Reviews

Written in one day, grossly underfunded, and shot entirely in a studio, "The Men Who Tread on the Tiger's Tail" sounds like a slapdash piece of cinema. But amazingly, it isn't. Perhaps because of the limitations he had to work with, Kurosawa here shows himself a creative and assured director.

His script is an amalgamation of two Japanese plays, both based upon the same legend. The premise is expectedly simple: At the height of a Shogun war, a group of retainers attempts to pass an enemy guard post, disguising themselves as monks.

Kurosawa relays the tale in a single never-dull hour, about the perfect length for such a story. He has opted for a mildly stylised approach, that only benefits from the artificial dialogue and theatrical acting. You really get a sense of a folk tale being acted out.

The filmmaking is most impressive. Shooting during the closing days of the Second World War, Kurosawa had little more than a sound stage at his disposal, for which he compensated with dynamic framing and editing. Of particular notice is the rapid cutting between facial close-ups during one climax, a technique we nowadays associated with Sergio Leone. Did he borrow more from Kurosawa than the entirety of "Yojimbo"?

Certainly, Leone wasn't the first foreign director to appreciate Kurosawa's craft. Both Michael Powell and John Ford supposedly saw and admired "The Men Who Tread on the Tiger's Tail". I see no reason to disagree with them.

An incomprehensible misfire. You can see what Kurosawa was aiming for -- people finding meaning in life despite going through the worst -- but the result is a loud, ugly, flabby, and often boring film. Easily one of his worst.

'I Live in Fear' has always been one of Kurosawa's lesser-known films. Why? Because it is one of his weaker efforts? No, because it is his most pessimistic. Kurosawa was a humanist. His protagonists usually find some form of redemption, despite the hardship they have gone through (see "Ikiru" or "Dodes'ka-den"). Not so with "I Live in Fear".

Toshirô Mifune plays a Lear-like industrialist (double his actual age, amazingly) who is tormented by the thought of nuclear annihilation. Over the course of the film, he becomes increasingly paranoid, dragging the people around him with down in his misery.

This fear of nuclear warfare was obviously widespread in post-war Japan, and Kurosawa does not offer an antidote to people's fears. In fact, this is his only film that seemingly offers no hope for humanity. It moves like a downward spiral, ending with one of cinema's most devastating final shots.

That lack of catharsis may be what damned "I Live in Fear" to the lower echelons of Kurosawa rankings. And certainly, it will not leave you as fulfilled as, say, "Rashômon" or "High and Low" would, but that alone doesn't make it an inferior film. Seek it out. It is a harrowing watch.

On the sixty-third anniversary of Joseph Stalin's death, a commemorative ceremony is held in his birthplace, Gori. A small crowd of people, mostly old, gathers around his statue. A public speaker informs us that Stalin always wanted to become a priest. Instead, he became General Secretary of the most vehemently anti-religious regime on Earth. But the people of Gori love Stalin all the same. Almost as much as they love Jesus.

It is this conflicting idolisation that lies at the heart of "Fatherland". Director George Sikharulidze uses a combination of Christian and communist iconography to explore the curious convergence of loyalties in the people's hearts. Stalin becomes a messianic figure when he rises from the dead and joins the people of Gori. A banquet held in his honour clearly mirrors The Last Supper, Stalin seated in the centre. Then moments later, a reproduction of the original fresco is seen in the background, placed in counterpoint with a communist party meeting.

The fascinating thing about "Fatherland" is that much of it is real. Stalin is still revered in parts of the former Soviet Union, even (especially?) in religious circles. In an interview with Criterion, Sikharulidze has mentioned local attempts to have the tyrant and mass-murderer canonised as a saint, so that people can pray directly to him. "Fatherland" could simply have made fun of such affairs, but it shoots for more than satire. By blending the disparate elements of stalinism and Christianity the way the people of Gori do, it invites us to take part in their state of mind, only to crush that with a damning final shot.

Thanks to the innovative programming department at the Criterion Channel, this too-little-known short is now available to a worldwide audience.

Few films have inspired as much critical folderol as "Journey to Italy". Godard considered it a masterpiece, which is always a cause for worry; he had a sharp eye for directing technique, but not so much for storytelling. "Journey to Italy" reflects this defect, and cannot be called a masterpiece without caveat.

The title is certainly accurate. We follow Alex (George Sanders) and Katherine Joyce (Ingrid Bergman) on a journey through Italy, on their way to sell a mansion Alex' uncle left him, and enjoy some time together.

Their marriage is unhappy. We gather as much from the opening scene, when Alex requests that he drives instead of Katherine. Why so? To keep him awake, he says. Clearly, that's not the whole truth. He may think lowly of her driving skills. Or maybe he can't abide her being in control. Or is he really just bored? It's hard to tell with a sarcast like Sanders.

Katherine feels uncomfortable too, but doesn't call her husband out directly. 'It didn't occur to me that it'd be so boring for you to be alone with me,' she says instead. 'What's that got to do with it? I'm just bored because I've got nothing to do,' Alex replies. Neither is saying what they wanted to say.

That is "Journey to Italy" in a nutshell. Alex and Katherine's marriage could be saved if ever the two were honest with each other, but their emotional defences block every attempt. The tragedy is not that the two don't see what is happening. The tragedy is that they do, and fail to change their ways. Once living with a person for a certain period to time, one cannot suddenly play straight. Alex and Katherine are stuck in vicious circle they have created for themselves.

Rosselini is partially successful in portraying this tragedy. The parts that play out like the above scene have been rightly praised for their bold, elusive storytelling. The best scenes are those in which nothing of apparent notice happens: Katherine takes three tourist tours (set to foreboding music); Alex goes to a party and fails to enjoy himself. What goes on in their heads is left to guess. Antonioni was undoubtedly inspired by "Journey to Italy" when he employed the same technique in his Trilogy ("L'avventura", "La notte", "L'eclisse") -- to greater effect.

Comparison between the directors shows where Rosselini falls short. Note how Antonioni always stays on the surface. He complements the superficial quibbles of his characters with crystal-clear images, and leaves digging to his viewers. Rossellini, meanwhile, wavers. One scene, his characters speak in those natural and shrouded sentences. The next, they indulge in syrupy Hollywood platitudes, or worse: voice-over narration, to directly tell the audience how they feel. The script feels schizophrenic, possibly reflecting its two screenwriters. It is bold and elusive as often as safe and uninvolving.

As such, "Journey to Italy" can only be recommended with reservations. That certain critics fail to provide these is a serious fault. Imagine the Michelin Guide awarding a restaurant three stars despite part of their dishes being undercooked. To appreciate "Journey to Italy", one must seek out the well-done bits.

Akira Kurosawa's "Drunken Angel" is a film in two parts -- first an atmospheric social drama that stands with the director's best work; second a gangster story as they come a dime a dozen. A good thing the better half will draw you in.

Japan, 1947. The Empire has lost the War and American culture is spreading like wildfire. Jazz, whisky, and slick suits have invaded the traditional streetview. It is summer, and hot. You can almost smell the town -- hardly more than a slum, inhabited by ill and crooked people. Amidst them, the alcoholic doctor Sanada (Takashi Shimura) is trying to root out tuberculosis.

One evening, Sanada is visited by a wounded gangster named Matsunaga (Toshirô Mifune, in his first of sixteen collaborations with Kurosawa). Sanada bandages his wounds, but sees there is more at hand. He diagnosis Matsunaga with tuberculosis. If he doesn't seek treatment, he will die. The gangster is too proud to admit he is scared, and leaves. But Sanada does not give up easily. He becomes set on curing Matsunaga, hoping to convince him to change his ways.

The counterpoint between these leads is what drives "Drunken Angel". As Matsunaga, Mifune practically established the 'violent but troubled yakuza' stereotype. The range of emotions he manages to convey is remarkable, especially considering this was only his fourth ever film role. But it is Sanada who stands out most. He is the 'drunken angel', blessed with both unflinching altruism and at least a dozen bad habits. He drinks and swears, throws glass bottles when he is angry. He could have been a rich practitioner if he hadn't been so honest with his patients. 'I've killed more men than you,' he yells at Matsunaga.

The scenes establishing Sanada's routine are the most captivating part of the film. Kurosawa shows his growing artistic maturity with slight touches. Note how he keeps the same landmarks in the background of his long shots, often from different angels, to create a unity of place and stress the spirals in which his story moves.

The film begins to struggle in its second half, once focus shifts to the local gang life. Matsunaga's old boss returns from prison, friction arises in the hierarchy, love causes the usual troubles... Run-of-the-mill material, lacking Kurosawa's trademark humanism, done better elsewhere. Trading in the Dostoevskian slum drama for slick jazz clubs and stiff action (no sign whatsoever that Kurosawa would direct "Seven Samurai" six years later) was a mistake.

Small surprise, then, to discover that "Drunken Angel" was originally all about Sanada, and Kurosawa decided to increase Matsunaga's part after being impressed with Mifune. Yes, Mifune was a great actor, but had Kurosawa decided to 'kill his darlings' and kept the story close to Sanada, "Drunken Angel" might have been his first great film. As is, the reputation of 'fine early Kurosawa' is deservedly modest.

Although a man can dream, it seems pretty definitive that "Suzu no Shizuku" will remain the final "Mushi-shi" adaptation to come from this team. Fortunately, it is a more than fitting farewell to the series, as understated and visually poetic as we have come to expect.

In his final recorded case, Ginko is called upon by a family whose daughter keeps running off into the forest. Ginko traces the girl and discovers she has been chosen by nature to serve as the new 'mountain lord', a being tasked to look after a mountain's well-being. This produces the two-fold complication that Kaya can no longer live with her family, whilst the mountain's vegetable, animal, and mineral inhabitants aren't sure how to respond to a human overseer.

To put the success of "Suzu no Shizuku" into perspective, let's compare it to the series' other double episode, "Hihamukage". Fine though that special was, its story focussed more on external conflict, a grand event that could impact all life on Earth, whilst offering relatively little thematic depth. "Suzu no Shizuku", on the other hand, has only the life of one little girl at stake, but manages to explore man's relationship with nature through her story.

It is with such craft that "Mushi-shi" has given us some of the finest miniatures in anime. Reflecting on its two seasons, I am reminded of how Yasujirô Ozu used to call himself a tofu-maker. 'I can make fried tofu, boiled tofu, stuffed tofu. Cutlets and other fancy stuff, that's for other directors,' he supposedly said. The creators of "Mushi-shi" have likewise carved themselves a beautiful little niche with these miniature marvels. "Suzu no Shizuku" is not a grand finale, nor should it be. It is a gentle coda to a body of work that anime fans will keep revisiting for decades to come.

It is hard imagine an apter first episode than that of "Mushi-shi: Zoku-Sho". A self-contained story, it features a sake brewer who spends years perfecting his recipe to recapture the taste his father once described to him. He experiments with different sorts of rice, koji, and mould, until he creates a drink so polished it gives light.

I mention this because the creators of "Zoku-Sho" have done the same thing. I never liked the original "Mushi-shi" as much as I wanted to. For all its deliberate storytelling, it struck me as just a bit shallow and lacking in atmosphere. But lo, after a decade of labour the creators have refined their recipe precisely to my taste.

It is hard to overstate how craftily the series' look has been improved. In effect, only two changes have been made: the bloom has been toned down, and the colour palette has been extended beyond grey and faded green. So now, when the animators try to paint a sparse and mysterious landscape -- pine groves in the morning mist -- it actually looks sparse and mysterious instead of grey and dull.

But the biggest refinement has been narrative. Like the folk-tales that inspired it, "Mushi-shi" is really about humans -- about the choices we make and how we must learn to live with those. And God bless the writers for getting rid of the morals. No longer are the series' messages hammered down as if taught in elementary school. Instead, we are often left with a partially unresolved situation, an emotional uncertainty. The stories linger in your mind, rather than being digested and ejected from the rear end.

"Mushi-shi: Zoku-Sho" is now my favourite chill-out anime. I watched it one or two episodes a night, before going to bed. Not because "Zoku-Sho" put me to sleep, but because it left me fulfilled enough to end my day. A heartier recommendation I cannot give.

Whenever a serious list of the 'Greatest Films Ever Made' stretches into the the new millennium, bets are "In the Mood for Love" is included. I would personally not heap such praise upon the film, but it is hard to deny it boasts one of the most nuanced and subdued relationships in modern cinema.

The film plays like an Asian "Una giornata particolare". Our Loren and Mastroianni are Maggie Cheung and Tony Chiu-Wai Leung, known for playing action heroes and lovers, (or both, together, in the case of "Hero"). Here, they play everyday people: an editor and a secretary, both married, neighbours in a narrow Hong Kong apartment building.

Their respective spouses are never fully seen. More often than not they are absent, always at the same time. It is hard to say when they begin to suspect, but before long our leads are faced with the fact that their partners are having an affair with each other. This discovery brings the two of them together in need of consolation and, perhaps, love. They are visibly attracted to each other, but agree to keep their relationship platonic.

It is the smaller things that earn "In the Mood for Love" its place on the 'Best of All Time' lists. The acting, writing, and directing are so subtle that describing the film in terms of events renders it meaningless. The great touches of drama lie in the way a person slightly turns his head, moves weight from one leg to the other, or closes a door.

That being said, "In the Mood for Love" suffers from too much of a good thing. The film's central fifty minutes follow the same pattern over and over again: our protagonists make an appointment; they meet; they decide not to have sex; repeat. Sometimes there are minute variations -- he decides to write a newspaper serial; one time it is raining -- but the basic pattern of meet, cut, repeat does not change.

This repetition is intentional to a certain extent. Whenever characters retread locations -- the street, the stairs, the hallway -- they are always filmed from the same angle, like rhyming stanzas in a poem on mundanity. However, these scenes stop presenting new information before long. The emotions don't intensify, they just drag on. We already know the relationship between these people is not going to change, yet are put through the motions another five or six times.

It is one of the medium's great tragedies that nobody cares about one-hour films. We have accepted that novels can be 100 or 3,000 pages long, that paintings can be the size of a matchbox or The Night Watch, but motion pictures of less than eighty minutes rarely qualify as feature films. "In the Mood for Love" certainly would have benefitted from being an hour long. Its intimate filmmaking demands to be seen, but for a 98-minute film to be this long-winded is a flaw too prominent to disregard.