Nagatsuka's obvious efficiency means that a tiny joke movie like this one has very elegant tracking shots and sophisticated deep-focus material.

There is also Nagatsuka's typically moody black-and-white effects, including a notable night-time sequence which looks as if it's shot during magic hour, where Kasuga sings, and a woman tries to woo him by jumping into the ocean. Kasuga's song is interrupted several times by this hot-blooded girls desperate cries for help, and Nagatsuka uses what looks like a host of different effects to make the sequence seem to be lit in an ambient way. The moody sequence where Kasuga delivers his drunk captain back to the captain's daughter is especially lovely as well, lit to appear single-source––though Nagatsuka's film never seem to really be single-source for very much of the time.

The harbor is Misaki Port, in Miura City, Kanagawa Prefecture. Everything seems to be filmed on location, and so the best-lit parts of the movie are the interiors. In those scenes, Nagatsuka's cinematography shines with his usual contrast-y clarity and brilliance. The outdoor scenes are another matter, and are frequently pretty low-contrast and greyed-down. Nagatsuka's next work for Suzuki, on Satan's Town, uses far less location work, and tends to look more like a normal Nagatsuka film in a lot of respects.

But there are other sequences made striking not because of the camerawork so much as the other rapidly developing aspects of Suzuki's approach, especially...

EDITING

During this second project, Suzuki unites with Akira Suzuki. They will go on to work together at least 40 more times, making Akira Suzuki Seijun's longest-running collaborator.

Akira Suzuki edits more than 353 projects in a 50-year career. He begins as an editor in 1954, at Nikkatsu. He seems to edit for every major filmmaker at the company through about 1985 or so. His name is on tons of projects, however, because from early on he is Nikkatsu's chief editor––so it's not always clear how much participation he has in all these movies, whether he has assistants to work with him, etc. He does continue to edit for Suzuki personally through 2001's Pistol Opera, and other sources list him as editing primarily for Suzuki and Koreyoshi Kurahara. Easier to list the movies he did not edit than to go through all the ones he did. He is not the editor on the company's big breaks, Season of the Sun and Crazed Fruit. Conspicuously, he is absent for Zigeunerweisen––though he's back for Mirage Theater. He edits most of Suzuki's films, but he isn't there for Tokyo Drifter, for the TV projects, for Zigeunerweisen, or for Princess Raccoon. For other filmmakers, his notable films as editor include early Nikkatsu musical Jazz on Parade 1956, other early Umetsugu Inoue hits like The Stormy Man, The Eagle and the Hawk, and That Wonderful Guy, Kurahara's I Am Waiting, Intimidation, The Warped Ones, I Hate But Love, Black Sun, and The Flame of Devotion. In this period he starts editing outside the studio, especially for Ken Takakura pictures: An Outlaw, seven Abashiri Prison movies. After Suzuki is fired and Koreyoshi Kurahara defects, he works for Yasuharu Hasebe on Massacre Gun, Savage Wolf Pack, and Stray Cat Rock: Delinquent Girl Boss. He starts editing anime for television during the Nikkatsu shutdown, and when the studio opens back up for business, he is there for business as well, editing pink films like Sex Rider: Wet Highway, Night of the Felines, Mid-Afternoon Love Affair, Woman on the Night Train, the first New Eros Schedule Book movie, Hasebe's Naked Seven, Flower and Snake, Kumashiro's adaptation of The Key, Man and Woman Behind the Fusuma Screen, World of Geisha, Street of Joy, Evening Primrose, Lady Moonflower, Painful Bliss! Final Twist!, Hasebe's Rape! 13th Hour, Yukihiro Sawada's Assault!, Dannoura Pillow War, Erotic Campus: Rape Reception, The Woman with red Hair, Oh! Woman: A Dirty Song, Pleasure Campus Secret Games, Rape and Death of a Housewife, The Woman Who Wets Her Fingers and She-Cat, amongst many others. In that time he edits Kurahara's documentary on the arctic fox, Sogo Ishii and Yukihiro Sawada's High School Big Panic (adapting to a new rhythm), The Man Who Stole the Sun, Fukasaku's Virus, Sawada's Moon-Mask Rider, Kichitaro Negishi's exceptional Distant Thunder...then perhaps his Nikkatsu contacts get him in with Shinji Somai, and he edits Sailor Suit Schoolgirl with a Machine Gun, the magnificent P.P. Rider, and Luminous Woman. He edits Detective Story, The New Morning of Billy the Kid, Heaven and Earth, Juzo Itami's The Funeral, Tampopo, A Taxing Woman, A Taking Woman's Return, Sweet Home, Minbo, Supermarket Woman and Woman in Witness Protection. He edits other high-profile 80s movies, like Sorekara, Time of Wickedness, and a couple of arty yakuza films: Someday Someone Will Be Killed and Let Him Rest in Peace.

Seijun Suzuki sometimes downplays the work of an editor on his films, touting his own Shochiku training in shooting for the cut, where he and others were taught not to waste a foot of film. So sometimes he has said that the films were shot with the edit in mind. But I've seen in many of these movies trailers with alternate footage. I've read about sequences shot and left on the cutting-room floor. And on the Story of Sorrow and Sadness bluray, there is an interview with an assistant editor on the movie, who explains how involved the editing process was on the picture. What's more, it's obvious Suzuki is downplaying, because the classic Suzuki style of discontinuous cutting is not present in Cheers at the Harbor; but it is in Singing Rope.

Especially notable here is a sequence where the local geisha is pressured in a night of entertaining the sailors into stripping. This most noteworthy moment of cinema in the film intercuts between the geisha removing piece after piece of her kimono and a group of ogling sailors, but also with a statue of venus, which reveals to us the nudity the men imagine they will soon see. Right at the point where the camera reveals the entire figure of the nude statue, the men start in alarm, to see that underneath her kimono, the geisha is wearing...a judo keikogi. The drunken men try and riot at this disappointment, and in a series of flashcuts the geisha throws them all, including throwing one through a sliding wall so that the hole in the wall reflects his sprawled form. Obviously, Seijun has planned an elaborate gag here, but Akira has worked out a way for this to make sense through very precise intercutting of really disparate footage. All the gags in the picture benefit from Akira's willingness to cut in aggressive jumps. This was the general method he established at Nikkatsu, but still, no other filmmaker at the studio makes movies that cut anything like Seijun's films. One imagines the chief editor's willingness to be on-board––along with the studio's veteran cinematographer being game and indulging the younger director's inspirations were helpful voices convincing the studio that Seijun Suzuki had a worthy place there as a director.

To me, Akira Suzuki is a persistent presence whose talent was dependable in working out a language that expressed Suzuki's odd cinematic jokes, especially. The judo striptease in this movie is an early example of the kind of thing Akira brings together in later Suzuki movies with wit and elan. No question that Seijun and his collaborators on the set define most of the films, but Akira's rhythm for Suzuki is notably unique in cinema, and his editing language is something Suzuki relies upon as he develops a personal approach to drama, action, and later work in the genres of satire, the supernatural, etc., etc.

MY TAKE

I am so anti-whaling that it makes this movie hard to take. However, whales hardly ever show up, and most of the picture takes place ashore, amongst the quirky denizens of the town. I really enjoy Suzuki's sense of humor, and I like his out-and-out comedies quite a bit. The flirtatious and romantic scenes worked very well in this movie; though the drama between the old man captain jealous of young, entirely obedient Hachiro was less than convincing. The women in this cast far outshine the men. Each of the women are a very clear "type," rendered in a good-natured way, and made slightly more complex than what they appear to be on the surface.

The girls may go nuts over a cannon when Hachiro fires it (he contorts into a fairly sexual stance to fire the cannon and the harpoon alike), but each of them have particular wants and needs and interests in life, and Hachiro won't necessarily really meet those needs––he's just the only handsome guy in the port.

The only one Hachiro is right for––and the only one he's interested in––is the captain's daughter, who is played with luminous, hesitent warmth by Toshie Takada. These two awkward dopes are exactly right for one another, and the scenes between them play that out entirely convincingly. Then late in the movie there is this montage of whaling, which reminds you this is, under the surface, a fairly disturbing movie still.

But there is a touching ending, in which the captain decides to retire and leave things to Kasuga, clearing the way for Kasuga and his daughter to be married. The film seems to be over.

AND THEN...

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And then...and then....

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...this happens...this! That?

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What the f*ck is that?

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I can't express to you how weirdly bumpy this animation is motion; it looks very much like the one of these whales just sh*ts out a giant turd, which transforms via animation into a baby whale, and...

Image

...a baby whale? What the hell is wrong with all these people? These people getting married at the end are the ones who kill those whales and their baby! They're being animated to part their giant whale-bodies to make room to show the ship's harpoon-gun between them! What is this???!!!??!

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So I can't fully get behind this movie. But it is easy enough, in most of its moments, to hold it at the distance of it being a movie from really very long ago. If you can stomach the whale material better than I can, the film is light and funny, and will give you no problems.
[TEXT & IMAGES]
Spoiler
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It's essentially a romantic comedy about a singing seaman who works the harpoon aboard a whaling vessel. Popular singer Hachiro Kasuga is the harpoon man and first mate, innocently wooing his captain's daughter with songs of yearning he sings from the deck of the ship (in one of Suzuki's early incongruities, the woman is never in earshot when Kasuga sings).

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The obstacles in his way are his captain, who feels the unassuming Kasuga is showing him up and trying to take his place, and three local women, all of whom fall for Kasuga in one way or another, and who each make intense come-ons to the shy lead. Yes, somehow, this is a musical romantic comedy about whaling.

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The title is one of Kasuga's singles from the era, but he sings a number of other songs throughout the picture, too. At this point, Suzuki is still not getting real movie stars to lead the pictures. Kasuga is terribly wooden and brittle. He appears again for Suzuki as a supporting player and title song singer in An Inn of Floating Weeds, by which point Suzuki has a real star in a young Hideaki Nitani (making his debut). The result is a much better performance from Kasuga than what happens here. In this film, Kasuga goes in and out of being just baseline passable and genuinely terrible. He's okay in his scenes with actresses, and with comic actors. He's atrocious in scenes where he's supposed to be "hanging out with the guys," but the possibility exists that Suzuki may have decided not to help him get through those sequences, since he is meant to be ill-at-ease in that environment specifically.

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It could be deliberate; a lot of experiments in style and approach are happening in this loose but very short 48-minute B-picture. Amongst other elements, Suzuki is going to start to figure out where to put humor.

FRAMING & BLOCKING

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In this film especially, Suzuki puts the humor all over the place. Most of the picture is a collection of humor set-piece sequences, and in each one of them we see Suzuki expanding the way he visualizes his actors and their places in the action There are joke sequences which entirely rely upon blocking a big group of people, such as the one where everyone in the maritime office attempts to read a sign that was put up slanted by all canting their heads at the same angle.

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The previous film featured a very small cast, without a lot of complex blocking. This whaling comedy has a much larger cast, seemingly representing most of the denizens of the local harbor.

Image

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There are also several plan sequences, made up largely of complex panning or tracking shots, as when the local geisha walks past the maritime office with her portable radio blaring, and the camera pans from window of the office to the next to the next, charting her path towards the building.

Image

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And there is the signature sequence and gag of the movie, a very long horizontal tracking shot that follows Kasuga as he flees a very pushy girl––unaware his sweater is caught on the post he had been leaning against, and leading it to unravel behind him. This new camera mobility is brought on perhaps because Suzuki is now paired with cinematographer Kazue Nagatsuka for the first time.

CINEMATOGRAPHY

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I've written a lot about Kazue Nagatsuka, who I think is an under-appreciated member of Suzuki's crew a lot of the time. To summarize, he is one of Nikkatsu's top cameramen, a cinematographer since the silent era, who will work with Suzuki intermittently from this point until his death in 1982, just after the release of Mirage Theater––his last film with Suzuki, a testament to their spectacular work over decades together. Suzuki and Nagatsuka already know each other at this point; Nagatsuka was first Suzuki's mentor's preferred cameraman, and Suzuki worked with him as AD on several of Hiroshi Noguchi's movies. From this point on, Suzuki and Noguchi will both work with Nagatsuka frequently. Nagatsuka's skill makes it possible for him to work, somehow, on more films a year than Suzuki, even. The year of this film, 1956, he shoots two movies for Suzuki, two for Noguchi, two for Masahiro Makino, of a total of 10 films. Nagatsuka's obvious efficiency means that a tiny joke movie like this one has very elegant tracking shots and sophisticated deep-focus material.

Image

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There is also Nagatsuka's typically moody black-and-white effects, including a notable night-time sequence which looks as if it's shot during magic hour, where Kasuga sings, and a woman tries to woo him by jumping into the ocean. Kasuga's song is interrupted several times by this hot-blooded girls desperate cries for help, and Nagatsuka uses what looks like a host of different effects to make the sequence seem to be lit in an ambient way. The moody sequence where Kasuga delivers his drunk captain back to the captain's daughter is especially lovely as well, lit to appear single-source––though Nagatsuka's film never seem to really be single-source for very much of the time.

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The harbor is Misaki Port, in Miura City, Kanagawa Prefecture. Everything seems to be filmed on location, and so the best-lit parts of the movie are the interiors. In those scenes, Nagatsuka's cinematography shines with his usual contrast-y clarity and brilliance. The outdoor scenes are another matter, and are frequently pretty low-contrast and greyed-down. Nagatsuka's next work for Suzuki, on Satan's Town, uses far less location work, and tends to look more like a normal Nagatsuka film in a lot of respects.

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But there are other sequences made striking not because of the camerawork so much as the other rapidly developing aspects of Suzuki's approach, especially...

EDITING

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During this second project, Suzuki unites with Akira Suzuki. They will go on to work together at least 40 more times, making Akira Suzuki Seijun's longest-running collaborator.

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Akira Suzuki edits more than 353 projects in a 50-year career. He begins as an editor in 1954, at Nikkatsu. He seems to edit for every major filmmaker at the company through about 1985 or so. His name is on tons of projects, however, because from early on he is Nikkatsu's chief editor––so it's not always clear how much participation he has in all these movies, whether he has assistants to work with him, etc. He does continue to edit for Suzuki personally through 2001's Pistol Opera, and other sources list him as editing primarily for Suzuki and Koreyoshi Kurahara. Easier to list the movies he did not edit than to go through all the ones he did. He is not the editor on the company's big breaks, Season of the Sun and Crazed Fruit. Conspicuously, he is absent for Zigeunerweisen––though he's back for Mirage Theater. He edits most of Suzuki's films, but he isn't there for Tokyo Drifter, for the TV projects, for Zigeunerweisen, or for Princess Raccoon. For other filmmakers, his notable films as editor include early Nikkatsu musical Jazz on Parade 1956, other early Umetsugu Inoue hits like The Stormy Man, The Eagle and the Hawk, and That Wonderful Guy, Kurahara's I Am Waiting, Intimidation, The Warped Ones, I Hate But Love, Black Sun, and The Flame of Devotion. In this period he starts editing outside the studio, especially for Ken Takakura pictures: An Outlaw, seven Abashiri Prison movies. After Suzuki is fired and Koreyoshi Kurahara defects, he works for Yasuharu Hasebe on Massacre Gun, Savage Wolf Pack, and Stray Cat Rock: Delinquent Girl Boss. He starts editing anime for television during the Nikkatsu shutdown, and when the studio opens back up for business, he is there for business as well, editing pink films like Sex Rider: Wet Highway, Night of the Felines, Mid-Afternoon Love Affair, Woman on the Night Train, the first New Eros Schedule Book movie, Hasebe's Naked Seven, Flower and Snake, Kumashiro's adaptation of The Key, Man and Woman Behind the Fusuma Screen, World of Geisha, Street of Joy, Evening Primrose, Lady Moonflower, Painful Bliss! Final Twist!, Hasebe's Rape! 13th Hour, Yukihiro Sawada's Assault!, Dannoura Pillow War, Erotic Campus: Rape Reception, The Woman with red Hair, Oh! Woman: A Dirty Song, Pleasure Campus Secret Games, Rape and Death of a Housewife, The Woman Who Wets Her Fingers and She-Cat, amongst many others. In that time he edits Kurahara's documentary on the arctic fox, Sogo Ishii and Yukihiro Sawada's High School Big Panic (adapting to a new rhythm), The Man Who Stole the Sun, Fukasaku's Virus, Sawada's Moon-Mask Rider, Kichitaro Negishi's exceptional Distant Thunder...then perhaps his Nikkatsu contacts get him in with Shinji Somai, and he edits Sailor Suit Schoolgirl with a Machine Gun, the magnificent P.P. Rider, and Luminous Woman. He edits Detective Story, The New Morning of Billy the Kid, Heaven and Earth, Juzo Itami's The Funeral, Tampopo, A Taxing Woman, A Taking Woman's Return, Sweet Home, Minbo, Supermarket Woman and Woman in Witness Protection. He edits other high-profile 80s movies, like Sorekara, Time of Wickedness, and a couple of arty yakuza films: Someday Someone Will Be Killed and Let Him Rest in Peace.

Image

Seijun Suzuki sometimes downplays the work of an editor on his films, touting his own Shochiku training in shooting for the cut, where he and others were taught not to waste a foot of film. So sometimes he has said that the films were shot with the edit in mind. But I've seen in many of these movies trailers with alternate footage. I've read about sequences shot and left on the cutting-room floor. And on the Story of Sorrow and Sadness bluray, there is an interview with an assistant editor on the movie, who explains how involved the editing process was on the picture. What's more, it's obvious Suzuki is downplaying, because the classic Suzuki style of discontinuous cutting is not present in Cheers at the Harbor; but it is in Singing Rope.

Image

Especially notable here is a sequence where the local geisha is pressured in a night of entertaining the sailors into stripping. This most noteworthy moment of cinema in the film intercuts between the geisha removing piece after piece of her kimono and a group of ogling sailors, but also with a statue of venus, which reveals to us the nudity the men imagine they will soon see.

Image

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Right at the point where the camera reveals the entire figure of the nude statue, the men start in alarm, to see that underneath her kimono, the geisha is wearing...

Image

Image

...a judo keikogi. The drunken men try and riot at this disappointment, and in a series of flashcuts the geisha throws them all, including throwing one through a sliding wall so that the hole in the wall reflects his sprawled form. Obviously, Seijun has planned an elaborate gag here, but Akira has worked out a way for this to make sense through very precise intercutting of really disparate footage. All the gags in the picture benefit from Akira's willingness to cut in aggressive jumps. This was the general method he established at Nikkatsu, but still, no other filmmaker at the studio makes movies that cut anything like Seijun's films. One imagines the chief editor's willingness to be on-board––along with the studio's veteran cinematographer being game and indulging the younger director's inspirations were helpful voices convincing the studio that Seijun Suzuki had a worthy place there as a director.

Image

Image

To me, Akira Suzuki is a persistent presence whose talent was dependable in working out a language that expressed Suzuki's odd cinematic jokes, especially. The judo striptease in this movie is an early example of the kind of thing Akira brings together in later Suzuki movies with wit and elan. No question that Seijun and his collaborators on the set define most of the films, but Akira's rhythm for Suzuki is notably unique in cinema, and his editing language is something Suzuki relies upon as he develops a personal approach to drama, action, and later work in the genres of satire, the supernatural, etc., etc.

MY TAKE

Image

I am so anti-whaling that it makes this movie hard to take. However, whales hardly ever show up, and most of the picture takes place ashore, amongst the quirky denizens of the town. I really enjoy Suzuki's sense of humor, and I like his out-and-out comedies quite a bit. The flirtatious and romantic scenes worked very well in this movie; though the drama between the old man captain jealous of young, entirely obedient Hachiro was less than convincing. The women in this cast far outshine the men. Each of the women are a very clear "type," rendered in a good-natured way, and made slightly more complex than what they appear to be on the surface.

Image

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The girls may go nuts over a cannon when Hachiro fires it (he contorts into a fairly sexual stance to fire the cannon and the harpoon alike), but each of them have particular wants and needs and interests in life, and Hachiro won't necessarily really meet those needs––he's just the only handsome guy in the port.

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The only one Hachiro is right for––and the only one he's interested in––is the captain's daughter, who is played with luminous, hesitent warmth by Toshie Takada. These two awkward dopes are exactly right for one another, and the scenes between them play that out entirely convincingly. Then late in the movie there is this montage of whaling, which reminds you this is, under the surface, a fairly disturbing movie still.

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But there is a touching ending, in which the captain decides to retire and leave things to Kasuga, clearing the way for Kasuga and his daughter to be married. The film seems to be over.

AND THEN...

Image

And then...and then....

Image

...this happens...this! That?

Image

What the f*ck is that?

Image

I can't express to you how weirdly bumpy this animation is motion; it looks very much like the one of these whales just sh*ts out a giant turd, which transforms via animation into a baby whale, and...

Image

...a baby whale? What the hell is wrong with all these people? These people getting married at the end are the ones who kill those whales and their baby! They're being animated to part their giant whale-bodies to make room to show the ship's harpoon-gun between them! What is this???!!!??!

Image

So I can't fully get behind this movie. But it is easy enough, in most of its moments, to hold it at the distance of it being a movie from really very long ago. If you can stomach the whale material better than I can, the film is light and funny, and will give you no problems.

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User avatar
feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#194 Post by feihong »

CAPONE CRIES HARD aka CAPONE CRIES A LOT (why do people try and call it this?) aka CAPONE WEEPS WITH PASSION

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Seriously, why? "Capone Cries a Lot" and "Capone Weeps with Passion" are toothless. "Capone Cries Hard" was a perfect title from the get-go, with a faintly noir-ish tinge more suitable for the pastiche that’s coming.

[TEXT ONLY]
Spoiler
Capone Cries Hard is the funniest of Suzuki's movies, in a way that makes it feel slightly "off" from what we've come to expect. Based on a novel by quirky author Toshiyuki Kajiyama, writer of The Black Test Car, the film follows Kaiemon, pledged to dreams of music. The would-be artist is determined to train with a famous naniwabushi singer. Naniwabushi is a song form in Japan based on a central, charismatic singer, narrating a story in free verse derived from the idiom of tanka. The singing features great range, but the appeal is...it's very local flavor. Hard to imagine anyone enjoying it nearly so much as a Japanese speaker from the period it was popular. Suzuki doesn't really mock the form, but I think you could say he pokes gentle fun at its peculiarities.

An interesting element of the story is that, eager as he is to learn from the best, Kaiemon never has a lesson with the naniwabushi master. The master is in prison when he arrives, and when the master shows up, Kaiemon is in bed with his wife, Kozome. So the master banishes him to America to save face.

Played by Yuko Tanaka, Kozome is a fascinating figure, who is for some reason immediately taken with Kaiemon––even as she pegs him quite quickly as an absolute idiot. Kozome seduces Umiemon with no difficulty, and they are a couple by the time the master returns. The master has had it with Kozome, so he banishes the adulterous couple.

Determined to make something of himself, Kaiemon dreams of singing for the most important person in America, the president. Someone tells him the most important person in America is Al Capone, and so Kaiemon aims to sing for the crime lord. When Kaiemon arrives in San Francisco, he becomes enmeshed in a gang war between a Japanese bootlegger, Tetsugoro, & the Capones. The film chronicles the up-and-down fortunes of Kaiemon and his attempts at artistic relevance in a foreign land.

AMERICA, or THE THEME PARK

The time period is slippery, but it seems to start in the mid-20s, when naniwabushi was reaching its heights. The film moves freely through the next 15 years of history. When Kaiemon first arrives in the United States he sees flappers and blackface dixieland orchestras. Kaiemon's own fortunes yo-yo up and down. At his height, he's a success, with a tall, white flapper as his mistress, and his wife Kozome drives a fancy automobile. At his various nadirs, Kaiemon leads a beggar uprising and eventually is imprisoned at Manzanar. Kaiemon goes through a Chaplin phase, where he performs as the little tramp, and another phase where he adapts a story of the Sand Creek Massacre into song.

The satirical edge here swings from bawdy shenanigans to grotesque gallows-humor, as Suzuki presents the Japanese experience in America as an encounter with empire. Kaiemon and Kozome believe they are visiting, but by the end of the film they may each come to realize that America is a one-way trip. At first, the visiting Japanese are exoticized by the locals, then when they become successful, they are embraced as fellow capitalists––in fact, they are given almost unfettered access to white society at this point in the picture, to the extent that Kaiemon nets himself a white American mistress. Then as times and tastes change, as Kaiemon uses naniwabushi to criticize American culture and history, they are brutally abandoned, and then interned when America enters the war.

One of the subtle aspects of an over-the-top movie is the way in which the Japanese characters respond to being treated as exotic creatures by the white Americans. It's striking how Kaiemon and the others almost subconsciously start to take up Japanese cultural expressions the Americans are obsessed with––things they felt they had nothing to do with before. So Kaiemon sings dressed as a samurai, and Kozome becomes a geisha.

Fitting, then, that the America in the movie is a defunct "American History" theme park in Japan. I attempted to research what park this is and came up short. There are American history theme parks in Japan after 1985, but nothing I can find before then, and my understanding from each source that reports this is that the park was going out of business, making it available to be dressed and used for the entire film shoot.

Takeo Kimura returns also to his more famous job as production designer, wringing every bit of artificial schmaltz out of the setting that he can. Capone Cries Hard is a pinnacle of Kimura's craft, in a sense; real history, told in jumbled fashion on the fakest of sets, giving us the critical distance to see beyond what our preconceptions. The film is full of period details, none of which ever comes together in an authentic sense: but that's on purpose, so Kimura and co-writer Atsushi Yamatoya and Suzuki can make a film critical of America, the theme park which, they seem to suggest, is devouring modern Japan.

There are walls in the park, but what lies beyond them, what encompasses this fantasy of America is entirely Japanese, and the ones who are dreaming this America into dim half-light are Japanese people of modern times, emulating their fantasy Americans. The choice to film in a theme park not only makes the movie possible, it establishes the critical tone in the picture. America the themepark is full of anachronisms; artificial settings abstract the space and make us aware of the cliched scenes and spaces we see. What burns through our sense of reality is the commercialism of the construction of this America, and maybe of that other one. When we cut to an abandoned themepark, the dissonance highlights the commercial aspect in both ideas of America. There is a craziness to this America, right from the get-go. Kaiemon spies a body floating off the pier right when he disembarks from the boat. Klansmen mix in with other anti-immigrant crowds very casually. Umiemon gets a flapper girlfriend in the 20s, who remains a flapper through 1941, when the film ends. Cowgirls in evening dresses shoot one another in covered wagons in the town square. And Yuko Tanka drives her car on a joyride through the struts of what looks like a modern roller coaster.

But in spite of temporal and geographic anachronisms, Kimura and Yamatoya seem well-appraised of American history. The America that seeps through the cracks of this amusement park in little rivulets is composed under the influence of Howard Zinn, rather than the sons & daughters of the American Revolution, say. Kaiemon quickly identifies with the most marginalized groups in American society: first the Japanese bootleggers, but quickly afterwards with black musicians who befriend him, with a mob of beggars he comes to inspire and command, Chaplin's winsome tramp, and in his final naniwabushi performance we see him describing the theft of Native Americans' land in terms you wouldn't hear in an American movie. The film treats us as well to the riotous gangland wars for economic dominance; a shootout in an amusement park that looks like a speakeasy reminding us that the project we see playing out is unfettered free-market madness. Oh, and hey; where was Japan in 1985? Riding high on the wave of capitalism; so much so, that they could build an absurd monument to Americana like the one we see in the film. That, after all, is having money to burn.

The cultural violence we see in the picture is another aspect of this assessment of America, and its affect on the Japanese immigrant psyche. The convulsions of Kaiemon and Kozome's identities seems abrupt at first, but it's also a conscious part of the film's construction, and those Japanese cultural stereotypes the unwitting immigrants have taken on prove too hard for the impressionable Kaiemon and his more cynical-seeming but clearly similar wife.

Later on, Kozome attempts to dress as a caucasian woman, awkwardly stuffing her dress to effect an "American" chest and attempting to walk in heels, to no avail, and drive an American motorcar. Kozome's story ends surprisingly early in the movie, when she crashes her car through a popcorn stand in wild fashion and absolutely wipes out. She dies in a bed of popcorn––I think there's a metaphor there. Suzuki's handling of dissonant tones is at its peak here: in the midst of all the farcical japes, he is able to twirl on a dime and make Kozome's death painful and tragic––even thought the constituent shots all seem florid and jokey.

Yet, while Kozome's end can be said to come from her attempts to be "American," Kaiemon's own downfall is in his attempt to be Japanese. At the crucial moment in the gang war between Japanese gangster Tetsu and the Capone brothers, during a tense standoff, Kaiemon starts performing improvised naniwabushi for Al Capone. Kozome, usually more savvy but also kind of specifically a naniwabushi loser, takes part in the presentation. Capone does seem to be moved by this performance. It's the high point of Kaiemon's mission to spread naniwabushi to the west; it's also just an awkward moment in the middle of a standoff, the cultural significance of which is almost completely lost on Capone. In a dream Capone tells Kaiemon "that naniwabushi thing is some crazy stuff, huh?" But Kaiemon's Japanese identity haunts him. When he narrates the plight of the Native Americans, people in the crowd think it's in bad taste, and children watching actually stone him. He is rescued by his flapper girlfriend, Lillian. After she breaks Kaiemon out of Manzanar, she dutifully attempts to be his second as he commits seppuku.

This ending scene mocks in a brutal way Kaiemon's attempts to take on aspects of Japanese culture that have nothing to do with him, simply because his culture is reducible in America to these cliched signifiers. Kaiemon starts doing the deed, then is shocked to discover that it hurts as much as it does. At this point, Lillian finally loses her cool, announces that she thinks it's all too much to put up with anymore, and heads for the hills. In the haze of death, Kaiemon sees Kozome, doing a flirtatious dance in front of a ferris wheel with the word "Dreamland" emblazoned on it in unlit neon––unquestionably spelling out doom.

Suzuki was famously wary of America––the American presence is threatening on the edges of films from Gate of Flesh to Branded to Kill. Suzuki hadn't been to the United States when he made this film, but Capone Cries Hard gives him the most leeway to present his interpretation of America and the way its culture, married to capitalism, runs like mercury through the 20th century. In a time when Suzuki is making nostalgic movies struggling to recapture a Japan of his past, he gets a time-out to cast a wary eye at the way American culture warps everything it touches. There's a sense that, beyond the comedy of the film, Kaiemon and Kozome struggle really desperately and fail to hold on to any sense of who they were before they arrived in the United States. In the final moments, when he exclaims he can see Kozome, Lillian wants to know which of the two of them––romantic rivals in life––meant the most to Kaiemon, and he tells the flapper that she can't compare to Kozome.


MY TAKE

Capone Cries Hard is so darkly funny, so unexpected. The exoticism of seeing America through Suzuki's wide-open eyes is a heady drug––I can't think of too many other foreign movies––maybe none, really––that present such a critical view of the United States & its history, with so little attempt to code or obscure its direct critique. This is a rich experience. There is a tone and a flavor and an intent here that no other Suzuki movie quite has––I tend to put it in a basket with Story of Sorrow and Sadness, but the two pictures are hardly alike at all. And just to underscore it––the movie is laugh-out-loud funny.
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Capone Cries Hard is the funniest of Suzuki's movies, in a way that makes it feel slightly "off" from what we've come to expect. That the movie follows upon Suzuki's most avant-garde art-films, Mirage Theater and the experimental early V-cinema Cherry Blossoms in Spring, makes it more surprising what an earthy, Runyon-esque set of characters and scenarios appear.

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I read Suzuki saying Takeo Kimura asked him to take over the project when an intended director had to drop out in pre-production––but I can't find the quote. Regardless, Capone Cries Hard was based on a novel by Toshiyuki Kajiyama, writer of The Black Test Car. The origin of the project is ambiguous. Carroll's book reported it was one of the Guryu Hachiro projects developed during the Suzuki blacklist period. In interview with critic Koshi Ueno Suzuki says the script bounced around studios for years prior to his directing it. Writing is credited to Takeo Kimura and Atsushi Yamatoya (the last live-action project of Suzuki's which Yamatoya works on, though he also writes the screenplay for Lupin III: Legend of the Gold of Babylon, which comes out five months later). The film has some of the acid satirical edge of the Yamatoya-scripted Story of Sorrow & Sadness, but the farcical romanticism––as well as the overall goofiness––reminds me of Takeo Kimura and Suzuki's screenwriting on Tokyo Drifter.

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Junnosuke is a fanatic, pledged to dreams of music. Naming himself Kaiemon, the would-be artist is determined to train with a famous naniwabushi singer. This is a song form based on a central, charismatic singer, narrating a story in free verse. The form reaches its' height in early mid-century, losing popularity fast, replaced by jazz. While the singing is accompanied with a shamisen, the singer is the star who carries the whole performance. The singing has great range, but the appeal is...very local flavor. Hard to imagine anyone but a native Japanese speaker from the time period. Suzuki doesn't mock the form, but you could say he pokes gentle fun at its peculiarities.

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Kaiemon trains with Umiemon, an anarchist who has faked his death and masquerades as a naniwabushi expert, trying to hit low and high notes by squeezing one another's testicles. The film relies on the way even as Kaiemon is determined to spread the gospel of naniwabushi, we know the form has not a snowball's hope in hell of translating to the audience Kaiemon hopes for.

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An interesting element is that, eager as he is to learn from the best, Kaiemon never has a lesson with the naniwabushi master. The master is in prison when he arrives, and when the master shows up, Kaiemon is in bed with his wife, Kozome. So the master banishes him to America to save face.

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For some reason Kozome is immediately taken with Kaiemon––even as she pegs him as an idiot. We also get that Kaiemon is something of a loser in general, but Kozome doesn't see that aspect of him, and by the end we'll come to see that's because Kozome is just as much of a loser herself. Witness what happens next. Kozome seduces Kaiemon with no difficulty, and they are a couple by the time the master returns. The master has had it with Kozome, so he banishes the adulterous couple.

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Determined to make something of himself, Kaiemon vows to sing for the most important person in America, the president. Someone tells him the most important person in America is Al Capone, and so Kaiemon aims to sing for the crime lord, the “President of the Night.” When the couple arrive in San Francisco, they get enmeshed in a gang war between a Japanese bootlegger, Tetsugoro, and the Capones. In a nutshell, the film tracks the up-and-down fortunes of Kaiemon and his attempts at artistic relevance in a foreign land.

AMERICA, or THE THEME PARK

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The film seems to start in the mid-20s, when naniwabushi was at its height. When Kaiemon arrives in the United States he sees flappers and blackface dixieland orchestras. By the end of the picture times have changed, and Kaiemon's own fortunes yo-yo up and down throughout.

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He's briefly a success, with a tall, white flapper as his mistress, and his wife Kozome drives a fancy automobile.

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At his various nadirs, Kaiemon leads a beggar uprising and eventually is imprisoned at Manzanar. Through the middle of the movie Kaiemon goes through a Chaplin phase, where he performs as the little tramp when he can no longer bear to sing, and another phase where he adapts a story of the Sand Creek Massacre into a song.

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The satirical edge here swings from bawdy shenanigans to grotesque gallows-humor, as Suzuki presents the Japanese experience in America as an encounter with empire. The singers believe they are visiting, but by the end of the film they may each come to realize, many times over, that America is a one-way trip. At first, the visiting Japanese are exoticized by the locals, then when they become successful, they are embraced as fellow capitalists––in fact, they are given almost unfettered access to white society at this point in the picture, to the extent that Kaiemon nets himself a white American mistress. Then as times and tastes change, as Kaiemon uses naniwabushi to criticize American culture and history, they are brutally abandoned, and then interned when America enters the war.

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A subtle aspect of an over-the-top movie is the way in which the Japanese characters respond to being treated as exotic creatures by the white Americans. It's striking how Kaiemon and Kozome start to take up Japanese cultural expressions the Americans are obsessed with––things they felt they had nothing to do with before. So Kaiemon sings on the street in a samurai costume, and Kozome becomes a geisha.

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In American culture they're given a huge range of diverse experiences, from their own fetishization to reckless consumerism, to American poverty (the film attempts to recreate the world of depression-era Hoovervilles), organized crime, racism (at one point the kkk tries to run Kaiemon out of town), to cultural embrace in the crucial jam session.

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Fitting that the America in the movie is a defunct "American History" theme park. I attempted to find what park this is but came up short. There is no park I can find before 1985, and my understanding is that the park was going out of business, making it available to be dressed and used for the entire film shoot.

Takeo Kimura returns as production designer, wringing every bit of artificial schmaltz out of the setting that he can. Kimura's is one of the unsung lives in Japanese cinema. Born 1918, he started as art director in 1942 worked as art director or production designer on 135 films, wrote 7 screenplays, and held the Guinness record for oldest debut by a director, in 2007 at age 89. He directed three films, wrote the lyrics to the song from Branded to Kill, and appeared as Kenji Miyazawa's geology professor in the experimental "I Heard the Whisper of the Ammonite."

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Kimura in Ammonite.

Notable films include Kinuyo Tanaka's The Moon Has Risen and Birth of a Jazz Maiden (with obvious homage to Singin' in the Rain and An American in Paris), then Red Pier. He floats through Nikkatsu, not establishing consistent collaboration. Before The Bastard, Kimura wants to work with Suzuki, and the feeling’s mutual. The studio tries to keep it from happening. Once The Bastard is made, Kimura works with Suzuki through his Nikkatsu era. Kimura stays on to the end of the "akushon" era, working Massacre Gun, Velvet Hustler, Outlaw Gangster VIP, Bad Girl Mako, and then his unique aesthetic & skills enable him to freelance, especially for Kei Kumai, on Sandakan No. 8, The Long Darkness, Cape of the North, Love and Faith, The Sea and Poison, The Sea is Watching, Deep River, Darkness in the Light, To Love, and Death of a Tea Master. He works on Fire Festival & Preparation for the Festival, on Youth Killer, Willful Murder, then Zigeunerweisen.

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Kimura doesn’t design Mirage Theater or Yumeji. He does Tampopo before finding new patron Kaizo Hayashi: To Sleep So as to Dream, The Most Terrible Time in My Life, Stairway to the Distant Past, & Zipang. He works for Akio Jissoji on Tokyo: The Last Megalopolis. He works on Dogra Magra (Guryu Hachiro project), and reunites w/Suzuki for Pistol Opera & Princess Raccoon. In 2007 he directs Matouqin Nocturne, which has a small role for Suzuki––their last collab.

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Suzuki in Matoquin Nocturne

As a designer, Kimura was known as an "ideas man.” He wrote and proposed ideas on-set. And he was not afraid to make his backgrounds expressionistic. The Club Alulu in Tokyo Drifter is an example, and those dribbling sculptures from the club seem to return in spirit in Princess Raccoon. My favorite production design of his is on Kanto Wanderer, where we see small chirashi posters on the walls and minimalist detail making real locations look just slightly dreamlike or nostalgic.

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Capone Cries Hard is a pinnacle of Kimura's craft; real history jumbled with fantasy, on the fakest of sets, giving us critical distance to see beyond preconceptions. The film is full of period details, none of which ever comes together as “authentic:” but that's on purpose, so Kimura can help make a film critical of America, the theme park which, they seem to suggest, is devouring modern Japan.

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There are walls in the park, but what lies beyond them, encompassing the fantasy, is entirely Japanese, and the ones who are dreaming this America into dim half-light are Japanese people of modern times, emulating their fantasy Americans. The choice to film in a theme park not only makes the movie possible, it establishes a critical tone in the picture. America the theme park is full of anachronisms; artificial settings abstract the space and make us aware of the cliched scenes and spaces we see. What burns through our sense of reality is the commercialism of the construction of this America, and maybe of that other one. The film begins with a montage of newsreel footage of America in the Roaring 20s––especially focusing on the selling the idea of America; we see amusement parks, whirling rides, undulating parades, the air thick with confetti...the celebratory vibe feels excessively authentic, even as it's modulated by the obvious effects of the degraded black-&-white film stock.

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When we cut to the park, the dissonance highlights the commercial aspect in both ideas of America. There is a craziness here, right from the get-go. Kaiemon spies a body floating off the pier right when he disembarks from the boat. Klansmen mix in with other anti-immigrant crowds very casually. Kaiemon gets a flapper girlfriend in the 20s, who remains a flapper through 1941, when the film ends. Cowgirls in evening dresses shoot one another in covered wagons in the town square. And Yuko Tanka drives her car on a joyride through the struts of what looks like a modern roller coaster.

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But in spite of temporal and geographic anachronisms, the writers seem well-appraised of American history. The America that seeps through the cracks of this amusement park in little rivulets is composed under the influence of Howard Zinn, rather than the sons & daughters of the American Revolution, say. Kaiemon quickly identifies with the most marginalized groups in American society: first the Japanese bootleggers, but quickly afterwards with black musicians who befriend him, with a mob of beggars he comes to inspire and command, Chaplin's winsome tramp, and in his final naniwabushi performance we see him describing the theft of Native Americans' land in terms you wouldn't hear in an American movie. The film treats us as well to the riotous gangland wars for economic dominance; a shootout in an amusement park that looks like a speakeasy reminding us that the project we see playing out is unfettered free-market madness. Oh, and hey; where was Japan in 1985? Riding high on the wave of capitalism; so much so, that they could build an absurd monument to Americana like the one we see in the film. That, after all, is having money to burn.

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The cultural violence we see in the picture is another aspect of this assessment of America, and its effect on the Japanese immigrant psyche. The convulsions of Kaiemon and Kozome's identities seems abrupt at first, but it's a conscious part of the film's construction, and those Japanese cultural stereotypes the unwitting immigrants have taken on prove too hard for the impressionable Kaiemon and his more cynical-seeming but clearly similar girlfriend. When Kozome's earning power as a geisha-themed prostitute outstrips Kaiemon's, the itinerant singer grabs a samurai sword and attempts to defend his woman from her clients.

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Later on, when fortune favors them both, Kozome attempts to dress as a caucasian woman (awkwardly stuffing her dress to effect an "American" chest and attempting to walk in heels, to no avail, and drive an American motorcar). Kozome's story ends early in the movie, when she crashes her car through a popcorn stand and wipes out. She dies in a bed of popcorn––I think there's a metaphor there. Suzuki's handling of dissonant tones is at its peak: in the midst of all the farcical japes, he is able to twirl on a dime and make Kozome's death painful and tragic––even though the constituent shots all seem florid and jokey.

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Yet, while Kozome's end comes from her attempt to be "American," Kaiemon's downfall is his attempt to be Japanese. At the crucial moment in the gang war between Japanese gangster Tetsu and the Capone brothers, during a tense standoff, Kaiemon starts performing improvised naniwabushi for Al Capone. Kozome, usually more savvy but also kind of specifically a naniwabushi loser, takes part in the presentation. Capone does seem to be moved by this performance. Later in the picture Capone dreams of seeing Kaiemon again, now in his "tramp" persona. It's the high point of Kaiemon's mission to spread naniwabushi to the west; it's also just an awkward moment in the middle of a standoff, the cultural significance of which is almost completely lost on Capone. In the dream he says "that naniwabushi thing is some crazy stuff, huh?" Maybe Kaiemon is sharing the dream with him? But Kaiemon's Japanese identity haunts him. When he narrates the plight of the Native Americans, people in the crowd think it's in bad taste, and children watching actually stone him.

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He is rescued by his flapper girlfriend, Lillian. This actress playing Lillian is Laurie Belisle. After she breaks Kaiemon out of Manzanar, she dutifully attempts to be his second as he commits seppuku.

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This ending scene is spectacular, mocking in a brutal way Kaiemon's attempt to take on aspects of Japanese culture that really have nothing to do with him, simply because his culture is reducible in America to these cliched signifiers. Kaiemon starts doing the deed, then is shocked to discover that it hurts as much as it does. At this point, Lillian finally loses her cool, announces that she thinks it's all too much to put up with anymore, and heads for the hills. As Kaiemon dies in the glittery "wonder room" he sees Kozome, doing a flirtatious dance in front of a ferris wheel with the word "Dreamland" emblazoned on it in unlit neon––unquestionably spelling out doom.

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The American presence is threatening on the edges of films from Gate of Flesh to Branded to Kill. Suzuki hadn't been to the United States when he made this film, but Capone Cries Hard gives him the most leeway to present his interpretation of America and the way its culture, married to capitalism, runs like a virus through the 20th century. In a time when Suzuki is making nostalgic movies struggling to recapture a Japan of his past, he gets a time-out to cast a wary eye at the way American culture warps everything it touches. There's a sense that, beyond the comedy of the film, Kaiemon and Kozome struggle really desperately and fail to hold on to any sense of who they were before they arrived in the United States. In the final moments, when he exclaims he can see Kozome, Lillian wants to know which of the two of them––romantic rivals in life––meant the most to Kaiemon, and he tells the flapper that she can't compare to Kozome.

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This second stage of Suzuki's career is full of autobiographical allusions, from the criticism of his own work in commercials in Story of Sorrow and Sadness to Yumeji's frustrating waiting for inspiration, to Kaiemon's stubborn holding-on to his unchanging naniwabushi singing. Suzuki has claimed that as an artist, he doesn't really change––and his brother sort of backed this up in an essay, claiming that Seijun seemed to be the same person he had been at age 12 throughout the rest of his life. In that sense, we can see Kaiemon sort of blindly, un-savvily pushing forward, singing the same way throughout his life, regardless of what changes in time and place and situation. He has to know naniwabushi songs will not be popular in the U.S., but he keeps on singing, regardless. He gets pelted with stones and assaulted and thrown in an internment camp. But the only struggle that remains real to him is his struggle for his unchanging art.

VISUALIZATION

FRAMING & BLOCKING

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Capone Cries Hard is the first of three projects Suzuki films in the 1.85:1 aspect ratio. Previous movies so frequently utilize all the space on screen, that it's surprising to see how much of the movie is framed flatly, in the central third of the screen. Why has Suzuki's most natural asset––his incredible eye for framing––deserted him on this picture?

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Capone Cries Hard was produced by a number of different companies, the most famous of which is Nippon Columbia, which produces a lot of anime, but also one other live-action movie, Nobuhiko Obayashi's April Fish; and the film arrives right in the beginning of the boom period for cable television. Producers in that time often funded productions by pre-selling screening rights to cable channels, and part of the explosion of films being shot in 1.85:1 and 1.78:1 during this period was the cable stations would enforce these ratios as part of their negotiation with producers––since either of them were easier to crop for the 1.33:1 television screen without losing much detail. There are so many shots in Capone that are framed more less exceptionally than Suzuki's normal standard , it makes me wonder if the aspect ratio came with the requirement to frame for 1.33:1 on a 1.85:1 image? So frequently, nothing is happening on the sides of the screen.

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Also, the camera is a lot less mobile than Suzuki's standard. To compensate, Suzuki stages almost Paradjanov-style tableaux.

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Takeo Kimura kept the "Latin Quarter" neon sign from Tokyo Drifter.

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CINEMATOGRAPHY

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Junichi Fujisawa starts his career as a DP on this film. Later on he'll shoot Yumeji and Marriage. His use of color is dreamy; it makes the movie seem suspended between history and the imaginary.

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Where Fujisawa does best is in action & effects. Tetsu's shootout with the mob, the haze of gunsmoke lit purple in the air. The action scene where the beggar army charges the gangsters is torchlit, with illuminated smoke behind the tommy-guns.

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The coroner's set is beautifully disturbing in treacly purples, oranges, teals...it is a really morbid setting for Kaiemon's grief at the death of Kozome. Capone actually has a lot of dazzling images, more in its treatment of color than in its lighting.

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Junichi Fujisawa shoots other interesting films, like Gunhed (a live-action mech movie with Mickey Curtis), a weepy friendship film called Stay Gold, & 9 Souls. His best non-Suzuki is Shun Nakahara's The Cherry Orchard.

REPRESENTATION

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Tom Vick's book on Suzuki defends Capone as worth reappraisal. Capone Cries Hard was #20 on Kinema Junpo's list of best films of the year. It’s on home video in multiple formats…in Japan. So how come we've not been able to see it before? Vick's theory is the problematic depictions of race in the film––especially two instances.

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The first is a black character who works in the brothel, only referred to as "Boss.” He hardly gets to talk. He has by far the most egregious treatment in the film; the Japanese pimps use the man as a stud, breaking in Japanese women who are being sold into prostitution to pay of gambling debts their husbands incur against the pimps.

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Second is the inclusion of a blackface jazz act in a music hall in an early part of the film. Tetsu takes Kaiemon to this glitzy nightclub, where we see them performing.

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The group plays dixieland jazz and leaves, replaced by the flapper dancers, one of whom, Lillian, will fall in love with Kaiemon.

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The jazz band returns in a later scene where Lillian throws a party in her apartment; they wear their same gold lame costumes, but not blackface––which I think points out the racism we see in the film is entirely contextualized within the power structures the film presents. The film doesn’t present the blackface performance as "right.” Tetsu's goal in bringing Kaiemon to the club is to show him that music in America is more complex, thorny, commercial, culturally-specific––he’s trying to show Kaiemon what his competition is as a singer, and why he thinks naniwabushi has no hope of finding cultural purchase in America––and maybe the risks of ethnic music being tokenized in an American "melting pot." Later in the film Kaiemon meets some actual African-American musicians, who are far more interesting and human characters (especially their drummer, who recognizes a kindred spirit in Kaiemon and encourages him and props him up when Kaiemon hits rock-bottom). The black man who works in the brothel, meanwhile, hits a gong to announce customers for the prostitutes and turns out to speak fluent Japanese.

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A mashup of stererotyped figures are presented in the film, but the context is one where cultural values are constantly being undermined by the pressure for survival in the American world. When Kozome and Kaiemon first arrive in America they stay at a flophouse, and Kozome reads a poem off the wall:

Do you know why you're poor?
Let me tell you then:
The king, rich men, and land owners suck the people's blood like parasites.
A man named Virtue, a man named Labor, and a man named Austerity.
-1905


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The toll of being poor in America means selling out, and selling out is explicitly defined as becoming a caricature of your culture. So Kaiemon becomes a samurai for the tourists and Kozome a geisha for the Chinese brothel patrons. Is it a stretch to imagine that "Boss" in the brothel has been co-opted in a similar way? Vick opines that the character may be the result of Suzuki's own ignorance, and contrasts him and the blackface musicians to the black jazz musicians Kaiemon meets later. These musicians practice in a grotto, accompanied by other black artists: sculptors, muralists, etc., all of whom are creating art that has integrity, noncommercial products of their own imaginations. And when they ultimately jam with Kaiemon, the blending of their music traditions doesn't corrupt Kaiemon's art, as he initially fears. So the treatment of race, class, and exploitation is a lot more complex than it appears.

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The Japanese characters are not heroes to be idolized, either; their relative ignorance of the African-American experience at the end of the movie is something key which they have missed, wearing their own sort of ethnocentric blinders––even as the drummer extends friendship to Kaiemon as recognition and appreciation, from one group of exploited musicians struggling for free expression to another, Kaiemon is too wrapped up in his own troubles to quite get it. But the film is essentially about Kaiemon never "getting it," in any context. Kaiemon's "moment" he longs for, and finally gets, amounts to nothing, because he always understands his situation a little too late.

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MY TAKE

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A problematic fave then, Capone Cries Hard is darkly funny and unexpected. Seeing America through Suzuki's wide-open eyes is a heady drug––I can't think of too many other foreign movies that present a critical view of the United States and its history with so little attempt to code or obscure a direct critique. It’s a rich experience. There is a flavor and an intent here that no other Suzuki movie quite has––I tend to put it in a basket with Story of Sorrow and Sadness, but the two pictures are hardly alike at all. And just to underscore it––the movie is laugh-out-loud funny.

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The film is sometimes considered scabrous and offensive by western viewers. It definitely carries Suzuki's dislike and mistrust of America with no demure. But this is a serious enough postcolonial discourse, with a lot to criticize about America in that frame. It's almost feels like a Rudy Wurlitzer movie (anachronisms and all; Wurlitzer penned Walker, a movie in a similar seriocomic vein as Capone), and I admire just how hilarious the film is––and serious––often at the same time. There is a telling exchange between Suzuki and Koshi Ueno about the movie in their interview:

Suzuki: Actually, I was thinking of making Capone very Japanese, but then I would have been accused of poking fun at him, and that wasn't my intention, either. Capone Cries Hard turned out to be a very serious film, didn't it?

Ueno: Well...What is a serious film, in your opinion? I think the spectators have the feeling that their leg is being pulled. They expect certain thinggs from your films, and I think you're playing with their expectations deliberately. Yes, seriously! In the meantime, you've betrayed those spectators. You're a wicked man!

Suzuki: I don't think I'm so terribly wicked!

Ueno: But you want the spectators to feel uncomfortable, don't you? You're thinking, "If they expect this of me, I'll make sure to do something else."

Suzuki: Yes, I have to admit that.


This really gets at the peculiar quality of Capone, the way seriousness undercuts humor and humor seriousness, hand-in-hand throughout; the delirious changeability that animates the film and makes the experience so special.

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I want to point out the actors who make the movie quite so funny and moving.

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Yuko Tanaka plays Kozome, the mercury that runs through this picture and makes it more than a farce. As the surprisingly fractious love story develops between her and Kaiemon, the film deepens considerably. Theirs turns out to be a romance of jealousy, frustration, missed opportunities, and yearning, as they find themselves together and apart, again and again. There is a spectacular moment where Kaiemon arrives at the brothel where Kozome has become the star attraction. Kozome has given Kaiemon the brushoff by this point, and the desperate singer has lugged a samurai sword over to fight off Kozome's clients and suitors and take her back, by force, if necessary. Kozome, drunk or drugged, looks at Kaiemon and recognizes him, first with disdain, and then, after Kaiemon throws her over his shoulder, a warm smile breaks out on her face, her eyes twinkling with long-buried affection. Yuko Tanaka makes a meal out of the quirky Kozome, in her one-and-only Suzuki film. Tanaka's career has been a prestigious one, by the standard of a depressed film industry. 64 projects in around 45 years is different than a Nikkatsu filmography from the 60s, but Tanaka's projects include lots of standouts.

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She comes onto the scene as a voice in a 1979 anime of Daddy Long-legs, and then has a small role on-camera in Shohei Immamura's Why Not? Third-billed in Kaneto Shindo's Edo Porn, but her breakout role is the lead in Yoichi Higashi's The Rape. The film discovers what is the central attraction of Tanaka as a star in her early career; the childlike innocence of her almost preadolescent looks, contrasted with the sexual nature of her character's subject matter. This is a thread that follows many of her early appearances, though interspersed throughout are films which take her innocent looks at face-value, as well as films which draw upon the dynamic range and precision of her voice, rather than her Lolita-ish looks.

She is in Tora-San, Amagi Pass, and then Capone. She's in The Demon with Ken Takakura. She’s in Yoshihige Yoshida's Wuthering Heights, and then she returns to animation to voice Lady Eboshi in Princess Mononoke. She also does a voice in Tales from Earthsea, appears in Kohei Oguri's The Buried Forest...I do not remember her in Shinji Aoyama's inadequate The Backwater. Recently she’s in Kore-eda's Monster. Four years after Capone she married Kenji Sawada, they’re still married.

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Her sweet, sly sense of humor was never indulged so well as in Capone––she does capture the freedom of being in one of Suzuki's most avant-garde productions, the spontaneous feeling of a character in the grip of chaos, or the author of that chaos?

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Kenichi Hagiwara, playing Kaiemon, was the lead singer in a 60s-era "group sounds" band called The Tempters, and then formed a supergroup with Kenji Sawada, PYG. He is funny in the film, and he is able to handle the way the picture vacillates between comedy and romantic seriousness. Hagiwara is in a lot of notable films, following a late-60s debut in the inauspiciously-titled "Wet Encounter." He's in Wanderers, The Petrified Forest, in Kumashiro’s Bitterness of Youth, Love Letter, & Light in Africa; he's in Kagemusha, Village with Eight Gravestones, Fukasaku's Triple Cross, Gosha's odd 226, and Shinji Aoyama's Desert Moon. His last film was in 2016, but he worked on television all the way until he died of cancer in 2019.

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Kenji Sawada was most famous as lead singer of The Tigers, as a founding member of PYG, and as a solo singer. As Gun Tetsu he has a perilous glamor, but no one expects him to come out on top in the war with the Capones.

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His unique charm emerges in the way he looks after Kaiemon and Kozome, not quite a Jules-et-Jim-like romantic competitor, but a sort of partner in crime. Once Kozome is dead, Kaiemon summons his beggar army to help Tetsu in his showdown with the Chicago mob, indicating how close they've become.

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A last word for Laurie Belisle. So fascinating. Her part is principally in English, though she speaks some Japanese; she appears as part of a quartet of extremely long-legged blond women, who do most of the film's dancing.

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Belisle's part is not a throwaway role, a ditzy flapper hanger-on. She is part of the pathos and the comedy all throughout the movie. She emerges out of the background of the film, seemingly an extra, but gradually her presence comes to matter––especially following the death of Kozome. Without Kozome as a competitor for Kaiemon's heart, the flapper eventually begins to look at Kaiemon with a more critical eye. By the end of the film she is through enabling his egomania; in some way, she's seen through his supposed exoticism, and seen he has no idea what he's doing from moment to moment. Why is this? Lillian falls for Kaiemon after seeing him in his traditional Japanese dress, and thinking he's a samurai. Turns out she has a relative, or possibly a lover of her mother, it's rather unclear––who was a Japanese samurai. The role evolves in this way, suggesting Lillian fetishizes Kaiemon, then pulling the rug out from under us and showing how serious she is about him. At the end of the day, she is both devoted enough to risk herself breaking Kaiemon out of internment, but also not devoted enough to help him in his farcical seppuku. Like everyone in the film, manipulation goes hand-in-hand with integrity, switching off from moment to moment.

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Coming to America is a risk for the Japanese characters, a compromise, and a journey in which they seem also to have no choice. Their exploitation in America is a given, but also something they can manipulate or counter, or surprise people with in key moments. Integrity––the chief subject of the film, whether artistic or otherwise––is ludicrous, impossible, or fatal––and yet the only guarantor of meaning or value. Kozome's and Kaiemon's love is real, no matter what identity they take on to survive. Lillian's idea of integrity is compromised, ever so slightly. She doesn't love Kaiemon in a "Japanese" enough way to help him die grandly––but especially in the American context, the death he proposes is ridiculous, lacking the significance he longs for. Lillian will back Kaiemon up in all sorts of ludicrous adventures, is willing to let Kaiemon kill her when he is overcome by grief at Kozome's death––but she is just not "Japanese" enough, in the way Kaiemon thinks of himself, to be the woman he ultimately longs for. She accepts this and doesn't, goes back and forth, and remains a magnificent character, an American who wants to embrace her connection with Japan, but who underlines the way in which the film relentlessly negates that possibility.

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I can't find a Laurie Belisle mentioned anywhere except as a credit for the film. Her character is omitted entirely from IMDB and Letterboxd, even though you could easily call her a supporting actress, or even a 3rd or 4th lead by the end. She makes just as much of an impression in the film as Kenji Sawada.

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There doesn't seem to be a record of any other movie Laurie Belisle is in. My guess is that she was a dancer, an expatriot from somewhere, in Japan in the 80s, and that she might have been, of the dancers in her group, the one most willing or with the most necessary elan to perform a larger role in the movie. Like the foolish and courageous naniwabushi singers of the movie, she seems to have been swallowed up by history. Laurie, I will always love your dangerous romantic nature in this movie, along with your fatal pragmatism. I would like to travel back in time to meet you.

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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#195 Post by feihong »

TAKE AIM AT THE POLICE VAN

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This is one of only a few Suzuki films I have seen play on TCM's Noir Alley program. I always wished one of the sharper noir thrillers got to be the noir alley viewer's introduction to Suzuki, like Underworld Beauty, Smashing the O-Line, Sleep of the Beast, Passport to Darkness, Voice Without a Shadow, or Satan's Town. In fact, almost any of them would do better in that regard, and fulfill the viewer's expectation of movies in the noir style. In fact, most of these were essentially noir films, coming out concurrent with the later noir period in Hollywood, where there were still a few exceptional noir emerging like The Crimson Kimono.

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[TEXT ONLY]
Spoiler
Peter Yacavone's book on Suzuki goes into some detail on how the noir movement evolved in Japan not from the American films, but from the hard-boiled novels which inspired the American film movement, which were coming out in Japan in the late 40s and throughout the 50s. Still, in 1960, Take Aim at the Police Van seems a little late for the noir game. It's the first of the final three noir projects Suzuki does, all in 1960, and like a film like John Huston's Beat the Devil, I think viewers can see that the wheels are falling off, and it's time for a change. In fact, the following two noir pictures are two of Suzuki's best: Sleep of the Beast and Smashing the O-Line. But they benefit in large part from a transition happening in Suzuki's noir stylings––and in the style of "hard-boiled" film being made in Japan at the time.


FISH NOR FOWL

Take Aim at the Police Van, however, is hard to pin down, or to sing its praises. It has striking implausibilities and key moments without enough information to make sense of what's happening––as well as sudden reveals which don't make enough sense to applaud, since they're proposed as answers to the film's riddles, when we haven't even had time to really dwell on the nature of the riddles themselves.

Just as Nude Girl with a Gun draws heavily from Alfred Hitchcock movies, Take Aim at the Police Van draws on the influence of late-50s Hitchcock without really breaking new ground in that regard. Lots of the picture has that Hitchcock delight in implausible coincidence.

The train sequence in Police Van, where Tamon and Tsunako ride in the train car and Ms. Hamajima follows the train in her car reminds me the Man Who Knew Too Much films. What's more, the way the villains keep turning up in at seemingly innocuous moments––reminiscent of North by Northwest.

At the same time, the film has a competing tone, a sort of dryness, that cuts against the perversity. In many moments we get the sense we're seeing a travelogue, seeing the Atami "riviera," or Gotemba, with it's view of Mt. Fuji. There is the feel of an investigation, of the shoe-leather kind rarely undertaken in Hitch's films (Vertigo being an exception), plodding and straightforward, driving towards an obvious solution. And one imagines the criminal enterprise unveiled by this investigation––a sex-trafficking ring full of pimps posing as talent agents––would have made Hitch blush so constantly he couldn't make the picture.

It seems Suzuki was struggling to make the villains in his pictures more interesting. But in Take Aim at the Police Van––as well as the movies immediately following it, Sleep of the Beast and Smashing the O–Line, the central villain is pretty much a black hole, a centerpiece either enigmatic or diffuse, from which central intrigue emerges––something more difficult to define. Police Van seems trapped between these two examples of varied noir tonalities––between the goofy coinkidink of Hitchcock, and the almost Freudian dread it inspires, and the desiccated, humdrum criminal days stuck in the world of Hammett.

Almost alarmingly, a sniper hefts a rifle, and stares through the scope at warnings. The police van slides into view, down the road. Inside are a bunch of criminals, and the man who purports to know all about them––prison guard Tamon, played by Michitaro Mizushima. Tamon makes a crucial mistake here, which, interestingly, dogs him all throughout the movie without ever graduating from subtext to text; he trusts these guys, believing all the prisoners to be good, just victims of circumstance. We see that what Tamon knows about these prisoners is a set of details of their personalities and their lives more generous of them than others would credit to the convicts. So when the sniper sitting astride the film's title starts shooting the police van, plugging some of these salt-of-the-earth chancers, Tamon takes it all excessively personally. He resolves to use his suspension time to unstitch the thorny circumstances of the attack and find out who is responsible, and why it was carried out.

This is Michitaro Mizushima's last of three star-turns for Suzuki. Now, Mizushima isn't being romantically paired with the much taller, more graceful and authentically tough-seeming Mari Shiraki. The filmmakers contrive a love interest for Mizushima who seems more believable.

A PIVOTAL ACTRESS

The investigation will take him through a series of criminal pit stops, following criminal organization up the chain to a woman who seems to be the boss. This is Yuko Hamajima, running her father's talent agency during his illness. In short order, Yuko gives off a wildly vacillating range of mixed signals. She seems innocent, but surprisingly cold. When Tamon presses her, she reveals a shocking lack of empathy for her fellow human beings.

Once he calls her on it, she becomes more flirtatious, and more seemingly threatening, dogging Tamon's investigation as it migrates from place to place, tracking down escaped fugitives, pimps posing as talent scouts, and who knows what else. As the film goes on, Yuko seems less and less likely to be the puppet master, pulling the strings behind the scenes. As the story goes along, Yuko seems to be discovering untoward dealings in her company in real time with Tamon. And in spite of being a glamorous and sophisticated girl, who could have her pick of men, she clearly wants to jump Tamon's bones.

And yet...while we don't really see any other side to Ms. Hamajima, we can never quite shake the feeling she might be more than she seems. So many of her relatively sinister first impressions linger in the mind. Yet the film increasingly insists as it goes along that Yuko is true-blue, in love with Tamon, and utterly oblivious to the identity of Mr. Big, the central villain we don't truly see until the final scene––who turns out to be her own father.

Misako Watanabe plays Yuko. She's easily the most virtuosic actress yet to appear in a Suzuki film. She plays a pivotal role in Suzuki's filmography; with her versatility and homely sort of glamour, she expands the range and complexity of roles available for women in his pictures.

Watanabe comes from the Haiyuza Theatre Company, one of the so-called "Big Three" most prestigious theatre companies in Japan. She worked with half the new wave directors, and her sensitive, relatively commonplace cute looks combined with intelligence and skill and perhaps a disposition towards difference led her to play so many unconventional parts. At least three of her roles for Suzuki are magnificent. In Police Van, though, she has a critical role, but one that goes a ways to revealing just how inadequate the script is to deliver on the curious atmosphere of this movie. Recall the film's most striking visual: the prostitute with an arrow in her exposed breast, and how it ultimately undermines our belief in Yuko's innocence. Tamon arrives seconds too late to save her, and she dies revealing nothing of the criminal enterprise to the erstwhile detective.

The arrow is show from a window across the street, and much is made of how good a shot someone would have to be to hit someone with a killing blow from that distance, with those obstructions. After underlining that, Suzuki cuts immediately to Misako's Yuko drawing her bow at a target range. The association is very, very clear already: the film is swarming with criminals in this secret organization, but Yuko is the only character in the movie capable of making this shot, and it had to be her who did it.

In case this isn't enough evidence, Suzuki has the two-man sniper team from the beginning of the movie hanging out at the country club target range, watching Yuko shoot, and marveling at her accuracy. Then they try the same shot themselves, and fail miserably––so just so you know, audience, the guys who successfully shot up the titular police van can't possibly make the arrow shot that kills the prostitute. It clearly has to be Yuko! And if Yuko did indeed make the kill, what does it say about her involvement in the entire criminal scheme?

Fast-forward to Youth of the Beast, where we see Misako Watanabe once again. Spoilers for Beast, Misako's character turns out to be the secret puppet-master of the Nomura organization, the boss's sixth mistress, running prostitution for this yakuza group through her knitting school. In that film, she is married to a cop––a cop like Tamon, perhaps? And the marriage is clearly a cover, protecting her from criminal scrutiny. Her cop husband is righteous, but something of a dope, who doesn't see the criminality going on right in his own house, under his very nose (he shouldn't have had a business phone line put in for the knitting school, it seems). This is the virtuous cop Jo Shishido's character is trying to get revenge for. And in the end of Police Van, we see Misako's character going off in the protective arms of a virtuous cop, Tamon, who clearly doesn't realize that this Yuko is the only person who could have killed his number one witness at a crucial moment in his investivation. In other words, the characters from Police Van seem to move on into Youth of the Beast, and serve as that film's catalyst and its end. If only Michitaro Mizushima had cameo'd as the murdered detective in Youth of the Beast, it would have completed the circle of intrigue here, and made Police Van a much more intriguing picture! Not that Mizuho Suzuki doesn't play Detective Horikawa well. But the crucial connection of Ms. Hamajima in Police Van to Mrs. Horikawa in Beast remains a liminal one, still generating some level of intrigue. It's easily my favorite thing about Police Van, a movie that otherwise really struggles to hang together.


MY TAKE

What makes Police Van so disappointing––for my money maybe the most disappointing film in Suzuki's whole canon––is the way the disconnect of events and the jumble of tones in the movie don't really seem to mean anything. There are other occasions where the plot of Suzuki's movies doesn't add up, but in all those other cases, the director is able to pull together a purpose for things being so convoluted (Youth of the Beast, for example, features a similar delirium of villains undercutting one another with various schemes, but there are larger points being articulated about a changing Japan, about the specter of the war, the new surveillance state, changing gender roles, etc.).
[TEXT & IMAGES]
Spoiler
Peter Yacavone's book on Suzuki goes into some detail on how the noir movement evolved in Japan not from the American films, but from the hard-boiled novels which inspired the American film movement, which were coming out in Japan in the late 40s and throughout the 50s. Suzuki's mentor, Hiroshi Noguchi, is possibly the creator of the Japanese version of noir, the "Hado–Boiriudo," or "Hard-Boiled" film, and as Nikkatsu early on attempted to have Suzuki follow in his mentor's footsteps, we can see strands of "hado–boiriudo" storytelling even in Suzuki's Kaiyo, or "pop-song" films, like An In of Floating Weeds, and in films which drew inspiration largely from other kinds of movies (such as Eight Hours of Fear, which is a copy of Stagecoach until the escaped criminals show up from out of a David Goodis novel). Still, in 1960, Take Aim at the Police Van seems a little late for the noir game. It's the first of the final three noir projects Suzuki does, all in 1960, and like a film like John Huston's Beat the Devil, I think viewers can see that the wheels are falling off, and it's time for a change. In fact, the following two noir pictures are two of Suzuki's best: Sleep of the Beast and Smashing the O-Line. But they benefit in large part from a transition happening in Suzuki's noir stylings––and in the style of "hard-boiled" film being made in Japan at the time.

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FISH NOR FOWL

Take Aim at the Police Van, however, is hard to pin down, or to sing its praises. One of the things I've appreciated about this project is discovering so many ways that the extreme stylization of Suzuki's work reveals actually pretty straightforward and meaningful character and situation. By contrast, Police Van has several significant implausibilities as well as key moments where not enough information is given in order to make sense of what's happening on screen––as well as sudden reveals which don't make nearly enough sense to applaud, in since they're proposed as answers to the film's riddles, when we haven't even had time to really dwell on the nature of the riddles themselves.

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Then there is the tone of the film, which vacillates quite abruptly between different influences. Earlier Suzuki movies drew obvious inspiration from films and filmmakers Suzuki has been on-record admiring. And just as Nude Girl with a Gun draws heavily from Alfred Hitchcock movies (and anticipates very original elements of Vertigo's plot by a year), Take Aim at the Police Van draws on the influence of late-50s Hitchcock without really breaking new ground in that regard. Lots of the picture has that Hitchcock delight in implausible coincidence.

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The train sequence in Police Van, where Tamon and Tsunako ride in the train car and Ms. Hamajima follows the train in her car reminds me the Man Who Knew Too Much films. What's more, the way the villains keep turning up in at seemingly innocuous moments––reminiscent of North by Northwest. Key moments involve the murder of a prostitute witness, just as Tamon arrives at the scene, by arrow, shot from across the street––a very Hitchcockian impracticality, like the murder of an ambassador by throwing knife. Already Passport to Darkness, as well as Nude Girl with a Gun, rely a lot on having a Hitchcockian feel. The witness writhes, topless, an arrow protruding from her breast, in a way one feels would make Hitch bright red around the gills. The perversity is amplified by the fact that there seem to have been tons of people in the room with the topless prostitute when the deed was done––voyeurism in this case meeting it fatal apex of deferred action taken.

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At the same time, the film has a competing tone, a sort of dryness, that cuts against the perversity. In many moments we get the sense we're seeing a travelogue, seeing the Atami "riviera," or Gotemba, with it's view of Mt. Fuji. There is the feel of an investigation, of the shoe-leather kind rarely undertaken in Hitch's films (Vertigo being an exception), plodding and straightforward, driving towards an obvious solution. And one imagines the criminal enterprise unveiled by this investigation––a sex-trafficking ring full of pimps posing as talent agents––would have made Hitch blush so constantly he couldn't make the picture. It follows that the criminals and suspected criminals we meet in the story are grotesque heavies, but grotesques of a more lumpen stripe than Hitch would have put forward––there is a real straightforwardness here, too, as if Suzuki had grown tired of his florid earlier villains, like the Lenin look-alike in Nude Girl with a Gun, the slathering criminals of Eight Hours of Fear, or the seething, savage misogyny of the rapist brothers in Blue Breasts.

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It seems as if Suzuki was struggling to make the villains in his pictures more interesting. The villain in Passport to Darkness had been more sophisticated, an American industrialist who treated Japan like an American colony, who was untouchable by official methods. Jo Shishido in Voice Without a Shadow appears to be the movie's villain until the midpoint of the film, where he turns up murder by possibly worse characters. But in Take Aim at the Police Van––as well as the movies immediately following it, Sleep of the Beast and Smashing the O–Line, the central villain is pretty much a black hole, a centerpiece either enigmatic or diffuse, from which central intrigue emerges––something more difficult to define. And the villains and the grotesques around them in these later movies resemble, more than Hitchcock, a writer like Dashiell Hammett, where it frequently hardly matters who is doing the crime. What comes through instead, in Hammett, is the absolutely oppressive atmosphere, the dull drone of constant, regular, everyday crime. Whereas in Hitchock, crime is always an outrage––something we know exists, but which the bourgeoisie that are frequently Hitch's protagonists avoid at all costs. So in a way, Police Van seems trapped between these two examples of varied noir tonalities––between the goofy coinkidink of Hitchcock, and the almost Freudian dread it inspires, and the desiccated, humdrum criminal days stuck in the world of Hammett.

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Let's quickly run a truck––or a van, I guess––through the swiss cheese plot and see what's happening here.

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Almost alarmingly, the picture starts with a literal depiction of the title: a sniper hefts a rifle, and stares through the scope at several warning signs. Then the police van slides into view, coming down the road. Inside are a bunch of criminals, and the man who purports to know all about them––prison guard Tamon, played by Michitaro Mizushima. Tamon makes a mistake here, which dogs him all throughout the movie without ever graduating from subtext to text; he trusts these guys, believing all the prisoners to be good, just victims of circumstance. We see that what Tamon knows about these prisoners is a set of details of their personalities and their lives more generous of them than others would credit to the convicts. So when the sniper sitting astride the film's title starts shooting the police van, plugging some of these salt-of-the-earth chancers, Tamon takes it all excessively personally. He resolves to use his suspension timeto unstitch the thorny circumstances of the attack and find out who is responsible, and why it was carried out.

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This is Michitaro Mizushima's last star-turn for Suzuki. He looks puffy and tired in this movie. However, his career will go on for three more decades, ending with 1990's Ronin-Gai. Mizushima is a low-caliber star of Nikkatsu B-movies at this moment, especially for Suzuki's mentor, director Hiroshi Noguchi.

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I never feel like Suzuki assigns Mizushima the same kind of gravitas and glamor Noguchi does; there is always some element of Mizushima's tough-guy routine Suzuki plays for a joke, as if he can't quite credit this diminutive, paunchy middle-aged fellow with the sweet disposition as a hard man. That feeling continues in Police Van, where Mizushima seems always a bit of a low-key dope. For once, however, Mizushima isn't being romantically paired with the much taller, more graceful and authentically tough-seeming Mari Shiraki. Mari is in the movie, but she and Mizushima have a working relationship, and the filmmakers contrive a love interest for Mizushima who seems a little closer to believable.

A PIVOTAL ACTRESS

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Tamon's investigation takes him from Kabukicho to Atami and Gotemba, following the faintest of leads. One dopey crook Tamon trusts was writing characters in the dust on the police van's window, and that's enough to get things going.

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The investigation will take him through a series of criminal pit stops, following criminal organization up the chain to a woman who seems to be the boss. This is Yuko Hamajima, running her father's talent agency during his illness. In short order, Yuko gives off a wildly vacillating range of mixed signals. She seems innocent, but surprisingly cold. When Tamon presses her, she reveals a shocking lack of empathy for her fellow human beings.

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Once he calls her on it, she becomes more flirtatious, and more seemingly threatening, dogging Tamon's investigation as it migrates from place to place, tracking down escaped fugitives, pimps posing as talent scouts, and who knows what else. As the film goes on, Yuko seems less and less likely to be the puppet master, pulling the strings behind the scenes.

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We see that she's playing tough to ward off the advances of her father's sleazy underling (a gristly, slimy role Toru Abe makes a delicious snack out of)––who certainly has the pull to make the crime happen (in fact, we see him hanging out with guys who clearly were the shooters, one of whom carries a sniper rifle with him wherever he goes). As the story goes along, Yuko seems to be discovering untoward dealings in her company in real time with Tamon. And in spite of being a glamorous and sophisticated girl, who could have her pick of men, she clearly wants to jump Tamon's bones.

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And yet...while we don't really see any other side to Ms. Hamajima, we can never quite shake the feeling she might be more than she seems. So many of her relatively sinister first impressions linger in the mind. Yet the film increasingly insists as it goes along that Yuko is true-blue, in love with Tamon, flirting earnestly (in a pleasing oxymoron), and utterly oblivious to the identity of Mr. Big, the sunglasses-wearing central villain we don't truly see until the final scene––even though he turns out to be her own father.

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Misako Watanabe plays Yuko, her second of five roles in Suzuki pictures. Aside from Sachiko Hidari as the lead in The Boy Who Came Back, Misako is easily the most virtuosic actress yet to appear in a Suzuki film. In that sense, she seems to play a very pivotal role in Suzuki's filmography; with her versatility and her less gravure, almost homely sort of glamour, she expands the range and complexity of roles available for women in his pictures.

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Watanabe comes from the Haiyuza Theatre Company, one of the so-called "Big Three" most prestigious theatre companies in Japan. Her film debut is in Tadashi Imai's 1953 classic, Tower of Lillies. Three years later, she signs with Nikkatsu and seems to work for them exclusively until 1962, when she starts working for other studios as well in some sort of non-exclusive deal. This is probably the moment when her relatively less-glamorous looks than, say, Izumi Ashikawa, for instance, start getting her slotted into roles as long-suffering, middle-aged wives in pictures like Suzuki's boxing drama Million-Dollar Smash-and-Grab.

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Her work at Nikkatsu is often on less-exciting projects, but she does play roles in Ko Nakahira's Who's the Real Killer?, Shohei Immamura's Endless Desire, A Slope in the Sun, That Guy and I, and The Rambling Guitarist. Her first movie for Suzuki is as the secret lead of the picture in Blue Breasts––ostensibly an Akira Kobayashi melodrama, it's obvious to see the movie is really a Misako Watanabe psychodrama––and all the better for it. Afterwards, she's in Police Van and Million-Dollar Smash-and-Grab, then––just as she breaks out from being exclusive to Nikkatsu, and starts doing classy movies like Kon Ichikawa's Being Two Isn't Easy, Kaneto Shindo's Human, and Imai's Cruel Story of Bushido––she play the absolutely pivotal role in Youth of the Beast, as the film's secret villain. I have a theory about how that film is connected to this one.

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She is the lead in Tai Kato's radical Sasuke and His Divine Comedians (aka Brave Records of Sanada Clan). Her part in Sasuke is everything, all at once––youthful, boisterous, gender-bending, swashbuckling––the high spirits here show she was capable of far more than subtlety, and that she could carry a film no matter how postmodern its sensibilities. She comes off like an era-specific shinpa actress, but her range is so much greater.

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Nikkatsu finally gives her a starring role, with Tamio Kawaji in the mostly unknown Ningen ni Kakeruna. She has significant roles in Kwaidan, Shinoda's With Beauty and Sorrow and Samurai Spy. She's in Kon Ichikawa's murderous doll movie Lullaby to Kill. And she comes back for one last Suzuki movie, playing the lead once again, in the 1973 made-for-TV movie A Mummy's Love. This picture––a significant precursor to Zigeunerweisen, written by that film's screenwriter, Yozo Tanaka, affords Misako a wonderful role as a reluctant romantic witness to the supernatural. It is maybe a sign of how old I'm getting that I now find her as fetchingly attractive in that movie as I did in Sasuke or in this movie? Regardless of my preferences once again making themselves too clear in these essays, Watanabe is an actress of range and command, who brings those attributes into women's roles in Suzuki's films. Afterwards we see immediate increase in the depth of women's roles in the director's pictures. Not unreasonable, though, to say that Watanabe also blazed the trail for the women of the Taisho Trilogy, with that pivotal role descending into the supernatural in A Mummy's Love.

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Her career seems to go into eclipse for about 5 years after Mummy, but Watanabe slowly claws her way back into roles in prominent movies, albeit in a declining industry, as evidenced by the lackluster titles. Remember this actress played to the whole world in Kwaidan––it's a comment on the industry that this is what is left for her: first as a voice in a Kihachiro Kawamoto puppet film, then in Banmei Takahashi's Tattoo, Jun Ichikawa's Tsugumi, in Face (Kao), Midnight Diner 2, Bread of Happiness, and last year's Route 29. It seems Misako is 93 years old this year. She worked with half the new wave directors, and her sensitive, relatively commonplace cute looks combined with intelligence and skill and perhaps a disposition towards difference led her to play so many unconventional parts. At least three of her roles for Suzuki are magnificent. In Police Van, though, she has a critical role, but one that goes a ways to revealing just how inadequate the script is to deliver on the curious atmosphere of this movie. She is the most fun character to watch, but the film demands more of her than is realistic for any actor––with Watanabe's skill, the result is a character deliriously swift and changeable, who gives you the strong suspicion she knows more than she's letting on about the sex trafficking going on in her family company, even as the script insists that she had no idea about it.

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I am struck by how far the film goes to try and clear Yuko of any guilt in her father's criminal enterprise. She is shocked and horrified when the man in the sunglasses, Mr. Big, turns out to be her dad––and horrified as well that she has played a part in leading the police to her father. In addition, her father's flunkies have already put her in an inescapable death trap––in spite of Toru Abe's character being obviously smitten with her.

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She is with Tamon romantically at the end, and the implication is clearly that Tamon's moral nature has unlocked some latent goodness in her that has led her to care about doing the right thing. So it's clear in the end, when the two of them embrace, that she is going to live a very human, virtuous life now, on the straight-and-narrow, far from her father's prostitution ring.

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But recall the film's most striking visual: the prostitute with an arrow in her exposed breast, and how it ultimately undermines our belief in Yuko's innocence. Tamon arrives seconds too late to save her, and she dies revealing nothing of the criminal enterprise to the erstwhile detective.

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The arrow is show from a window across the street, and much is made of how good a shot someone would have to be to hit someone with a killing blow from that distance, with those obstructions. After underlining that, Suzuki cuts immediately to Misako's Yuko drawing her bow at a target range. The association is very, very clear already: the film is swarming with criminals in this secret organization, but Yuko is the only character in the movie capable of making this shot, and it had to be her who did it.

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In case this isn't enough evidence, Suzuki has the two-man sniper team from the beginning of the movie hanging out at the country club target range, watching Yuko shoot, and marveling at her accuracy. Then they try the same shot themselves, and fail miserably––so just so you know, audience, the guys who successfully shot up the titular police van can't possibly make the arrow shot that kills the prostitute. It clearly has to be Yuko! And if Yuko did indeed make the kill, what does it say about her involvement in the entire criminal scheme?

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Fast-forward to Youth of the Beast, where we see Misako Watanabe once again. Spoilers for Beast, Misako's character turns out to be the secret puppet-master of the Nomura organization, the boss's sixth mistress, running prostitution for this yakuza group through her knitting school. In that film, she is married to a cop––a cop like Tamon, perhaps? And the marriage is clearly a cover, protecting her from criminal scrutiny. Her cop husband is righteous, but something of a dope, who doesn't see the criminality going on right in his own house, under his very nose (he shouldn't have had a business phone line put in for the knitting school, it seems). This is the virtuous cop Jo Shishido's character is trying to get revenge for. And in the end of Police Van, we see Misako's character going off in the protective arms of a virtuous cop, Tamon, who clearly doesn't realize that this Yuko is the only person who could have killed his number one witness at a crucial moment in his investivation. In other words, the characters from Police Van seem to move on into Youth of the Beast, and serve as that film's catalyst and its end. If only Michitaro Mizushima had cameo'd as the murdered detective in Youth of the Beast, it would have completed the circle of intrigue here, and made Police Van a much more intriguing picture! Not that Mizuho Suzuki doesn't play Detective Horikawa well. But the crucial connection of Ms. Hamajima in Police Van to Mrs. Horikawa in Beast remains a liminal one, still generating some level of intrigue. It's easily my favorite thing about Police Van, a movie that otherwise really struggles to hang together.

SHADES OF NOIR, JUMBLE OF TONES

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On the surface, it might look like there's nothing going on here, but a subtle transition has been taking place in Suzuki's "hado-boiriudo" crime films, between one brand of Japanese film noir and another. It effectively describes the clashing tones of various elements of the films and explains the Hitchcock/Hammett dynamic that's unfolding across this section of Suzuki's career.

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In 1958, two years prior, director Teruo Ishii––a filmmaker with more than superficial similarities to Suzuki––directs Secret White Line Zone, the first of the "Line" series. This hit picture inaugurated a series, three of which Ishii had directed before Take Aim at the Police Van was released. Previous Japanese noir, largely monopolized by Suzuki's mentor, Horiguchi, drew heavily from American noir literature, an proposed a blatantly artificial world of American crime fiction, recreated on soundstages and in highly dressed-up real locations (i.e., the wharf in Cheers at the Harbor, or in An Inn of Floating Weeds), and with a kind of heightened melodrama common to films of the era.

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The "Line" series was substantially different, with a lower-key story, unfolding in unadulterated, mostly outdoor locations. The narrative was stripped-down, and gathered usually around newspaper reporters or another such plausible type of investigator––someone not really moved or outraged by what they see. This allows the Line movies to calmly descend into a Tokyo underbelly of more commonplace criminality; the films focus on the sex trade, and smuggling––the kind of everyday crime which actually was common, a kind of "ripped-from-the-headlines" view of criminal enterprise. The reporter hero would unveil this prurient world to the viewers calmly, and move on to the next case. These are very cheap, straightforward movies, with a much more mellow register of drama than Japanese cinema at the time was geared towards delivering, but the success of the films spawned imitators, and Nikkatsu, who previously held a near monopoly on the scummy underbelly of Japanese film noir, started moving towards having their own "Line" movies.

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This transition is evident in Suzuki's crime movies. It begins in 1958, with Voice Without a Shadow––a more low-key crime film, taken from the low-key writing of Seicho Matsumoto, and we can see this strand of investigation and reportage coming into focus in the subsequent crime films..

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Take Aim at the Police Van appears at the midpoint of this transition, and it shows all the effects of being a middle-ground picture, struggling to compromise over two aesthetic approaches. On the one hand, the film proposes a sober investigation by a defacto investigator: Tamon, the prison guard (analgous to any other form of cop in the film's view). As Tamon uncovers the seedy sex-trade operating underneath the hitherto reputable-seeming talent agency, he illuminates an almost authentically seedy Japanese underworld from inside, mounting what is essentially an expose of the operations of this desultory industry. In one of Ishii's "Line" movies, the criminals would be typically gross types, but not characters with any excess of personality. Where Police Van becomes such a mish-mash is that the villains in the picture come from the earlier tradition, the Pinnochio-like grotesquery of, say, Underworld Beauty's villains.

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These types are outsized for the tone the movie proposes, and they carry the weight of impossible crimes and outrageous deeds, beyond what the villain tend to undertake in the "Line" films. There are scenes where groups of the villains simply hang out and nearly come to blows as their excess of character leads them to try to challenge and dominate one another. There is the stupid psycopath marksman, the lovelorn pimp, the Fantomas-like Mr. Big, and his very femme-fatale-coded daughter, who has as many potential identities as Irma Vep. Then there is the cavalcade of criminals from the police van––the ones Tamon mistakenly believes he can reform. And beyond them are the enablers of criminals, like Mari Shiraki's character, who plays the long-suffering girlfriend of Tamon's favorite fugitive. In the middle of the movie a convoluted sort of mini-movie evolves out of Tamon meeting Mari's character, and using her to get to the escaped convict Goro, then Goro fakes his death, and that is perceived and then needs to be unpacked and discovered by the two witnesses...it's dizzying, and almost besides the point of what else we see. And the jumble of clashing tonalities here, between exaggerated villains and villainy and sober investigation led by a character Suzuki thinks is a dope, leads the film to be less than satisfying, even with the metanarrative bonus of Yuko being a femme fatale as a juicy subtext.

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There is this curious exchange, early on, when Yuko is talking about American noir literature, and calls them convoluted. Then Tamon responds with the kind of playful flirtation you might see in an American noir film.

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I know I was speculating that Suzuki was being policed on the script before, but here I wondered if this exchange was maybe a metacommentary, Suzuki giving us his assessment of the script while it's unfolding in front of us?


CINEMATOGRAPHY, FRAMING & BLOCKING

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Shigeyoshi Mine arrives on the scene, for his first outing working on a Suzuki film. Mine is a former assistant to Kazue Nagatsuka––though he became his own cinematographer quite a ways before he started working with Suzuki. Mine has already been the DP on some of Nikkatsu's early hits in their postwar hits, including Chuji's Travel Diary and the studio's breakout success, Crazed Fruit. I've profiled him pretty extensively in my Tokyo Drifter writeup––though I found an interesting note today––in his own journal, Suzuki refers to Mine as "the giant." I don't know if he was talking about his actual size or if he was talking about, say, a giant in the creative space. Hard to know. I have never seen a picture of Mine, or found a bio of one of Nikkatsu's most important cinematographers. It isn't even clear if he's still alive.

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My feeling is that Mine is most interesting working in color. He isn't by any means bad at black-and-white films, but his mentor delivers what I think are far more complex and arresting black-and-white images. The hallmark of Mine's black-and-white cinematography is a broad range of grey values. The result here is often a flatter look than what Nagatsuka could achieve.

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Nagatsuka has both a more graphic and more exacting treatment of contrast, that makes the films look exceptionally hard-edged and clear. Nagatsuka likes to backlight and sidelight and frontlight his figures, all at once, to deliver really clean edges on characters and make sure their every action is readable––and he tends to frame further back to get figures clearly into the frame to effect that. Mine contrasts this by moving in much closer, and often using less distinctive lighting schemes to create a murkier feel, at the expense of clarity.

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Nagatsuka tended to put light on the back wall of sets to contrast with foreground characters, but when he did it, it tended to be as we see in Story of a Prostitute, where we see highly graphical, figurative designs, like the shadow of gnarled tree branches reflected on a wall. Mine also throws light on the back of rooms, but he has the same strategy he uses later in the color films––large, abstract shapes, with his illuminations often softly diffusing into shadow around the edges. One of Mine's strange habits is too frequently front-light characters' closeups quite heavily.

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Though looking through a selection of the screencaps I'm posting makes the film look like a collection of all the most essential noir tropes packaged in one movie, the film doesn't really feel as exciting as a less-orthodox noir like Underworld Beauty. Maybe in part the framing doesn't quite do it justice.

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The framing in general utilizes the wide 'scope screen in a much more limited way than both earlier films like Underworld Beauty and later films like Kanto Wanderer, or even Fighting Delinquents. There is a lot of center-framing for closeups, and the images tend to be less adventurous and less packed with detail than Suzuki's standard compositions of the time.


MY TAKE

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In the end, what is memorable about Police Van are all the ways the film neglects to link together ideas that should have come together to make the picture more intriguing. Yuko, for instance, should have been the mastermind, ultimately letting the blame fall upon her father, who maybe thinks he's still Mr. Big. Tamon, who believes all criminals are good at heart, needed to have that assumption challenged––and the film only barely does that, showing Goro occasionally struggling with the ethics of his choices.

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Tamon himself never has to alter his entirely arbitrary decision in the face of, I don't know, the fact that his girlfriend at the end is clearly the mastermind behind the police van attack and the sex trafficking he's trying to solve. This lack of deliberate connectivity is something Suzuki would solve in his next two crime films. After that, there is a three-year, ten-picture gap, wherein Nikkatsu's youth "akushon" line kicks into high gear, and Suzuki is put in charge of making Koji Wada a teenybopper star, before Suzuki directs another film you might call a crime caper––Detective Bureau 2-3. And by that point, the genre has changed yet again––and so has the filmmaker tackling it.

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There is some fun to Police Van. The picture moves at a fast clip, there are lots of jaunty, humorous sequences, and following it is often intriguing, even though it's near impossible to make things fit together. And there is Reiko Arai.

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Here she is, playing the young Sun Tribe girl for the late moment of 1960––or perhaps a sort of proto-sukeban figure. This character seems like a clue more than a figure that will stick around; she hangs out singing with her friends on the street, next to a jukebox.

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Her gang holds Tamon back when he tries to ask her a question, so she can run away. Thanks to the film's most playful shooting and editing, Tamon somehow catches up to her, and then they have a nice convo, and she comes to trust him.

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What isn't perhaps clear here is how deep this character seems to be in the world of the talent agency/trafficking ring––and certainly the script doesn't want to put this apparent teenager in the midst of it––but there is this inexplicable shot late in the movie, when Tamon and Yuko are in Yuko's apartment together, and they kiss. Right in the midst of the kiss, with absolutely no setup, Reiko Arai opens the door, looks in and sees Yuko and Tamon kissing, then seems to wink at...at us, the audience, I think? And then she ducks out of the movie.

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The implication seems to be that Reiko's character is deeply involved enough with Yuko's life that she can walk in on her like this, but if Yuko is in fact the ringleader, then it casts Reiko's character in a very suspect light. Normally, Suzuki would make significant changes and edits to his scripts as the films were shot, but frequently he was caught out on this, reprimanded, and given an order not to change a word going forward. This happens after Suzuki turns Eight Hours of Fear into a musical comedy, and the studio forces him to re-shoot large portions of it following the original script. At that point, Suzuki was forbidden to change his next script, and the result was the kind of goofy-seeming Nude Girl with a Gun. Police Van follows immediately on the heels of Suzuki's sole screenwriting credit for Nikkatsu, on Naked Age––and Naked Age was apparently the other Suzuki movie that was subjected to sever re-editing at the studio's request. So I wonder if Suzuki found himself under strict scrutiny again, and ended up trapped with a script he really didn't like? This could easily have put the rebellious director in the mood for some sabotage––and if the script were bad enough, it wouldn't be hard to do. That's my armchair quarterback theory for why the movie is less compelling and more nonsensical than Suzuki's average.

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The other notable performance in the movie is by Shoichi Ozawa, playing Goro, the crook he doesn't want to have a heart of gold, really doesn't have one, but decides at the end that he might like to have one if his girlfriend liked that he did, and is machine-gunned to death alongside her because of those conflicted desires. The kind of guy with a supporting actor's face and exceptional performance chops, Ozawa went to Waseda University and over the course of his acting career and 135 movies, countless appearances as a radio host and a singer, additionally became a noted expert and researcher in the field of Japanese folk art.

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Ozawa moves from director to director throughout his film career, starting with romantic melodramas for Yuzo Kawashima. He works in all sorts of Nikkatsu productions, but he frequently returns to work for the same directors again and again––so while he's in a diverse set of movies, from Sun-Tribe Myth of the Bakamatsu Era to That Guy and I, to Crimson Wings and Jungle Block, Bad Girl and Elegant Beast, to Tokyo Mighty Guy, he starts working for Suzuki and makes An Inn of Floating Weeds, Blue Breasts, Police Van, Sleep of the Beast, Smashing the O-Line, Tokyo Knights, A Hell of a Guy, and Story of a Prostitute. He doesn't appear in Suzuki films after that, because in the interim he finds his main patron––Suzuki's rival, Shohei Immamura. For Immamura he appears in Stolen Desire, Endless Desire, Pigs and Battleships, The Insect Woman, Intensions of Murder, the lead in The Pornographers (really shows you what Immamura thought of him, but ay, f*ck that guy, amirite?), The Pirates of Buban, Vengeance is Mine, Why Not?, Ballad of Narayama, Black Rain, The Eel, and Dr. Akagi. In the interim he worked frequently for Yasuzo Masamura, and he appeared in a number of notable art films, like Oshima's Pleasures of the Flesh, Silence Has No Wings, Tadashi Imai's Revenge, The Human Bullet, Sun Above Death below, The Scandalous Adventures of Buraikan, Gonza the Spearman and Owls' Castle for Suzuki's friend Shinoda, Teshigahara's Summer Soldiers, Terayama's The Boxer, one of the later Crimson Bat movies, a couple of Tora-san movies, and eventually two pink films: Ichijo's Wet Lust and the intriguing-sounding docu-drama Kaoru Kiri: The Best Lesbian in Japan Authentic Account.

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He lends credibility to a lot of challenging scenes. In Police Van we have to believe him as a lovelorn sex trafficker, doing it all for his girlfriend, Mari Shiraki. How does he pull it off? Sheer acting, my friend. It's is one of the implausibilities in the film that we just run right over and keep going.

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As for Mari Shiraki, her more abbreviated role here is one of the film's biggest disappointments. Likely this is not Suzuki's or Shiraki's decision; at this point, the studio seems to have decided Shiraki is a supporting player, rather than a lead, and she never seems to have leading roles again. Her fresh, brusque, working-class chuckle apparently has a new place in Nikkatsu of the '60s, and that place is in the second row back. Given her exceptional turns for Suzuki, it is a shame.

RELEASES

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Take Aim at the Police Van was put out on DVD as part of Eclipse's Nikkatsu Noir boxset 16 years ago, and in the intervening time, there have only been two other releases of the film: another DVD, released by Nikkatsu this-freaking-year, and the high-def version available on Criterion's streaming service. The hi-def streaming version looks the best. Nikkatsu––a DVD, in 2025? With a hi-def master available? Are you kidding me?

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Obviously, I'm not recommending the movie too strenuously, but if you do plan to see it, I recommend the streaming version.

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Next I'm going to take a swerve and do the Koji Wada vehicle A Hell of a Guy. Then I thought I might take on A Mummy's Love and then the Akira Kobayashi melodramas as a pair. Onward!
User avatar
feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#196 Post by feihong »

A Hell of a Guy aka Living By Karate

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Nikkatsu's "Akushon" era was in full swing, and Suzuki had a big hit with Koji Wada in Fighting Delinquents. Tokyo Knights, the follow-up, was slightly more abstract and playful, but worked in much the same vein as the first movie. At this point, Suzuki was Wada's full-time director, and with this third film, Nikkatsu and Suzuki begin to experiment with the formula. While Fighting Delinquents and Tokyo Knights position Wada in a milieu of conspicuous wealth––with a sideline in theater that bleeds into the pictures and gives them a lightness of tone and much the same cast in both films––A Hell of a Guy transplants Wada in Tokyo's slums, makes striking cast changes, and adopts a much darker tone than the previous Wada vehicles.

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Spoiler
First off, copious action scenes make it clear that Koji Wada didn't learn karate for the picture (no surprise: he made 9 films in 1961, there was no time to be any different than who he was). However, Wada's readiness for the spry roughhousing the movie demands is obvious in every one of the copious fight scenes in the 82-minute picture.

TAIYOZOKU DRIFT

A Hell of a Guy has significant differences from Fighting Delinquents and Tokyo Knights. Both those films revolve around a young male figure and the straightforward early scenes are all about putting over our hero before any drama starts, letting you know how incredible this Wada fellow is, capable of surmounting any challenge put his way. Wada's character, Eiji, hasn't had prodigious life experiences, as he has in Tokyo Knights via that character's wealth. He doesn't have the resources and anti-realist fantasy-ideation powers his character seems to have in Fighting Delinquents, where he can jump in a random jeep when his mother is trying to escape with her shame, and outrace a train to try and bring her back to the family. Eiji, rather, has the ability to do violence, and a lot of anger to back it up.

Eiji hardly resembles the heroes Wada plays before or immediately after this movie–––the Suzuki protagonist he seems most like is actually Jiro from Everything Goes Wrong. Jiro is alienated from the hedonistic world around him, longing for the recapture of his more innocent childhood years, and denied it because of the absence of his father, dead in WWII. Jiro hates his pseudo-stepfather, the industrialist Namba, who he feels has corrupted his mother and killed his father. Eiji is angry for a lot of the same reasons. His rage stems from the state of the slums around him––which Eiji drags his friends off to every night to "patrol" for wrongdoing––and from the breakup of his solid family structure.

Eiji too has lost a father in the war––there is a brief, striking scene where Eiji runs up and points an accusing finger at the family altar and says everything is messed up because his dad went and died a soldier, not a father––and Eiji's mother has a longstanding affair with the odious Shinkai, local mobster who oppresses the slums, but who long ago put up the money for Eiji's mother to run her bar. But while Jiro's angst seems like dynamite, brittle and ready to go off, Eiji's anger is largely channelled into a series of linked relationships, where Eiji's reckless energy can have both positive and negative effects.

Suzuki sets up the interconnected relationships of Eiji's life in a rapid-fire sequence of quick scenes, dancing from character to character, setting up all the people important in Eiji's life, who live in these slums. This is bravura filmmaking, where when any one of the characters mentions another, we are whisked in an abrupt cut to that mentioned character to see what they're doing. From the grotesque Shinkai to the pervy but well-meaning rink manager, to the alcoholic doctor, to his lovely daughter, to her yakuza fiancee, to the local mechanic and his wife, we meet a gaggle of characters and get a sense of them, so that as Eiji encounters them, we have a sense of how his surging wave of energy will crash down on their various rocks.

The Ikebukuro slum is a community, drawn together through the ways all of them go out of their way to casually lend each other support at the right moments. Eiji will end up a part of this by the end, as his pasttime patrolling the streets leads him to organize his classmates in school into a genuine neighborhood watch, which in turn leads to the defeat of Shinkai and his mob. The atmosphere of community we see on display is one of the richer strands of this movie, and seems to be something Suzuki believes in without irony; it's the close-knit nature of the Ikebukuro community that keeps Eiji's violence channeled into socially-useful action, where Jiro's more upper-middle-class alienation feeds him directly into the capitalist machine Suzuki implies underscores the activity of the Sun Tribe kids.

Not that the slum-dwellers are immune to Japan's ultracapitalist driving forces. It's clear that the slum is a place where lives and careers are stagnant. Both contributing to that stagnation and offering the only respite from it seems to be Shinkai, whose ill-gotten gains are invested into the community only so Shinkai can oppress everyone further. That the gangster is so unctuous and cheerful is only because he has his foot so squarely on the neck of the neighborhood, and he knows it. Over the course of the film, as Eiji's irrepressible energy starts to wear away at Shinkai's little "hood" empire, actor Nakajiro Tomita's smile as Shinkai begins to display increasing hints of mania and desperation. In a sense, the underlying story of the film is about Eiji breaking up Shinkai's empire for the good of both the neighborhood and for his relationship with his mother––though that relationship is far less antagonistic, Oedipal, and intense than the one between Jiro and his mother in Everything Goes Wrong. But because the film is so much about the community, there are other strands to the story of equal or larger weight.

JEALOUSY

Eiji is obsessed with his neighbor, Yuko, a young woman he grew up with. He calls her "Sis" out of long-standing affection, but for Yuko, the younger Eiji really is like a younger brother, a sort of generational comrade in the rough living in the area.

Also, this is all compounded by the way Yuko has secretly found a boyfriend, a somewhat isolated yakuza who has distanced himself from Shinkai's gang. Yuko has been trying to keep this a secret in close-knit community, but Eiji has discovered the secret by following her obsessively.

Yuko is the film's gamine, frequently dressed in white, and unquestionably meant for better things than the slum provides her. And at the end of the movie, she is able to do what Eiji and the others can't; riding off on a train with Goro, Yuko is marrying out of the slums, into what we presume is some sort of middle-class stability Goro can somehow afford. Probably worth noting that this film is absent Suzuki's more scoriating view of the yakuza––a view which permeates from even some of his earliest films, and which grows to full-throated mockery by the time Suzuki is assigned actual yakuza movies, like Kanto Wanderer. Here in the era of Nikkatsu "Akushon," there seems to be more pressure to tow the line, and the result is a "take" on the yakuza villains that is more in line with Nikkatsu's general tone on them––alternating between the honorable and virtuous yakuza like Goro, and the dishonorable bosses like Shinkai.

One of the interesting elements of the movie is how Suzuki is able to deftly frame Eiji as a "man of action," who is quickly casting aside his boyish innocence in order to take on more of the responsibilities he feels are his now in the absence of his father. Eiji is the strongest of the kids who patrol the town, and the most capable of transformative violence. But Suzuki isn't content letting him triumph again and again over lousy thugs, and while the film celebrates Eiji's self-sacrifice and heroism, Suzuki is quick to undercut the boy's more selfish and immature attempts to "make things right."

On patrol in the neighborhood, Eiji and his friends play with a fake rubber knife and kid around, before they come upon the body of a murdered labor leader. They end up hauled into jail and lectured before being let go. When Eiji stands up to Shinkai's mob by himself, he can fight them one-on-one, but he ends up chased and shot in the arm.

Still, Suzuki doesn't condemn Eiji for his sense of inner strength and determination; Eiji is able to turn defeats like his being shot into victories ultimately; when his mother realizes what has happened, she decides to break off her affair with Shinkai and testify against the mobster to the police––even though this will mean the end of the bar she runs, which Shinkai owns. But Eiji's arc is one where he learns to engage and rely upon others, making a community in the slum that will stand up against their gangster exploiters.

MY TAKE

The community Eiji engages is the victorious outcome in the picture, the one that enables transformative change. Through it, Eiji is able to help his mother set up a new business, a boisterous coffee shop full of the neighborhood kids––the more positively-framed, working-class double Suzuki creates for the Taiyozoku.

In the end of the picture, his love interest, Mayumi Shimizu, who has lingered around the edges of the movie like usual (Suzuki will reward Shimizu for her very second-string work in these early films with more of the focus in the next Wada vehicle, The Wind-of-Youth Group Go Over the Mountain Pass), helps to rescue Eiji from the film's increasingly violent final confrontation, and delivers him and the rest of the community to see Yuko and Goro off to their wedding. Eiji is still a kid, not a romantic rival for Goro. But he loses the love of his life, and seems to be giving up some key aspects of his individual identity in the process, surrendering to the more positive world of the community he has created.

Eiji's individualistic desire to possess the woman he loves, to assume they are destined for one another, is his main bourgeois affectation. He's supported it in a dangerous, volatile fashion until now, becoming good enough at karate to individually "protect" Yuko. Eiji's surrender to the group dynamic potentially gives him and his mother a future, and saves Yuko AND Goro.

It might be too much to say Shinkai, his mother's ex-lover and the neighborhood's previous social magnet––who is also a frustrated competitor for Yuko's affections––is the dark double Eiji has to vanquish to remake his world in a positive, productive mold. But vanquishing Shinkai in essence makes Eiji useless to Yuko, and unable to stop her from marrying for love. So the fair and equitable system Eiji helps to engineer in Ikebukuro comes at the cost of his own dark, romantic fantasy. This could have been less of an emphasis in the picture, but Suzuki really dials up the sense that Eiji's darker passions and his violent nature now has no real outlet anymore. Unless he can change, his usefulness to his community might also be at an end once Yuko is gone.

It seems as if Eiji is sublimating his rage at Yuko and Goro by beating up Shinkai's goons, but Suzuki is either not prepared or not allowed to explore the connection of Eiji and Shinkai further. But the film charges forward like a rocket from moment to moment, and while you watch nothing seems amiss or underdeveloped. I guess in general I really like the Koji Wada movies, with the exception of Million-Dollar Smash-and-Grab and, to some extent, Blood-Red Water in the Channel––which feel like genuinely by-the-numbers films more than almost anything in Suzuki's cannon. I think you can see a lot of Suzuki's outlook and interest in this picture, and the director's skill with visuals and editing is on display all throughout the A Hell of a Guy. It's a very satisfying movie, and deeper than one might expect.
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Spoiler
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First off, in spite of the recently more common title, Living by Karate (one of the more awkward English retitles made of the picture), Koji Wada does not know karate. He does a credible imitation of some training over the credits––while singing the theme song from Fighting Delinquents, which we'll later know as the theme song from Tokyo Drifter. But copious action scenes throughout the movie make it clear that Wada didn't learn karate for the picture (no surprise: he made 9 films in 1961, there was no time to be any different than who he was). However, Wada's readiness for the spry roughhousing the movie demands is obvious in every one of the copious fight scenes in the 82-minute picture.

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In fact, the action in the picture is significantly high-energy from most of the cast, with a few notable exceptions. Ryoji Hayama, a matinee star from the mid-to-late 50s, clearly comes from a different school of theater than Nikkatsu's growing supporting cast of the Akushon era.

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Star of Passport to Darkness, Ryoji looks big, and Suzuki goes out of his way to make him seem physically formidable, but when he finally starts throwing haymakers in the finale, it's clear he isn't up to it, even a little bit. Takashi Ebata, Shiro Yanase, and Nakajiro Tomita have to throw themselves all over the place to make Ryoji's fisticuffs look like anything. Wada, by contrast, along with his gang of fellow kids, demonstrate way higher spirits and more convincing exuberance. It shows the change in priorities taking place as Nikkatsu goes all-in for action over its earlier melodramas.

Second note here is the vivid setting, and what it means for the picture.

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The film's roller rink was part of the Toshimaen theme park in Nerima, but the rest of the movie was filmed on location in Ikebukuro. The area seemed to be chosen because this section of it looked like a slum still in the era. In 1961 war reconstruction was close to completion, but this was an area of the city where there seemed to be some level of poverty, or at least, the appearance of poverty.

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Looking at an aerial photo of Ikebukuro from 1965, you can see the area flanked by office buildings and shopping districts, but you can also see the smaller, darker, wooden buildings and vacant lots in which most of the film takes place––as well as the industrial-looking train station which looks so striking in the film's finale, like a beach of volcanic sand (as in Man with a Shotgun, the film following this one).

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But there are other locations snuck in. It looks like studio sets at Nikkatsu were used for the night-time scenes:

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Here's what I think is a repeat location from a previous Suzuki film:

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In interviews Suzuki frequently mentions scouting locations himself, and he almost never seems to repeat locations across nearly 40 films. One exception is the racetrack used in Cheers at the Harbor and Satan's Town, and here we see a sort of park amphitheater which seems to have been used in the pool scene in Blue Breasts.

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TAIYOZOKU DRIFT

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Stylistically, A Hell of a Guy has significant differences from Fighting Delinquents and Tokyo Knights. Both those films revolve around a young male figure––played by Koji Wada––and the straightforward early scenes are all about putting over our hero before any drama starts, letting you know how incredible this Wada fellow is, capable of surmounting any challenge put his way. The point of these films is that whoever Wada is playing is––in fact––a "hell of a guy." Meanwhile, Wada's character in the actual film with that title is a different one––still spectacular, but only in key ways Suzuki seems to find plausible for the setting. Wada's character, Eiji, hasn't had prodigious life experiences, as he has in Tokyo Knights via that character's wealth. He doesn't have the resources and anti-realist fantasy-ideation powers his character seems to have in Fighting Delinquents, where he can jump in a random jeep when his mother is trying to escape with her shame, and outrace a train to try and bring her back to the family. Eiji, rather, has the ability to do violence, and a lot of anger to back it up.

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In fact, Eiji hardly resembles the heroes Wada plays before or immediately after this movie–––the Suzuki protagonist he seems most like is actually Jiro from Everything Goes Wrong. Jiro is alienated from the hedonistic world around him, longing for the recapture of his more innocent childhood years, and denied it because of the absence of his father, dead in WWII. Jiro hates his pseudo-stepfather, the industrialist Namba, who he feels has corrupted his mother and killed his father (the soldier was allegedly run over by the very Japanese tanks Namba may have produced). Eiji is angry for a lot of the same reasons. His rage stems from the state of the slums around him––which Eiji drags his friends off to every night to "patrol" for wrongdoing––and from the breakup of his solid family structure.

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Eiji too has lost a father in the war––there is a brief, striking scene where Eiji runs up and points an accusing finger at the family altar and says everything is messed up because his dad went and died a soldier, not a father––and Eiji's mother has a longstanding affair with the odious Shinkai, local mobster who oppresses the slums, but who long ago put up the money for Eiji's mother to run her bar. But while Jiro's angst seems like dynamite, brittle and ready to go off, Eiji's anger is largely channelled into a series of linked relationships, where Eiji's reckless energy can have both positive and negative effects.

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Suzuki sets up the interconnected relationships of Eiji's life in a rapid-fire sequence of quick scenes, dancing from character to character, setting up all the people important in Eiji's life, who live in these slums. This is bravura filmmaking, where when any one of the characters mentions another, we are whisked in an abrupt cut to that mentioned character to see what they're doing. This is Suzuki's most stylistically-complex movie since Everything Goes Wrong, and while that movie provided a setting and let the relevant taiyozoku kids filter into it and become characters under the watch of a lilting, drifting camera, here whip-pans and fast cuts bring us from point to point on a map of the area, sketching out the slums in a loose geography and populating it with vivid character types. From the grotesque Shinkai to the pervy but well-meaning rink manager, to the alcoholic doctor, to his lovely daughter, to her yakuza fiancee, to the local mechanic and his wife, we meet a gaggle of characters and get a sense of them, so that as Eiji encounters them, we have a sense of how his surging wave of energy will crash down on their various rocks.

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What comes clear from this pointilist introduction, different from the drifting chaos of Everything Goes Wrong, is that the Ikebukuro slum is a community, drawn together through the ways all of them go out of their way to casually lend each other support at the right moments. Eiji will end up a part of this by the end, as his pasttime patrolling the streets leads him to organize his classmates in school into a genuine neighborhood watch, which in turn leads to the defeat of Shinkai and his mob. The atmosphere of community we see on display is one of the richer strands of this movie, and seems to be something Suzuki believes in without irony; it's the close-knit nature of the Ikebukuro community that keeps Eiji's violence channeled into socially-useful action, where Jiro's more upper-middle-class alienation feeds him directly into the capitalist machine Suzuki implies underscores the activity of the Sun Tribe kids.

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Not that the slum-dwellers are immune to Japan's ultracapitalist driving forces. It's clear that the slum is a place where lives and careers are stagnant. Both contributing to that stagnation and offering the only respite from it seems to be Shinkai, whose ill-gotten gains are invested into the community only so Shinkai can oppress everyone further. That the gangster is so unctuous and cheerful is only because he has his foot so squarely on the neck of the neighborhood, and he knows it. Over the course of the film, as Eiji's irrepressible energy starts to wear away at Shinkai's little "hood" empire, actor Nakajiro Tomita's smile as Shinkai begins to display increasing hints of mania and desperation. In a sense, the underlying story of the film is about Eiji breaking up Shinkai's empire for the good of both the neighborhood and for his relationship with his mother––though that relationship is far less antagonistic, Oedipal, and intense than the one between Jiro and his mother in Everything Goes Wrong. But because the film is so much about the community, there are other strands to the story of equal or larger weight.

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The Sun-Tribe revival of Everything Goes Wrong provides the setting that makes for tragedy in that movie. Jiro is trapped in a setting which turns his violence inward, self-destructive. It was Nikkatsu trying to recapture the lightning-in-a-bottle of Crazed Fruit a few years later, after the dust of the Taiyozoku controversy had supposedly run its course a little. Not much seemed to come from this revival, and the studio moves on to the popular "askushon" formula––of which Wada was a major exponent. Suzuki's Tamio-Kawaji-starring films illustrate this transformation; Everything Goes Wrong is violent and nihilistic in a way Hi-Teen Yakuza seems to reject. High-spirits win the day against gangsters there. By A Hell of a Guy, it's an exuberant community that comes together around Eiji to kick the gangsters out of their neighborhood––a much more positive message better fitted to Wada's lighter screen persona.

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Suzuki invests the Ikebukuro slum with a winning mix of real-world frustrations, straightened circumstances, and innate decency. The residents are decent, earnest, tolerant, well-meaning, essentially kind. They are not the droogs gathering under high-key lamp-light in the alleyways of, say, High & Low, sh*t smeared all over their faces. But Suzuki makes it clear how a brutal, uncaring economy makes their lives harder. Everything in their lives is a compromise, every situation a bit austere. People here clearly work long hours, and make enough only to barely get by. There is the sense that misfortune could topple any of them at any minute, and the risk of losing it all––or having it taken away, by, say, a yakuza––is ever-present. While Suzuki and Nagatsuka emphasize the reddish-black iron of the locale, there is a slightly warm hue to life in the neighborhood. These are places Suzuki himself knows well, from postwar years living hand-to-mouth himself, and the way in which he creates a sense of lives weighted down by incipient precariousness is one of the film's subtlest gestures and its largest strengths. It enables the human warmth of a tight-knit community to shine through in scene after scene––especially in the clutch of scenes where neighbors like the local mechanic and others start trying to pull together to help Eiji's mother start a cafe and escape the clutches of Shinkai and his bar. The goodness of people used to hardscrabble existences comes through in the film again and again.


CINEMATOGRAPHY

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Capturing this tender treatment of human beings in one of the few social interrelationships Suzuki actually respects is veteran cinematographer Kazue Nagatsuka. Before the Koji Wada movies, Nagatsuka had been gone from the Suzuki-gumi for a minute––his last work for the director had been on Passport to Darkness––only a year prior but seeming like a lifetime ago. When the Koji Wada movies hit, Nagatsuka is there for this first half of the cycle. He shoots Fighting Delinquents, Tokyo Knights, and A Hell of a Guy––and then he is out for another two years and seven movies, with Shigeyoshi Mine mostly filling his role until Youth of the Beast. In the time in-between Nagatsuka lenses 10 movies, at least 8 of them for Suzuki's mentor, director Hiroshi Noguchi.

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Nagatsuka brings an understated noir elegance to Living by Karate. Of the Nagatsuka/Suzuki pairings in color, this is probably, until Zigeunerweisen, the most limited color palette. Most of the movie is done in dusky shades of greenish-brown, with occasional splashes of particular colors to identify people, mostly. Koji Wada repeatedly wears a yellow or a light-blue shirt and a navy-blue coat, whereas Izumi Ashikawa consistently wears white. Respective love interests Mayumi Shimizu and Ryoji Hayama are identified by their red clothing. Like Emiko Asuma in Fighting Delinquents, Hisano Yamaoka, playing Eiji's mother, wears greys when she is having her compromising affair with Shinkai, and as she develops a crisis of conscience (after learning Shinkai's goons shot Eiji in the arm), her wardrobe blossoms into a swirl of colors.

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Takashi Ebata, playing the film's most sadistic crook, dresses in black, mostly reflective surfaces. Shinkai, by turns disarmingly friendly and sinister, wears a host of ever-changing outfits which reflect his various goals and attitudes. The majority of the slum-dwellers wear a variation on a literal "blue collar" outfit. Combined with the rusty-looking smog in the air above Ikebukuro, the film is mostly done in yellow, blue, brown, and various shades of red.

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Every Suzuki film Nagatsuka shoots benefits from the cinematographer's exquisite noir lighting, and A Hell of a Guy is no exception. We get wonderful stylized shadows all over the back walls of the villain's layer. As the finale gets more intense, Nagatsuka subtly narrows the range of lighting, letting more and more darkness encroach on the scene.

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More than the early Shigeyoshi Mine work, Suzuki's preference for extreme visual compositions is a frequent focus for Nagatsuka. Eiji framed with the train tracks behind him seems to stretch for miles, and yet it conveys the boy's frustrations with the iniquities he sees around him, the claustrophobia of the slum that is driving him nuts, in these thoroughly complicated frames. Many shots work to convey the complex and often fraught relationships between characters, as when Eiji confronts his "sister" Yuko's yakuza boyfriend Goro, knocks him down, and then confronts Goro's boss, Shinkai, as well.

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Incredibly, Nagatsuka shoots this confrontation through Shinkai's enormous American automobile, framing each character in the windows and windshield and over the hood of the vehicle, taking his and Suzuki's yen for complex framing to a sort of point of ultimate daring. It helps establish character relationships quickly, but this kind of stylistic bravado is not really the takeaway from A Hell of a Guy––which feels fairly similar in presentation to the other films in Suzuki's "Kozo" cycle with Wada as the star.

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There's an emphasis on particular framing––as there often is in Suzuki's films––and here it's on characters stepping into view, revealing themselves. We see characters intruding into space by spying, or stepping out from behind something obscuring them, or being revealed behind a doorway or around a bend. The climax of the film involved several reveals where parts of the set are torn away to reveal new details or save certain characters.

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Two moments stand out. When Eiji's friends are raiding the villains' lair, near-amateur gangster Kiesuke Noro grabs one of Shinkai's various hunting shotguns and fires it at the crowd of attacking high-schoolers. Everyone is surprised, but no one is hurt––because Noro has confused the students with their reflection in a mirror, which his gun blast fractures. Maybe this is meant to speak to the way Eiji's gang resembles Shinkai's, with a twist.

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The other is Shinkai stepping from very artificial-looking darkness in a doorway into the light, as he prepares to assault of Yuko. The scene is delivered in the way one feels Suzuki is exactly the right director for, as opposed to, well...let's say that hack, Buichi Saito, has done similar scenes in similar Nikkatsu movies and hasn't made as much of a creative impact. Yuko, the daughter of the alcoholic doctor––and Eiji's "forbidden" love, who he frequently calls "Sis," has been lured to Shinkai's home, where the gangsters are holding her father in a booze-soaked delirium. She is put into a room Shinkai uses for...entertaining?...maybe...

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The room is full of metaphors. Shinkai is first seen firing off shotguns, and at this point we see that this grim room is lined with the animals he has killed. Interestingly, I can't recall a single instance in which Suzuki films a live animal in nature––though, like many surrealists, his films are full of dead animals, as well as the cow which is slaughtered and butchered on-screen in Gate of Flesh. Here, the dead animals and rugs are shot in a way intended to seem disconcerting, and Yuko, still uncertain what is going on, is intimidated by their deathly visages, in some cases fairly absurd-looking. Suzuki really underlines here how bloodthirsty Shinkai is for conquest. This is what drives the villain; in a slum which he keeps suppressed, Shinkai thrives on conquest of a vulnerable population, just like the way he preys upon animals helpless before his enormous phallic substitute/rifle. The shadow of Shinkai in the doorway is more disturbing because of the horror show we've just witnessed; Shinkai has made conquests of all forms of exotic creature; now Yuko is his next catch.

JEALOUSY

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I've neglected to mention Living by Karate's most present and potent subplot until now, so here goes:

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Eiji is obsessed with his neighbor, Yuko, a young woman he grew up with. He calls her "Sis" out of long-standing affection, but for Yuko, the younger Eiji really is like a younger brother, a sort of generational comrade in the rough living in the area.

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Also, this is all compounded by the way Yuko has secretly found a boyfriend, a somewhat isolated yakuza who has distanced himself from Shinkai's gang. Yuko has been trying to keep this a secret in close-knit community, but Eiji has discovered the secret by...basically...just following her obsessively.

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Played by Izumi Ashikawa, Yuko is a conscientious young woman, never leading Eiji astray, but tolerating him in a way that mostly makes life a little harder for her. A saint who doesn't complain about hardships, Yuko looks after her alcoholic father with a rueful eye towards his vices and a nurturing spirit. She tolerates her boss Shinkai's sleazy innuendo when she's at work. And when she looks at Goro she sees not a yakuza scumbag, but a guy with a noble soul, struggling to do the right thing, gradually winning the fight to become a good person.

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Ryoji Hayama, the smooth matinee idol who appeared previously as the lead in Passport to Darkness, plays Goro as a graceful man, dancing over the slums with a light step. Hayama's career is centered around the postwar reformation of Nikkatsu. Joining the company in 1955, when production was ramping up, he appears as a romantic young journalist romancing a woman poet with cancer in Kinuyo Tanaka's Forever a Woman aka Eternal Breasts. A star in the mold of Masayuki Mori, who is also in the movie, Hayama has somewhat drawn features, and is quite lithe and reedy, initially. By 1957, though, he is beginning to fill out into a broad-shouldered, wide-faced guy with an ingratiating smile.

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Like a lot of the early Nikkatsu leads of this time, his career as a first-billed leading man is eclipsed by Yujiro Ishihara and the subsequent Diamond Line of stars, with their more dangerous and violent sexiness and immediacy. Hayama, who acts in the older style, as though he were moving through a dream, is quickly shunted into supporting roles, mostly in Ishihara, Keiichiro Akagi and Akira Kobayashi films. He continues in Nikkatsu films as the company transitions towards yakuza pictures, blending into the heavy-jowled casts of some of the Outlaw Gangster VIP films, as well as Yasuharu Hasebe's early yakuza pictures Massacre Gun, Retaliation, and Bloody Territories.

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After Nikkatsu shuts down he trades on the aura he has earned as a second-tier yakuza movie guy to get into Toei pictures. He is in a lot of Bunta Sugawara and Noboru Ando movies there, including The Tattooed Hit Man, the grotesque Yakuza Wolf and the genuinely revolting True Story of the Private Ginza Police, the Bunta Sugawara/Tamio Kawaji two-hander The Viper Brothers, Criminal Woman Killing Melody, and Machine Gun Dragon. His classiest credits come from this era, as an admiral in Tora! Tora! Tora!, and as part of the endless stream of yakuza movie guys in Hideo Gosha's seeming parody of Toei's yakuza output, The Violent Streets. For Suzuki, Hayama appeared more times than one might remember. After a lead role in Passport to Darkness he next appeared in this film. He is the criminal brother/rival in Blood-Red Water in the Channel, and as Wada's boxing coach who suspects he's cucked in Those Who Bet on Me. In 1984 he reunites with Suzuki for the TV movie Choice of Family: I'll Kill Your Husband for You!

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I like Hayama's stoic gentleness as Goro in A Hell of a Guy, even though it seems not extremely plausible that up until he met Izumi Ashikawa's character, he was Shinkai's number-one tough. Goro in this movie serves as a prop, the virtuous romantic rival Eiji can't hope to outclass. Eventually even Eiji respects him a little––although one can't help but notice it's Eiji who saves Goro after Shinkai's goons are basically dunking him like a witch for no good reason later in the movie. As for the real Hayama, I can't find much information about him, except to say that he was romantically linked to his co-star here, Izumi Ashikawa, for years before she married up-and-coming Nikkatsu action star Tatsuya Fuji.

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More interesting is Izumi Ashikawa herself, who joins the Suzuki-gumi for two movies in a row (this and Man with a Shotgun), and then moves swiftly onwards, never to return again. Ashikawa is eventually recognized as one of the biggest starlets at Nikkatsu, after years in supporting roles in films like The Stormy Man, The Perfect Game, and Crimson Wings. Her lead roles are in minor Nikkatsu melodramas, like Windy Street, Dawn of a Canvas, The White Peaks of Mt. Fuji, and The Passionate Spinster. She's much better known for supporting roles, as the romantic female figure opposite many of the Diamond Guys––with Yujiro Ishihara in For This We Fight, That Guy and I, and Storm Over Arabia, with Keiichiro Akagi in The Call of the Foghorn, with non-Diamond-Guy leading man Hiroyuki Nagato in Break Down that Wall, and most memorably with Jo Shishido in Glass-Hearted Johnny: Looks Like a Beast––Koreyoshi Kurahara's hit contemporary adaptation of La Strada, where Ashikawa draws rave reviews playing the Giulietta Masina character.

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She retires after marrying Tatsuya Fuji. What isn't covered here is Ashikawa's reputation as the "thinking man's" lead actress. She had legions of fans in her day, and future director Hayao Miyazaki counted himself amongst them. It's easy to see in Ashikawa's luminous, delicate looks and her frequently unshakeable resolve the basis for many of Studio Ghibli's heroines. Is Izumi Ashikawa the inspiration for Nausicaa?

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Regardless, I think she does well enough here. She is the film's gamine, frequently dressed in white, and unquestionably meant for better things than the slum provides her. And at the end of the movie, she is able to do what Eiji and the others can't; riding off on a train with Goro, Yuko is marrying out of the slums, into what we presume is some sort of middle-class stability Goro can somehow afford...in spite of how the only thing on his resume seems to be "yakuza underling." I guess since he's one of the "good ones..." Probably worth noting that this film is absent Suzuki's more scoriating view of the yakuza––a view which permeates from even some of his earliest films, and which grows to full-throated mockery by the time Suzuki is assigned actual yakuza movies, like Kanto Wanderer. Here in the era of Nikkatsu "Akushon," there seems to be more pressure to tow the line, and the result is a "take" on the yakuza villains that is more in line with Nikkatsu's general tone on them––alternating between the honorable and virtuous yakuza like Goro, and the dishonorable bosses like Shinkai.

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I do think Suzuki exaggerates Shinkai more than is standard––he is written as a fairly reasonable guy, but played at a level of debauched ugliness equivalent to the evil queen in Snow White. Yuko is frequently menaced by Shinkai, who is obviously undressing her with his eyes.

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When he approaches her intending to rape her, in a moment of weakness, he actually mimes undressing her with his fingers, which is a fascinating part of the performance. Of the Wada-Suzuki pictures, this is the one with the most prominent villain. Nakajiro Tomita's extravagant performance of oozing villainy is the standout in the picture, he's the actor to watch.

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However, I have to say Wada himself seems to be improving, giving more adroit performances, picture-by-picture. He is fun in Fighting Delinquents and Tokyo Knights, but his performance here has more layers to it, even as it consciously conjures the Yujiro Ishihara of I Am Waiting, say. It's interesting how, in spite of so many similarities to Everything Goes Wrong––especially the title characters' background motivations––Wada's performance has so little of the angst of Kawaji's Jiro. One of the interesting elements of the movie is how Suzuki is able to deftly frame Eiji as a "man of action," who is quickly casting aside his boyish innocence in order to take on more of the responsibilities he feels are his now in the absence of his father.

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Eiji is the strongest of the kids who patrol the town, and the most capable of transformative violence. But Suzuki isn't content letting him triumph again and again over lousy thugs (Keisuke Noro is one of the more striking thugs, per as usual, here always upping the ante on fights, taking on more than he can handle), and while the film celebrates Eiji's self-sacrifice and heroism, Suzuki is quick to undercut the boy's more selfish and immature attempts to "make things right."

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On patrol in the neighborhood, Eiji and his friends play with a fake rubber knife and kid around, before they come upon the body of a murdered labor leader. They end up hauled into jail and lectured before being let go. When Eiji stands up to Shinkai's mob by himself, he can fight them one-on-one, but he ends up chased and shot in the arm.

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Still, Suzuki doesn't condemn Eiji for his sense of inner strength and determination; Eiji is able to turn defeats like his being shot into victories ultimately; when his mother realizes what has happened, she decides to break off her affair with Shinkai and testify against the mobster to the police––even though this will mean the end of the bar she runs, which Shinkai owns. But Eiji's arc is one where he learns to engage and rely upon others, making a community in the slum that will stand up against their gangster exploiters.

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At the end of the movie Eiji blows a whistle to summon his schoolmates, who storm Shinkai's house and bring the whole operation down around the gangsters' ears.

MY TAKE

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The community Eiji engages is the victorious outcome in the picture, the one that enables transformative change. Through it, Eiji is able to help his mother set up a new business, a boisterous coffee shop full of the neighborhood kids––the more positively-framed, working-class double Suzuki creates for the Taiyozoku.

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In the end of the picture, his love interest, Mayumi Shimizu, who has lingered around the edges of the movie like usual (Suzuki will reward Shimizu for her very second-string work in these early films with more of the focus in the next Wada vehicle, The Wind-of-Youth Group Go Over the Mountain Pass), helps to rescue Eiji from the film's increasingly violent final confrontation, and delivers him and the rest of the community to see Yuko and Goro off to their wedding.

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The community––including Eiji's mother––swell around Yuko and her groom joyously, but Eiji holds back. Yuko sees him there and waves to him. Eiji waves back...but the ending is very bittersweet. Eiji is still a kid, not a romantic rival for Goro. But he loses, we feel, the love of his life, and, in a sense, seems to be giving up some key aspects of his individual identity in the process, surrendering to the more positive world of the community he has created.

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Eiji's individualistic desire to possess the woman he loves, to assume they are destined for one another, is his main bourgeois affectation. He's supported it in a dangerous, volatile fashion until now, becoming good enough at karate to individually "protect" Yuko. Eiji's surrender to the group dynamic potentially gives him and his mother a future, and saves Yuko AND Goro.

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It might be too much to say Shinkai, his mother's ex-lover and the neighborhood's previous social magnet––who is also a frustrated competitor for Yuko's affections––is the dark double Eiji has to vanquish to remake his world in a positive, productive mold. But vanquishing Shinkai in essence makes Eiji useless to Yuko, and unable to stop her from marrying for love. So the fair and equitable system Eiji helps to engineer in Ikebukuro comes at the cost of his own dark, romantic fantasy. This could have been less of an emphasis in the picture, but Suzuki really dials up the sense that Eiji's darker passions and his violent nature now has no real outlet anymore. Unless he can change, his usefulness to his community might also be at an end once Yuko is gone.

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To me these are the interesting ideas and the darker flavor that makes A Hell of a Guy an engrossing picture. It isn't the Wada film that hangs together the best––Wind-of-Youth Group and Those Who Bet on Me have much tidier, more compelling throughlines––but it shows Wada capable of darker material. This could be why the film doesn't do as well as the first two (though it still seems to be profitable for Nikkatsu), but in a way this is preparing for Wada the actor, who in a few years' time will replace Wada the movie star, delivering excellent performances for Suzuki in Gate of Flesh and Carmen from Kawachi.

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The setting and the aesthetics of the movie are striking, and the handling of the economic depression of Ikebukuro feels honest without being exploitative. Suzuki had lived in similar circumstances not 10 years earlier, and he seemed ideal to evoke this space without sensationalizing it. In general, the Wada Kozo cycle of films is a sort of extended experiment in expanded resources for Suzuki, where he can play with color for the first time and handle larger-scale action. None of these films have the inner consistency we'll see in Youth of the Beast and the films after it, nor the inner consistency of Suzuki's pessimistic anti-Sun-Tribe movie, Everything Goes Wrong.

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There are strands of this film in particular which go nowhere––Yuko's father's alcoholism is hand-waved away at the end, as is Shinkai's note late in the movie that he killed the labor leader whose corpse Eiji and his friends discovered on patrol, at the behest of love interest Mayumi Shimizu's rich industrialist father. The violence Eiji suppresses around Yuko is a theme treated almost coquettishly, and the double-like tie of Eiji to Shinkai is not done in a thorough, clear way.

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It seems as if Eiji is sublimating his rage at Yuko and Goro by beating up Shinkai's goons, but Suzuki is either not prepared or not allowed to explore the connection of Eiji and Shinkai further. But the film charges forward like a rocket from moment to moment, and while you watch nothing seems amiss or underdeveloped. I guess in general I really like the Koji Wada movies, with the exception of Million-Dollar Smash-and-Grab and, to some extent, Blood-Red Water in the Channel––which feel like genuinely by-the-numbers films more than almost anything in Suzuki's cannon. I think you can see a lot of Suzuki's outlook and interest in this picture, and the director's skill with visuals and editing is on display all throughout the A Hell of a Guy. It's a very satisfying movie, and deeper than one might expect. The parallels with Everything Goes Wrong are interesting, as if that trenchant social critique was something Suzuki was unable to exactly shake off in an era of expanded fantasy at the studio. And the art direction and cinematography on this one are both exceptional. I always remember it most by the striking color palette, and by its empathy for the decent working people in an economically-depressed part of Tokyo.

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After covering this one, I want to go straight into profiling Everything Goes Wrong, but I also had Passport to Darkness on the agenda, as well as the Akira Kobayashi melodramas. I might do the Kobayashi melos next. And I plan to cover A Mummy's Love soon as well. So one of these five films will be next! It'll be a surprise to me, too.
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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#197 Post by feihong »

Looks like Nikkatsu plans to release further dvds, including what I think is the last of the unavailable features: Satan's Town, Blood-Red Water in the Channel, and Blue Breasts. There's also a host of films there which already have bluray releases, so what the f*ck are we even talking about, including Voice without a Shadow, Underworld Beauty, Smashing the O-Line, and Tokyo Knights. I don't know why these films couldn't get at least the treatment of Naked Age, but let's have some more dvds in 2025! All three of these previously unavailable movies are welcome releases--though based on the quality of the previous dvds, one shouldn't expect too much picture quality.
danielcarter
Joined: Mon Sep 08, 2025 9:58 am

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#198 Post by danielcarter »

Great insights on Fighting Delinquents and Seijun Suzuki’s rise in the Nikkatsu ranks! It's fascinating how this film helped elevate Suzuki's career, even if it didn’t immediately place him alongside the top directors. His use of color in his films is something I always appreciate — it adds so much to the atmosphere and characters. The restored 4K transfers are a big plus, too, bringing out the details that can be missed on older formats.

I’m curious how the rest of the boxset holds up in comparison to Fighting Delinquents. Has the transfer for Tokyo Drifter improved a lot with the 4K restoration? Looking forward to hearing more about the set!
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feihong
Joined: Thu Nov 04, 2004 4:20 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#199 Post by feihong »

danielcarter wrote: Fri Sep 12, 2025 3:44 pm Great insights on Fighting Delinquents and Seijun Suzuki’s rise in the Nikkatsu ranks! It's fascinating how this film helped elevate Suzuki's career, even if it didn’t immediately place him alongside the top directors. His use of color in his films is something I always appreciate — it adds so much to the atmosphere and characters. The restored 4K transfers are a big plus, too, bringing out the details that can be missed on older formats.

I’m curious how the rest of the boxset holds up in comparison to Fighting Delinquents. Has the transfer for Tokyo Drifter improved a lot with the 4K restoration? Looking forward to hearing more about the set!
Well, I have a whole back-catalog of these writeups, Tokyo Drifter is included. Sad to say, the new disc of Tokyo Drifter has a fatal flaw, you can see the section at the end of my Tokyo Drifter writeup where I talk about that:

Tokyo Drifter

...and the rest of the writeups I've done are below. Most have been from the new boxsets (that's what inspired this crusade), but I've been panning out to take in as much of the whole Suzuki filmography as I can manage. A few projects probably won't be there. I don't have his 5-minute adaptation of Ghost Story of Yotsuya, for instance, or his Karate instruction video from the 90s, and apparently no one has There is a Bird Inside a Man. But I do plan to cover a lot of rarities, including things like Cherry Blossoms in Spring and Tale of Youth at Hirosaki High School, along with the new first-time DVD releases, like Passport to Darkness and Those Who Bet On Me. And thank you as well for the kind words, by the way.

Branded to Kill
Fighting Elegy
Kanto Wanderer
Carmen From Kawachi
Our Blood Will Not Forgive
Gate of Flesh
Naked Age
Fighting Delinquents
An Inn of Floating Weeds
The Flower & the Angry Waves
The Naked Woman and the Gun
Underworld Beauty
Story of a Prostitute
Zigeunerweisen
Cheers at the Harbor: Triumph in My Hands
Singing Rope: Innocent Love at Sea
Capone Cries Hard
Take Aim at the Police Van
A Hell of a Guy
The Boy Who Came Back
A Mummy's Love
Blue Breasts
Last edited by feihong on Fri May 15, 2026 8:43 am, edited 5 times in total.
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tenia
Ask Me About My Bassoon
Joined: Wed Apr 29, 2009 3:13 pm

Re: Seijun Suzuki

#200 Post by tenia »

I might see Tokyo Drifter's new restoration next month at Lyon Film Festival. If so, I'll report on how the restorations looks in a theatrical screening context.
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