ゆきゆきて神軍 English Title: The Emperor's Naked Army Marches On

Released:  1987
Directed By:  Hara Kazuo





The Emperor’s Naked Army Marches On is not an easy film to deal with.  Hara Kazuo's 1987 documentary, immediately plunges the viewer into the life of 62 year old war veteran Okuzaki Kenzo and his complex quest – attempting to get confessions from former Japanese military commanders and soldiers for crimes they commited in New Guinea.  The complexities of this for the viewer start right away – Okuzaki is a troubled person who has spent nearly 14 years in prison for murder and, on top of this, his interview techniques are far from conventional.  Then there is the issue of the historical events themselves – the war atrocities of the Japanese army in New Guinea – issues which the average viewer is likely to have heard little about.  There are also the complications of memory and narrative – every soldier Okuzaki talks with is extremely reluctant to talk and, those that do, give conflicting narratives of the events.  Finally, there is the question of the role of the camera and the relation between those doing the filming and those being filmed.  Okuzaki acts almost as if the camera does not exist – he is a man on a mission – however, those around him are not able to shut out its penetrating gaze so easily.  Moreover, the film at times threatens to collapse, bringing the audience with it, as situations reveal that the director is far from being in control of the documentary. 

 The film begins with Okuzaki delivering some powerful words, letting the audience know where his sympathies lie and painting a relatively noble picture of him.  “Countries are walls that prevent men from coming together,” he says with conviction.  This, however, is contrasted by later screens on which are written previous crimes and misdeeds.  Some of these, such as firing a pachinko ball at the Showa emperor and distributing flyers with pornographic images of the emperor are quite funny and, perhaps rather harmless.  However, Okuzaki also received 10 years in prison for murdering a real estate agent, the details of which are not given. 

 At many times, Okuzaki’s actions and extremities, as well as his sarcasm are enough to make the viewer laugh in spite of themselves.  During one interview, as the police enter the room, Okazaki blows them off telling them they should “learn more about life and war,” and later states quite matter of fact that he came prepared to beat the former military officer up.  There is nothing funny about Okuzaki’s actions however and, no matter how much one might agree with his cause, his methods would find few sympathizers.  Furthermore, the subject matter ultimately in question is horrifying and, for those uneducated about the true details of World War II, shocking.  The soldiers are accused of murdering their fellow troops and cannibalizing them, something which some of them finally do confess to.

 In Okuzaki’s view, the war was carried out in the Emperor’s name and, ultimately, the largest responsibility lies with him.  “I hate irresponsible people” he explains, “and the most irresponsible person in Japan is Emperor Hirohito.”  He also mentions that he doesn’t blame the individual soldiers, but the people who put them in situations where they committed atrocities.  While he also demonstrates a strong belief in personal responsibility, Okuzaki is unflinching in these views.  In seeking to get the soldiers he interviews to confess, he states that “the public has to know the truth to prevent wars,” demonstrating that his motivations are not only personal grudges against the military system of which he was also a part, but that he truly hopes to stop further atrocities from happening by preventing war.

 The picture that emerges of the events of the past however, do not necessarily fit together in a cohesive narrative.  Though the documentary makes it seem clear that each soldier was involved in some way, they are extremely reluctant to speak about their experiences.  Besides the fact that they are accused of murdering their fellow soldiers and cannibalism, there is also the further unsettling information that these events happened days after the end of the war.  This, then adds to the apprehensiveness that these soldiers have of speaking about their actions.  Thus, the audience must work with what bits and pieces of information they are given through the soldiers’ testimonies and attempt to piece together some kind of narrative.  Ultimately though, whatever the viewer is given can never be considered the whole picture, in that what we are given comes from individual memory.

 Another point that adds to the complexity of The Emperor’s Naked Army is that of the role of the camera.  While the documentary may start out as seemingly in control of the situation, and the camera allows for a sense of safety for the viewer from the events being filmed, this quickly takes a turn as Okuzaki tackles one of the soldiers he is interviewing and starts hitting him.  While the camera leaves us with a bit of physical distance, the audience is left in a stupor that has only begun.  Later, there are even times when the role of the camera is questioned, and the issue of abandoning the camera for direct involvement with the subject is raised. Susan Sontog in her work On Photography writes of an important choice to be made for those holding a camera, especially when they encounter an event in which their direct involvement might be necessary or, in some cases, the morally right thing to do.  This, “awareness of how plausible it has become, in situations where the photographer has the choice between a photograph and life, to choose the photograph,” is one that The Emperor’s Naked Army tackles head on.[1] 

 In one case, this occurs when one of the soldiers is willing to confess, but only if the camera is shut off.  Ultimately, Okuzaki refuses, the camera keeps rolling, and the man does not reveal the information.  Certainly, though this raises the question of whether or not the man would have confessed had the camera not been present.  At the same time, the camera is already able to do a great amount of revealing, as pointed out by a conversation between Okuzaki and the soldier, Hara.

Hara:  How do you think people who see this will interpret this? (indicates at camera)

Okuzaki:  They’ll think you’re hiding the truth.

 Of course, this is something that both characters hardly needed to state as they had already realized that this was the case.

 Other various surreal moments occur, for example, when one of the soldier’s wives takes a picture of the camera crew as they film the interview.  The film also highlights the role of fiction utilized in all forms of film, when Okuzaki asks his friends to act the roles of siblings of killed soldiers in order to more easily produce a confession from the commanding officers he interviews.

 It is one of the final scenes, however, in which Okuzaki tackles and kicks a sick man for refusing to confess that mostly closely embodies the moral conflict of abandoning the camera to interact or to continue filming.  “You just stand there and film while doing nothing,” one of the family members of the man cries, as she tries to restrain Okuzaki.

No matter how noble Okuzaki’s cause is, to make the horror of war known to prevent them from happening in the future, he ultimately compromises himself with his own actions.  This is epitomized by some of his final words that “violence is justified if the end is good.”  Okuzaki has become so entrenched in his own quest, that he has adopted some of the very methods that led to the system which he criticizes. 

The Emperor’s Naked Army Marches On, makes a number of contributions to both film and history and is an unforgettable work.  The confessions recorded here, while painful to watch, are invaluable pieces of historical material.  Moreover, the film renews the question of the role of the individual behind the camera and challenges the way in which documentary film is produced.  Instead of offering any kind of definite conclusions, the viewer is left with a number of questions at the end of the film that might seem confusing and contradictory.  What are we to make of the character Okuzaki or any of the narratives we are left with?  How should we feel about the fact that the film only addresses the issues through the multiple lenses of a confused individual and the fragments of memory from personal soldiers who still wish to protect themselves?  And most importantly, how will we react when the omnipresent guiding voice of the documentary fails us?

---

[1] Susan Sontog.  On Photography.  (New York:  Picador, 1977), 12.

キャタピラー

公開: 2011

監督：　若松孝二

出演者：　寺島しのぶ
　　　　　　大西信満

江戸川乱歩が執筆した本を基にし、ベルリン国際映画祭で最優秀女優賞を受けた映画である。1940年の日中戦争から、敗戦までを舞台とし、もっとも印象的な反戦映画というところもある。

キャタピラーに一貫するテーマは戦争の酷さである。最初は日中戦争で日本軍が起こした虐殺の場面から始まり、主人公の夫、黒川久蔵（大西信満）が登場するシーンでは中国の女性が汚されたり、殺されたりしている。

そしてその後、四肢をなくし、田舎のある村に妻、主人公のシゲコ（寺島しのぶ）に帰される。顔も焼け爛れ、動くことどころか、話すことも出来ない久蔵。勝ちに重ねていた、当時の軍国日本には、この人は「軍神様」とまで呼ばれ、日本の誇りとも呼ばれている。しかし、戦争の酷さの鏡でもある。周りの人はいくら「軍神様」と言っても、その蛆（キャタピラー）のようになった姿を見ると、まさかこれが戦争の本当の姿と心の中で思っている。

シゲコも「お国のために」とこの国の誇りを看護しようとするが、いかにも残酷なものである。「食べる、寝る、食べる、寝ることばっかりだ」とシゲコが絶望的な顔で言い、彼女にとってまったく絶望そのまのである。その上に、戦前、久蔵に頻繁に殴られたり、虐待されたりという背景も分かり、いまだに久蔵に虐げられる。口でしか書けない久蔵は奮発をかけ、何か深いことでも伝えようとしているように見えるが、結局「やりたい」しか書かない。戦争が続くと配給も少なくなりつつあったが、シゲコの分まで食べる、無関心な、人道感の、「軍神様」の夫である。

アジア侵略を始め、東京大空襲や原爆投下や沖縄合戦も、いわゆる日本では未だにきちんと教えられてない歴史が、キャタピラーの中で触れている。しかし、何よりも強く訴えているのは、反戦的なメッセージである。特に三島由紀夫の軍国謳歌作「愛国」が改めてDVD化される時代の点から見ると、映画世界には大きいな印象が残る。それで戦争の、本当の姿を見せようとする映画が少ない今の時代には、とても尊い映画である。

青い春 English Title: Blue Spring

Released:  2002
Directed By:  Toyoda Toshiaki
Based on the Story By:  Matsumoto Taiyo
Staring:  Matsuda Ryuhei
               Arai Hirofumi

If ever a movie were to make one want to both ditch class and hit the books at the same time, Blue Spring would be it.  From the first scenes – a slow motion introduction reminiscent of the beginning scenes of Reservoir Dogs – we are confronted with the visual appeal of the dangerous, the lawlessness, and the free.  For those of us who can’t confess to having been there, we can all come close to the feeling of wanting to have been.  And as we meet our “ruffian” heroes, we are both terrified by their rebelliousness, yet attracted by our very disavowal of their actions.  At the same time, we find ourselves routing for our unlikely, rather hopeless heroes, to turn things around, to study and graduate, even until the very last minute.

 Perhaps it is the pivotal point that the characters – a group of high school boys – find themselves at, or maybe even more so, the ways in which they go about confronting the choices before them, that further strikes a chord with the viewer.  For all their recklessness and abandonment, these characters love being at high school.  Here their rule of the school and the world that they have created is evident from the spray paint that they leave – “turf” in Japanese literally means “island.”  And, as the only world they know, it truly is an island – one surrounded by the vast ocean that the characters know they must inevitably one day face. 

 Each character, however, handles this transition differently and, due to the nature of their lifestyle to this point, some tragically.  It is the understanding of the character’s own fear and uncertainty over the future however, that grants the audience the further ability to sympathize with them, despite their often violent and outrageous behavior.  Although close, theirs is not yet the behavior of adults but is closer to mimicking.  What is striking about this is that, as adult viewers, we see reflected in the characters both a shared ideal of the purity of youth, and the destructive elements that often characterize the adult world.

 The metaphor of students or youth “flowering” into adults is surely one that we have all heard enough to make us roll our eyes.  Blue Spring, however, manages to give this a fresh poignancy by highlighting that not all bloom in the same way, and pointing out the sad reality that, when left untended, may not flower at all.  In just one of the scenes revealing their compassionate, hopeful sides, the main characters take a minute from their fighting and let their appearance of apathy drop as they help the school gardener to plant flowers.  Prodding them to help, the gardener wisely challenges them to take up the difficulty of tending plants.  “Ah, but I wonder if they will flower,” he says, secretly urging them to provide the necessary water and care that they need.  “Maybe they will flower black,” main character Kujo replies jokingly.

 But, as graduation approaches, the fragility of the boys is exposed, even if some refuse to accept it, and the gardener’s words become painfully significant.  “Aren’t their some flowers that don’t bloom,” Kujo asks, to which the gardener reveals his hope for the boys, despite their difficult circumstances; “flowers are born to bloom not to wilt,” he says, “that’s something that I’ve decided to believe.”

Blue Spring masterfully breaks down the defensive walls and appearances that we all too often hide behind and exposes us for the weak, dependent creatures that we really are.  For those expecting a positive outcome as a result of excessive action and violence, this might be a disappointment.  For those who are ready to appreciate weakness and dependency not as a deficit but as a strength on the other hand, the film is a welcome reaffirmation.  Certainly this realization is Blue Spring’s greatest strength, and one which helps it to transcend its likeness to similar high school dramas, and into a class of its own - a fantastic, unforgettable piece of cinema. 

悪人 (Akunin) English Title: Villain

Released: 2010
Directed By:  Ri Saniru (Lee San'il)
Story By:  Yoshida Shuichi
Starring:  Tsumabuki Satoshi
                Fukatsu Eri



“There are too many people in the world who act as if there is no one important to them and that they have nothing to lose. And this makes them feel as if they have become strong. They look at those who want and who have lost through eyes of contempt.”


Those hoping to witness a truly evil and twisted character will likely be let down at Villain, a movie which attempts to stray from the “black-white” mentality by calling into question traditionally established assumptions of good and evil and thus, in the process, features no real character with which the label “evil” can be attached.1

In fact, even the title of the movie is used ironically, as the main protagonist and anti-hero Yuichi, turns out to be a much more likeable and sympathetic character, rather than any sort of villain. Instead, the movie attempts to critique more concrete and fundamental problems such as a lack of sympathy and compassion that seems to be characteristic of the society in which we live.

As far as the viewer is able to sympathize with Yuichi, even though he has committed murder, and dislike other certain characters, the movie is successful in challenging ideas of guilt and innocence as well. Certainly Yuichi’s circumstances, which are disclosed in varying amounts throughout the movie, would allow us to see that he has been just as much a victim, if not more so, than he has an actual perpetrator. Similarly, the characters who would traditionally be regarded as victims are presented in such a way that they must be seen as bearing at least some part of the guilt. On the one hand, for example, we are first tempted to sympathize with Yoshino, the young woman killed by Yuichi, after seeing the way she has been treated, but in the following scenes are forced to retract some of this sympathy after learning how she has treated Yuichi.

Villain is successful then, in creating a certain group of characters with which we find it difficult to fully sympathize with. At the same time though, the movie does ask us to sympathize with Yuichi, the criminal – protagonist. For a large portion of the movie, we are assisted in this by the movie’s crowning achievement, the presence of Mitsuyo. Although both Mitsuyo and Yuichi suffer from isolation and rejection from the society around them, both their feelings are only fully articulated through Mitsuyo. Similarly, she is also a bridge which makes it possible for the audience to arrive at some understanding of Yuichi.

At its center, Villain strives to highlight that, in current society, those who are beaten down and punished are those who are already weak and whose position was already low. In other words, the weak become weaker. Moreover, as the quote above implies, showing an indifference to the weakness of others can make one temporarily forget their own fragility, thus granting one a false sense of strength and power. In one aspect then, the heroization and victimization of Yuichi can be seen to contrast even the very penal system, a system reinforced by the society under critique. Additionally, the movie goes on to stress this power relationship within society through the examples of Yuichi’s grandmother, who is hounded and attacked by both the media, and loan-shark doctors, as well as through Yoshino’s father, who is repeatedly unsuccessful in his attempts to receive just some small apology from the man implicitly involved in his daughter’s death.

While the movie might be more successful with the examples of some of the secondary characters, it almost oversteps itself in taking for granted that its audience will grant them the necessary favor of sympathizing with Yuichi. This assumption is pushed to its limit when he is seen, not just to be a good and likeable character, but in fact is portrayed almost as a martyr through his action of willingly making himself a sacrificial victim. If the stretch is not made, admittedly a tenuous one at times, one’s image of Yuichi and, perhaps the film in general run the risk of turning sour.

Even if one is ambivalent about Yuichi though, some beautiful scenes, such as Mitsuyo’s escape from the police station, as well as a touching love story, and an always welcome commentary on the importance of compassion, redeem Villain and serve to make it a worthwhile watch. Likely not the most memorable film you will see, but an enjoyable one nonetheless.



1 The Japanese title of the film is Akunin which literally means "evil person." 

茶の味 English Title: The Taste of Tea

Released:  2004
Directed By:  Ishii Katsuhito
Starring:  Banno Maya
                 Asano Tadanobu
                Sato Takahiro
                Tsuchiya Anna



Ishii Katsuhito’s The Taste of Tea is very stream of consciousness. There is a narrator, and then there isn't. We're in the present, and then we're in the past.  We're conscious and then we're hypnotized and, all of this flows along seemlessly, without pause or break for traditional explanation.  Moreover, the audience sees things through each individual character's perspective and are only able to see what might be considered as a whole through the contrast of these viewpoints.

Also, fitting with this stream of consciousness style is the noticeable lack of plot. This is not to be confused with lack of story or content, but rather that there is no single device which propels the characters in a forward motion toward some only vaguely distinguishable goal. With the destruction of the plot, the movie can instead devote ample time to the content and the characters, which it does magnificently.  The movie also expresses an appreciation for the beauty of nature and natural environments, the importance of the connections between family, and the wonder of staying true to one’s self.

The characters of the Haruno family are a unique lot to say the least. The adorable Sachiko, played by Banno Maya, is constantly being followed by a giant image of herself. Haruno Ayano, the uncle, is a sound mixer who does little other than lay around the house and tell outrageous stories. Hajime, a young high school student, is hopelessly in love and frequently teased by the other boys at school. The mother of the family is a manga artist who, for most of the movie, does little other than shuffle her papers around, the father is a hypnotist and the grandfather, certainly the most eccentric character, is an artist, musician, and interpretive dancer. What all these characters share in common however, is their belief in the power of imagination and the importance they place on staying entirely true and honest to their selves.

An outcome of the characters honesty as individuals, however, coupled with their intense powers of imagination which often threaten to consume their reality, the members of the Haruno family are forced to work tirelessly to overcome whatever obstacles they might be facing by themselves. In other words, each characters’ individuality and own private creative world of imagination works to both support the other, while at the same time making it hard to communicate through concrete practical means. In Ayano’s case, for example, this means having difficulty confronting an old girlfriend and, in Sachiko’s case, her repeated attempts to complete a back-flip on the jungle gym. Both of these characters struggle to overcome their problems, all without disclosing any more than is necessary. The audience is left to simply watch and admire the actions of the characters in their private joys and defeats.

The camera work and sound effects in The Taste of Tea contribute to its somewhat dreamlike state of magical realism. These are not done without reason, however, as each camera action corresponds to the way in which the individual character would perceive the action. Often, this results in some incredibly funny moments, especially when the perspective comes from one of the younger children, Sachiko or Hajime. In one scene, for example, Sachiko is sitting on the porch of the house and is convinced that her grandfather is spying on her and making silly faces. This results in extended back forth shots of her looking at the window where her grandfather is, only to just miss him as the window closes, then back to her grandfather making faces when she isn’t looking. Moreover, just as Sachiko sees the image of her giant self following her around, so does the audience. As the characters grow older, their imaginations slowly mesh with “reality” and do not seem so out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, the subtle ways in which Ayano interacts with people – especially the scene in which he encounters a strange, interpretive dancer on the beach, reflect a sense of subjectivity that might only be found in a dream / imaginative state.

This respect for the power of imagination, is coupled with a sense of respect for nature as is witnessed in the many scenes of the natural environment – the Japanese country side in Tochigi. In numerous scenes the characters gather to take a break from their tireless world of acting, gaze out – half toward the camera – and watch the sunset or listen to the wind blow. This sense of reflective meditation highlights the magic power of nature and somehow encourages its relationship with the human imagination.

Many other excellent scenes, as well as the presence of both Asano Tadanobu and Tsuchiya Anna (both of whom I have a rather obvious affinity for), make this movie one of the best in Japanese cinema of the 2000s. While some might criticize the movie for trying to overextend itself and encompass too many “different” genres or for the general lack of plot, I would argue in the movie’s favor that these are some of its strongest points. It is not just a drama or comedy, but a reflection of the human condition itself – the beautiful, plot-less, stream of consciousness that is everyday life.