Matt Cooper Films

Ikiru (1952) by Akira Kurosawa

A terminal diagnosis sharpens the attention of an elderly council worker, leading him to question what his life has been for. Mr. Watanabe (Takashi Shimura) is section head at the public liasons office of the city council. His life is one of endless drudgery, filling out forms, stamping documents, and overly bureaucratic systems that never seem to accomplish anything important. A widower, Watanabe lives with his son, Mitsuo (Nobuo Kaneko) and his wife, whose only consideration is how his pension money may help them buy their own house. After receiving a diagnosis of stomach cancer and realising he has perhaps only 6 months left, Watanabe is understandably distraught, considering suicide, when he has a chance encounter with an author (Yunosuke Ito). This younger man shows him the delights of the city, playing his ‘Mephistopheles’ for the night as he introduces him to the joys of gambling, drinking and women. Watanabe also begins a relationship with his younger female co-worker Toyo (Miki Odagiri), whose joie de vivre contrasts starkly with his own dreary existence. Inspired by her, and still grasping for purpose, Watanabe returns to work and sets about pushing through citizens proposals for a children’s play park.

“Ikiru”, written and directed by Akira Kurosawa, who worked on the screenplay with Shinobu Hashimoto and Hideo Oguni, is a perfectly balanced human drama, creating a timeless character in Watanabe. He is a man who finds himself in a familiar position, having given 25 years of his life to a job that he has little personal interest in, for a son who seems not to care for him, while doing little for himself. The stomach cancer, while a tragic occurence, spurs him to action. The central performance by Takashi Shimura is wonderfully nuanced, as he copes with feelings of fear, regret, and loneliness, balanced by occasional levity and a hard-headed determination that grows with the acceptance of his morality. The supporting cast play off him excellently, never detracting from his struggle, but offering a reflective mirror through which to see Watanabe. Shimura’s Watanabe looks to them for some sort of answer to his question of what he should be doing with the short time he has left. Each has their own perspective, showing that there are no easy answers for Watanabe, but at the same time they encourage him to see the value of pursuing something meaningful to him. The story is told with ample use of montages, giving a sense of a bustling world and creating a fully rounded character in Watanabe. In his relationship with Toyo and Mitsuo, we see the various aspects that make up a person, and in the later flashbacks as his colleagues remember him we get a similar sense of his character. In Watanabe’s final moments, we also see the importance of personal happiness, in fulfilling something you know is worthwhile, in spite of what others say about you, or whether you receive credit for it.

Kurosawa’s direction with cinematographer Asakazu Nakai produces some incredibly evocative moments, with the sillhouetted figures on the bridge, the office that is creaking under the weight of piled papers reflecting the enormity of concepts such as time and mortality. The script avoids unnecessary exposition, instead focussing on the human reactions to tragedy. Watanabe never explicitly states why he changed his opinion on life, or suddenly found a second wind, but it is made clear through Shimuras performance and his encounters with the other characters. Toyo showing him the children’s toy her factory makes is another great example of the film guiding us through visually and emotionally, as well as his nickname is ‘The Mummy’, which needs no further explanation. A stunning rumination on mortality and humanity that has an inspiring message for viewers depsite the seemingly depressing themes. The title of the film says it clearest, this is not a film about dying, but about living.

Matt Cooper Films

Throne of Blood (1957) by Akira Kurosawa

Based on Shakespeare’s Macbeth, “Throne of Blood” tells the story of Washizu, a captain of the lord of Cobweb Castle, and his ill-fated supplanting of his former master. After helping to put down a traitorous revolt by a rebel named Fujimaki, Washizu (Toshiro Mifune) and fellow captain Miki (Minoru Chiaki), are returning to Cobweb Castle to receive their reward for valiant action in the field. On the way through a nearby forest they meet a spectral figure (Chieko Naniwa), who foretells that they will both have great futures. Washizu is told he will rise, first to the head of north mansion (home of the traitor Fujimaki), and then to Lord of Cobweb Castle, while Miki’s son will eventually take that title. They both laugh, but when they arrive at the castle, they are both promoted to the positions promised them by the spirit. Washizu starts to believe the prophecy and is led to heinous acts, including killing his lord Tsuzuki (Yoichi Tachikawa), supported by his wife Asaji (Isuzu Yamada), in order to secure the position that was promised him and later attempts to avoid his fate of losing the titles he has attained.

The story follows the play quite closely, including some of the more well-known scenes, such as the ghost at the feast, and Washizu’s (Macbeth’s) wife trying to wash blood from her hands, translating the events to feudal Japan, with samurai lords, and a spirit, rather than the traditional witches. The plot is lean and sharp, making its points about self-fulfilling prophecy, loyalty, dishonour and guilt succinctly and with each scene having some impact or import to the story. It is said that Kurosawa often paints out each scene he directs on a canvas, and uses this as a reference, and here you can see that the composition of each shot has been considered carefully, framing exactly what is necessary. Little touches, such as the auguring spirit turning a wheel (to symbolize the circular nature of history and the rise and fall of the characters), are well-thought out, but not over-bearing in their symbolism. Foreshadowing, such as the rack of arrows that Asaji sits beside after the death of Tsuzuki likewise emphasise the themes of inescapable fate in a subtle way. Kurosawa draws out the horror of the story, with sinister touches such as the witch and the blood-stained room of the traitor Fujimaki, helped by the turns of Masaru Sato’s sombre yet terrifying score. The film also uses silence to spectacular effect, particularly in the scene following Tsuzuki’s death, when the piercing silence leaves the viewer to contemplate the atrocity that has been committed.

Kurosawa and Shakespeare are an unbeatable combination, as later evidenced by Ran (based on King Lear), with the director’s style well-suited to the grand themes of the bard’s work. “Throne of Blood” offers a moral message about the dangers of ambition and hubris, from the first ominous, foreboding poem being sung across scenes of barren earth where once the great castle stood, to the end, where we return to the same site. This is a world in which humanity is buoyed along by fate and entirely at its mercy, unable to truly experience free choice or action. The story considers the notion of fate and man’s doomed attempts to avoid it. There is ambiguity in the tale as to whether Washizu’s actions make his situation worse, whether the prophecy is fulfilled only because he became aware of it, or whether everything that happens is unavoidable. The film begins and ends with the site of the former Cobweb Castle, setting the scene as a warning for future generations. Full of action, horror, and intrigue, “Throne of Blood” is an expertly directed and superbly told story of ambition, paranoia, and dishonour.

Matt Cooper Films

Labyrinth of Dreams (1997) by Sogo Ishii

Tomiko (Rena Komine) starts work as a bus conducter after the death of her friend Tsuyako (Tomoka Kurotani) who dies while working the same job. Tomiko is soon assigned as conductor alongside driver Niitaka (Tadanobu Asano), Tsuyako’s former boyfriend. Tomiko’s friend and fellow conductor Chieko (Kotomo Kyono) tells her that there is a rumour that Niitaka was responsible for Tsuyako’s death and the deaths of several other women. These suspicions are partially confirmed by a letter from Tsuyako delivered after her death that suggests Niitaka may be dangerous. Despite these warnings Tomiko begins a relationship with Niitaka.

Directed by Sogo Ishii and based on the novel by Kyuusaku Yumeno, “Labyrinth of Dreams” is a contemplative film that luxuriates in beautiful cinematography couresy of Norimichi Kasamatsu and subtle performances from its small cast. The character remain slightly out of reach of the viewer, appearing often as tragic archetypes. Rena Komine’s Tomiko is a young woman yearning for excitement, firm yet feminine, with hints that some darker thoughts may lie beneath the placid surface. Likewise, Tadanobu Asano’s Niitaka is something of a puzzle, seemingly caring for Tomiko, while at the same time teasing her, and with the lingering doubts about his past behaviour casting a dark shadow. The film offers few answers but the central riddle of Niitaka’s past and Tomiko’s fate is enough to keep you engaged. The film also includes abundent symbolism and subtext, with the train and bus taking on metaphorical importance, frequent shots of flowers, the sea, moths, dark tunnels and the appearance of buddhist monks and statues, all giving an indication that something momentous is being depicted, above and beyond the everyday relationship of the protagonist. The soundtrack by Hiroyuki Onogawa of resonant chimes creates an eerie atmosphere, speaking to the impending doom that is foreshadowed at the beginning of the film. The filmmakers also use silence to chilling effect, the sounds suddenly vanishing to leave the audience stranded in a world that is full of ambiguity and threat.

The film’s central relationship between Tomiko and Niitaka is thrilling to watch, and we are never quite sure what each has in their minds. Tomiko’s apparent lack of caution can be seen as a morality tale, but there is perhaps a more existential reading of the film with the buses symbolising the journey of life and the inevitability of death, also suggested by the appearance of buddhist monks and the dark tunnel with the oncoming light representing their end. Tomiko’s decision to begin a relationship with Niitaka is as unavoidable as her fate. The dangers for women in a male-dominated world are writ large in the film, but shown as something universal and unavoidable, asking questions about how much control we really have over our fate.

Matt Cooper Films

Good for Nothing (1960) by Yoshishige Yoshida

Ikuko Makino (Hizuru Takachiho) works as a secretary for Mr. Akiyama, whose son Toshio (Yusuke Kawazu) spends his days idling around town with his group of similarly aimless friends. Toshio and his friends, including college student Jun (Masahiko Tsugawa), pick up Ikuko and tell her they are going to rob her. After releasing her the group continue to torment her in various ways. However, Jun and Ikuko begin an awkward relationship, with Ikuko attracted to his carefree attitude towards life.

Written and directed by Yoshishige Yoshida, “Good-for-nothing” is a societal drama with tragic-romantic elements. The characters are interesting, typifying conflicting beliefs about the state of the Japanese economy. Mr. Akiyama is a successful businessman, ably negotiating his way past rivals and representative of the capitalist mindset of ever expanding profits. His son, Toshio, on the otherhand is spoiled, simply living off his father, and his friends in turn leeching off him. Jun, a poor student, is drawn in by Toshio, enraptured by the lifestyle of the young playboy, without a care in the world, seeing everything in life as a game to be enjoyed rather than striving for anything meaningful. Ikuko is in part trapped between these two worlds, longing for the freedom, financial and personal, of Toshio and his friends; while having to work for her living and become a productive member of society. She is strong-willed, capable, forthright, but perhaps conditioned by her environment, while she sees other possibilities in the complete rejection of society exemplified by Jun. The film plays out this contrast in differentiating the city from the beach, the former being a stifling, noisy, unpleasant place where rigid societal norms see office workers repeating the same dutiful yet unfulfilling roles. At one point in the film it is even described as being no place for humans to live. While the seaside is a place where a horizon of limitless potential can be seen. Again, represented by Toshio’s friend who dreams of leaving Japan for America. The film occasionaly spells out its politics and philosophy explicitly, with characters giving on-the-nose analysis of their own situations or that of society. However, it also does a fantastic job, aided by some superb performances, of giving emotional, believable examples of the struggle between the economic system and basic human desires.

In one scene we hear a voice over expounding on the subject of Archaeology. The film itself acts as the sort of cultural artefact that gives us an artistic yet accurate depiction of life at this time, with issues that remain relevant to this day. The romance of Ikuko and Jun appears doomed from the beginning due to their conflicting beliefs. Jun is unwilling to become part of society, despite the financial security it would provide, while Ikuko longs for freedom but is not prepared to sacrifice her position in Akiyama’s company.

Matt Cooper Films

Kontora (2019) by Anshul Chauhan

Sora (Wan Marui) comes home one day to find her grandfather has passed away. In front of him is a box of mementos, flight cap and goggles, and a war diary from his younger years. After reading an entry in the diary about a “metal arm” that he buried, Sora sets out to find it, keeping the secret from her father (Takuzo Shimizu). At the same time, a silent man who walks backwards (Hidemasa Mase) appears in their rural town. When Sora’s father hits him with the car, the two become involved with this figure, inviting him to their home, by turns caring and frustrated by his peculiar behaviour.

“Kontora” is a beautiful film, the stunning black and white cinematography perfectly capturing the philosophic nature of the story and mirroring its thematic depth. Writer-director Anshul Chauhan displays an influences from great cinematic works of the past, using the camera and staging to tell the story visually, while also creating a unique voice through the unusual, partly surreal, story. The camerawork in particular is exceptional, drawing us in to the characters by mimicing their motion, or literally following them as a subtle yet omnipresent observer. The rural setting of the film is shown off to its best advantage, the broad farmland, forest paths, and the tangled electrical cables and bustle of the town itself, representing something static and tangible, as opposed to the transient lives of the human protagonists. The existential themes, dealing with death and the forgotten stories of those who have passed, are reflected in the passing mists on the mountains, and in the interplay of light and shadow. The film leans into this expressionistic tone, with much of the story happening quietly and unspoken. The sometimes fantastical, abstract nature of the narrative, typified by the backwards-walking man, is occasionally punctuated by heartwrenchingly human and emotional scenes, such as when Sora allows her emotions to flow freely, or in her father’s disgust at his cousin’s coldhearted focus on money, giving them no time to grieve. The performances of Wan Marui as Sora and Takuzo Shimizu as her father are excellent, capturing the a complexity of their character’s conflicting emotions following their bereavement. The soundtrack by Yuma Koda adds elements of mystery, wonder, and suspense, complementing the often surprising narrative twists of the story. The film does require a lot of its audience, with long takes and contemplative story that leaves much unsaid, but the metaphors are far from impermeable and for those willing to spare a little time there is much to appreciate.

The most intriguing element of the story soon comes to be the backward-walking man, who appears shortly after Sora’s grandfather’s death. This mystery is further heightened by his inability to communicate, leading to frustration from Sora’s father, and increased curiosity from Sora. The man symbolises the lost memories of Sora’s grandfather, his backward walking representing a walk backwards through time, retreading of the past, and his inability to speak reflective of our relationship with the dead. They cannot speak to us, or tell us their stories, which can lead to curiosity or frustration, a desire to know more or an irritation at things left unsaid. As Sora and her father struggle to understand this person, they are similarly struggling to come to terms with the now vanished and voiceless past of their father and grandfather. It is a clever way to represent our relationship with time and mortality that leaves room for interpretation. A unique and interesting drama, poignant and engaging, with nuanced performances and excellent cinematography.