Death in Cinema #4: After Life

"To know that you belong in someone else's precious memory...
that is the most wonderful feeling."

Release Year: 1998
Country: Japan
Genre: Social drama/fantasy drama
Director: Hirokazu Koreeda
Screenwriter: Hirokazu Koreeda
Cinematography: Yutaka Yamazaki
Music: Yasuhiro Kasamatsu
Editing: Hirokazu Koreeda
Actors: Arata, Erika Oda, Susumu Terajima, Takashi Naito, Kei Tani


Memories.

Those are what connected us to our past, projecting and highlighting the best and worst moments in our temporary life. There are happy memories we cherish about, painful memories that we wanted to forget but unable to, and random trivial memories that never seem important until they suddenly creep on us and bring unexpected emotion. They are all wonderfully subjective things, never be limited by mere facts, and enhanced by our perception and desire to interpret, re-interpret and re-construct them the way we wanted to.

Thus, After Life's conceptual question makes for a brilliant hook: if you have to select one memory from your entire life, what is it going to be? Which memory defines your life and that you prefer to remember above everything else?

After Life takes place in some sort of dormitory located 'in-between', a congregation site for dead people before they go on to 'Heaven'. There, a sort of administrative process is conducted: the recently deceased are informed by a team of 'counselors' that they have a week to pick one memory that they want to take with them to Heaven. Once they have made their choice, the officers will then reconstruct that memory, film-style, on the final day of their week-long stay.

Naturally, there are many questions that entail such a very interesting premise. What is exactly meant by the concept of Heaven in this film? What is the purpose of the whole procedure, and why the dead can only choose just a single memory? Where did those 'memory counselors' came from, and why are they chosen for the job? Why the concept of sin, punishment, and Hell are completely absent from the film? Some of those questions are answered, some are not; but then, Koreeda's primary intention is not to construct a multi-dimensional spiritual-fantasy world. The 'in-between administration office' is merely a tool, a medium used to raise questions and provoke thoughts about the process of recalling and cherishing memories at the end of one's existence.


(Mild spoiler)

We are shown the different ways the dead people (all of them seem at peace with the fact that they are dead) react to the news that they have to submit their most precious memory; some can do it right away, some change their minds after making an initial choice, and some other cannot make a choice at all. The story then focus on the counselors', particularly Takashi Mochizuki (Arata) and his quasi-love interest Shiori Satonaka (Oda), revealing that they used to be those people who cannot choose a memory to keep. They stayed in the place and help reconstructing other people's memories instead, and there is something really bittersweet within that whole notion.

Even with its nearly two-hour running time, After Life fleets by within its quiet and dream-like atmosphere, suggesting that there is still a lot left unsaid. The narrative approach is slightly scattershot, highlighting moments instead of the people in them, and there are times when I wish they would flesh out the characters more and give us more time to get to know them better. Yet, there is no denying that the movie is at its best during the montage-like scenes; the two best sequences are the one showing people recounting their chosen memory (some of them are actors working from a script, but others are actually non-actors talking about their real experiences), and another one when the counselors work together to assemble a film based on the deceased's memories--the metaphor on the latter is obvious.


Sometimes, you can see that a movie is clearly a personal and heartfelt project from the director, and it is indeed with the case with Koreeda, who was inspired to make After Life by his late grandfather's Alzheimer-induced memory loss. The concept, strongly rooted in a utopian vision, might be too ludicrous for some, but it works greatly as a gentle reflection on the inextricable link between memory, life, and death. Something that can make you think and feel at such a level is very special, indeed.

Death in Cinema #1: Departures

"Uh...the job advertisement said departures, so I thought it meant travel agency."

Release Year: 2008
Country: Japan
Genre: Social drama
Director: Yojiro Takita
Screenwriter: Kundo Koyama
Cinematography: Takeshi Hamada
Music: Joe Hisaishi
Editing: Akimasa Kawashima
Actors: Masahiro Motoki, Tsutomu Yamazaki, Ryoko Hirosue

Preparing ceremony and all the traditional rituals for your recently departed family must be one of the most depressing things in life. It is the kind of things that we don't like to plan or think about, and oftentimes when it happens we are so overcame with grief that we hardly have the time nor energy to practice all those rituals (or perhaps don't even have the proper knowledge about it in the first place). Therefore, many of us asked for the help from people who dedicated their life toward preparing and performing rituals for the dead and their family. Departures (Okuribito) is a movie about those people, one of them a young man who previously have no experience or knowledge whatsoever about the whole profession.


Daigo Kobayashi (Motoki), a former cellist in a Tokyo-based orchestra, decided to return to his hometown in Yamagata with his wife Mika (Hirosue) after the orchestra was disbanded. Hoping to start a new career, Daigo answered a newspaper job advertisement for "assisting departures", thinking that it is related to the business of travel agency. To his shock, it turns out that the job actually deals with the preparing of dead people or the "departed". Daigo reluctantly accepted, and from there he learn the art and trades of departure ritual under his much experienced boss Sasaki (Yamazaki), while hiding the truth from his wife and dealing with the negative stigma often associated with people who cleaned up and prepared dead bodies.

Departures opens with a strong and memorable prologue, showing Daigo and Sasaki preparing a female corpse...who turns out to be a 'he' instead of a 'she'. The scene establishes the early tone of the movie: solemn and poignant, yet also capable of occasional humor that somehow does not feel inappropriate or out-of-place. From the prologue, the movie goes back in time and shows Daigo's backstory, how he landed the job and his early struggles in adapting with the peculiar new job. It is overall a remarkably fine start, boosted by Motoki's expressive acting as Daigo. He is instantly likable as a main character and easily generate laughs and chuckles with all the flailing around while learning the ropes of the job (comedic highlights include Daigo's "job interview" with Sasaki, and when Daigo has to role-play as a corpse for a TV demonstration).


The early part of Departures is not only a good black comedy, but also an effective introduction to the art of Japanese departure rituals. The embalming, make-up application, wrapping, and cremation of dead bodies are presented meticulously in methodical steps throughout the movie. It also raises the issue of how the practice (specifically those who perform it as profession) is considered taboo in Japan, which becomes an important part and main source of conflict in the story. Presumably, the line of work implies something foul both in physical (coming in touch with dead bodies extensively) and conceptual (getting paid for the suffering of others) sense, and this makes for an interesting cultural observation.

There is also an underlying theme of death in more abstract form, as represented by the end of Daigo's dream to be a world-renowned cellist. Yet, the movie not only shows the quiet resignation of somebody who lost his primary goal and had to start over from a blank slate, but also implies that just like how the memories of our late beloved ones linger, remnants of a dead dream will also remain and should stay with us (it may be interesting to note that I watched Whisper of The Heart--a Japanese animation movie about the birth of a dream--not long before this, and the two movies' themes connected really well). The idea is demonstrated in several great scenes when Daigo busts out his cello and plays it with a wistful look in his eyes. The cello music, by the way, sounds very beautiful and is a perfect fit to the theme and overall mood.


Unfortunately, I find the movie to weaken as it introduces a series of sub-plots involving Daigo's missing father, the strained relationship with his wife (who eventually discover what is he really up to), and his old friend who started to abhors him when Daigo's job becomes common knowledge. Those sub-plots might be hampered by a clumsy use of foreshadowing; hinting future events in a story can be great if used sparingly and effectively, but Departures is kind of bad at this. There are some instances of dialogues or events in the middle part that very obviously telegraph what will happen by the end, and it simply killed my sense of anticipation. Not to mention that some of the characters (especially Mika the wife) are relatively weak.


All things considered though, Departures is a very fine movie that manages to make its concept much more engrossing, enlightening, and funnier than it seems; especially during the first half hour. The ending, while weakened by the predictable and at times melodramatic narrative choices, still carries some emotional punch and poignancy with it.

Amusing yet introspective, resigned yet hopeful, quiet yet lively; it is an elegant reflection of a sacred ceremony and the art of letting go.

Rashomon

"Men are only men. That's why they lie. They can't tell the truth, even to themselves."

Release Year: 1950
Country: Japan
Genre: Psychological drama
Director: Akira Kurosawa
Screenwriter: Akira Kurosawa, Shigeki Hashimoto
Cinematography: Kazuo Miyagawa
Music: Fumio Hayasaka
Editing: Akira Kurosawa
Actors: Toshiro Mifune, Masayuki Mori, Machiko Kyo, Takashi Shimura

One of the greatest movies of all-time.

The first Japanese movie to ever got massive international recognition, just a few years after the Hiroshima-Nagasaki nuclear bombing.

The pinnacle of black-and-white cinematography, art of story-telling, and cinema in general.

Yup, Rashomon is kind of special.


Adapted and developed from a couple of Ryunosuke Akutagawa's classic short stories (the setting from 'Rashomon' and the basic story concept from 'In A Grove'), the film's outer narrative frame takes form as a conversation between a commoner, (Kichijiro Ueda) a woodcutter (Shimura), and a priest (Minoru Chiaki); all are taking shelter from the rain under the gate of Rashomon. The woodcutter and the priest had just given testimonies in the court for a case involving a bandit (Mifune), a samurai (Mori), and the samurai's wife (Kyo), where the samurai is dead and the wife is (possibly) raped. The woodcutter recounts to the commoner the strange circumstances surrounding the case: there are four radically different testimonies, four different versions of what had happened and who is responsible for the tragedy, and absolutely no way to prove which one of them is the truth.

By far, the most famous aspect of Rashomon is its multiple-perspectives storytelling; a repeated narration of a single event with variations on each version, as seen and reiterated by multiple characters. The purpose of this approach is to highlight the central themes of both the film and the original story by Akutagawa; the nature of perception, manipulation of information to fulfill one's subjective desire, and the non-existence of an objective truth. It also touches upon morality of mankind, and the reason on why it is so easy for us to resort to lies and deception.


The way the narrative unfolds, we are presented with a set of facts:

~The bandit caught glimpses of the samurai and the samurai's wife in the middle of a forest
~The bandit was instantly attracted by the wife, and managed to subdue the samurai while in the process of romancing the wife
~The samurai is later found dead by the woodcutter, who was also the one to notify authorities

Afterward, the bandit and the samurai's wife were brought to the court, where the ensuing claims and contradictions in their testimonies naturally gave rise to lots of questions.

The brilliant thing is, Rashomon does not provide answer to those questions. We do not get to see what had really happened; the truth is too muddled up and there is no detective-type character to sort everything out. While this may sounds frustrating (when watching movies, we generally expect the movie to give a clear definite answer to the nature of its conflict), the movie does provide a closure in another way while still preserving the air of mystery and uncertainty that surrounds the whole thing. As emphasized by Kurosawa himself, the point of the story is not about the truth itself, but rather on how easily it can be bend and perceived subjectively to whatever reason (although it is certainly a lot of fun to speculate and develop theories on what really happened!).

The actors' performance is another a key part in enhancing the story, especially by Mifune, Mori, and Kyo, who played the three central figures in the mystery. They were demanded to apply subtle differences and variations to their character portrayals in each version of the story, while still maintaining the same basic characteristic. Mifune displayed the most showmanship by portraying the erratic and often over-the-top bandit, and Mori generates a lot of sympathy with his doomed character, but the best (and most difficult) performance comes from Kyo, who completely succeed in giving drastically different interpretations to the roles of her character.

In Kyo's hands, The Wife is a perfect question mark, easily the most interesting character and the hardest one to figure out.

She transforms constantly as either an innocent and graceful lady...

a pitiful and helpless victim....


...a despicable traitor...


...or a manipulative temptress.

The rich narrative is complemented by a magnificent visual, courtesy of Kurosawa's vision and Kazuo Miyagawa's cinematography. Seriously, watching the film is like having a visual orgasm: the composition, texture, and lighting just blended so well and proved once and for all that you need neither color nor fancy technology in order to create a visual piece of art (heck, after watching this, I got the urge to go out and watch as much black-and-white films as possible. Screw 3D, this is the perfect eye candy to me). Accompanied by a booming score that punctuates the many suspenseful scenes, this movie has one terrific atmosphere to boot.


The greatest joy in watching Rashomon to me is to spot differences in the multiple perspectives presented, to cross-check each character's perception of themselves and of others, and to try interpreting the motivation behind their claims and lies (for it is obvious that all of the characters had lied to certain extent, and none of the testimonies can be taken at face value). It is also a rare cinematic experience that keeps being rewarding on re-watches; there seems to always be a new piece to gorgeous scenery to goggle at, new narrative possibilities to consider, and new facial expression to interpret.

Either as a morality tale, an open-ended mystery, or a celebration of art, craft, and creative mind, Rashomon is an undisputed masterpiece born from one of the greatest film directors ever. An excellent treat for the eyes, ears, brain, and heart.

Whisper of The Heart

"When you first become an artist, you’re like that rock. You’re in a raw, unnatural state, with hidden gems inside. You need to dig down deep and find the emeralds tucked away inside you. And that’s just the beginning."

Release Year: 1995
Country: Japan
Genre: Coming-of-age drama (animation)
Director: Yoshifumi Kondo
Screenwriter: Hayao Miyazaki
Cinematography: Atsushi Okui
Music: Yūji Nomi
Editing: Takeshi Seyama

Voice Actors: Yoko Honna, Issei Takahashi, Maiko Kayama


Some people have dreams. Some other don't. Some people always know what they want to be and live to pursue that goal. Some other don't have as much self-assurance and passion, merely going automatically through their routines...without ever listening to what their heart really wants.

As a product of Studio Ghibli, one of the most renowned animation studios worldwide, Whisper of The Heart is rather unusual. For one, it has perhaps the most ordinary setting among the studio's output: instead of being a fantasy with magical creatures like My Neighbor Totoro or Ponyo, Whisper is a more realistic slice-of-life drama revolving around its perfectly normal main character. It is also the first Ghibli film not directed by its two most accomplished directors, Hayao Miyazaki and Isao Takahata (although the former did write the screenplay and had some influence on the project), and instead was helmed by their junior, Yoshifumi Kondo. Kondo was expected to be the successor of Miyazaki and Takahata, but sadly he passed away in 1998 at the age of 47. He certainly left his mark with Whisper though, a modest yet very heartfelt little gem.

Based on Aoi Hiiragi's one-volume manga, Mimi wo Sumaseba (If You Listen Closely),the story is focused on a middle-school girl named Shizuku Tsukishima (voiced by Honna). One evening, having finished the latest book she borrowed from the library, Shizuku noticed that the name "Seiji Amasawa" always came up on the check-out cards of all the books she borrowed. After some incidental events, she befriends Seiji (Takahashi), who inspired her with his drive and passion to be a master luthier (someone who crafts and repairs string instruments). Shizuku eventually decided to start pursuing her own aspiration to be a writer.


The relationship between Shizuku and Seiji is not the only significant thing in the movie. There are many details not mentioned in the synopsis above: Shizuku's lyrical rewrite of the classic song, "Country Road, Take Me Home; her accidental visit to an antique shop, where the elderly owner recounts enchanting stories to her; the many glimpses of her family, including an older sister who is getting ready to move out to her own residence; and her best friend's crush on a classmate. The great thing about these details is that they feel like very natural events and conditions, instead of artificial plot devices. They are not there just to contribute to conflict build-up and resolution, but to enrich the character of Shizuku and her surroundings.

While adolescent love may be featured prominently, the movie is far from being unbearably sentimental. Some parts of the script may feel quite silly and childish if taken out of context (a random example: at one point, a character declares to another that he is going to marry her), but Whisper managed to make them work with its extremely sincere presentation. It is childlike and mature at the same time, so full of hope, optimism, and willingness to better oneself. I also believe that the main purpose of the movie is to show a transformation within Shizuku, from a relatively directionless teenager to someone with a dream.


The movie does have a weakness. While most of it takes place in realistic life, there are scenes from Shizuku's imagination where she converses with the antropomorphic cat known as Baron Humbert von Jikkingen, a statue from the antique shop she visits. These fantasy sequences, while may serve to visualize Shizuku's creative process, feel unnecessary and unmemorable to me. It fares better with moments of magical realism though; that is, magical moments that are still grounded in real life, such as how Shizuku discover the antique shop by following a cat that ride the same train as her.


Perhaps the most brilliant thing I found in Whisper is that it lead up to a beginning, not an ending. We don't get to see whether Seiji will really be a master luthier, whether Shizuku will be successful as a writer, and whether they will end up together in the future. The movie ends with both of them at the starting point, and that is the whole point; because no matter of what may happen in the future, it is a wonderful feeling to finally have something that you can aspire to.