The plot synopsis is hard to summarise but at its core Love Exposure is a coming-of-age romantic comedy. Its intertwining plot threads feature graphic gore and manga-style violence, domestic strife, panty shots, teen angst, sexual and religious taboos and numerous awkward boners. To reiterate: not for the easily offended. It’s still bloody genius though.

The only film I’ve seen that even remotely resembles this one is Survive Style 5+, which was observed by one critic as “Pulp Fiction on steroids, and with better acting.” Both of these films share some stylistic similarities with Tarantino – such as unusual yet effective choices of music, Ravel’s Boléro being a good example in this case – but lack the self-indulgent glorification of sex, violence and other fetishes; Love Exposure does feature some shocking moments but at least doesn’t portray them in the same way that Tarantino does. Shock value – and fetishes – are key themes in this movie but I felt differently about them here…and even the awkwardness- and discomfort-based comedy of the coming-of-age aspect weren’t too offputting, as is often the case for me.

The length of the film is an important point, not least because I’m one of those viewers who’s guilty of the “…side characters and minor plot points cannot be fully addressed in the running time of a stand-alone feature…” criticism. Love Exposure seems to have realised this so takes the time to go off at tangents, stops to introduce and follow up on incidental people and events, and maintains a comfortable pace without letting boredom set in.

The price to be paid for this is four full hours of your life and if I were to be honest, would it be a much worse film if it were slightly shorter? No, not really. It takes longer than necessary in order to go where it needs to go but there are none of the resulting stodgy, languid moments or shaky acting you might expect. The fact that Sion Sono’s writing is able to sustain itself over such a duration is remarkable but the expansive screenplay also gives the characters the breathing-room they need to develop. Since pretty much everyone of any importance in the film is emotionally fucked up in some way or another, I can’t emphasise the importance of background and development enough.

As much as I could go on about how unpredictable the story gets at points, the larger-than-life characters really make this film and the performances, particularly from the younger members of the cast, are outstanding. Takahiro Nishijima pulls off the bemused, frustrated adolescent Yu Honda with both likeable goofiness and genuine pathos; Sakura Ando is gleefully ruthless as Aya Koike while holding the crucial element of sympathy for her shocking and tragic upbringing; and Hikari Mitsushima as Yoko Ozawa…yeah.

Most J-cinema geeks will remember Mitsushima as the sweet and innocent kid sister in the Death Note live-action efforts but I was floored by the realisation that this gal can act. My first impression actually was “Hot damn! She’s GORGEOUS…” but after reining that in I was amazed at how she stole scenes on professional talent alone. The humour is for the most part slapstick or pitch-black farce but when the drama kicks into overdrive the cast absolutely shine.

I’ve read that Sono is interested in the life story of Jesus but has no particular religious stance; although Chrisitanity takes a significant role in the story of Love Exposure it’s more a case of examining how individuals’ faith and beliefs shape them and those around them. I expect the religious aspect is controversial among the domestic audiences for different reasons: the Zero Church cult bears an uncanny resemblance to organisations such as the notorious Aum Shinrikyo that made headlines in the most shocking way possible in the 1990s (for more info on that incident, I recommend Underground: the Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche by Haruki Murakami).

I don’t think that social commentary was on the agenda here though. A pivotal moment in the movie (and another dramatic high point for Mitsushima I might add) is a recital of a passage from Corinthians that lays the themes of faith, hope and love bare and manages to present the religious, superficial and more seriously romantic aspects of the meaning of “love” fully. It kick-starts the dramatic and blood-soaked finale as Yu realises the depth of his feelings for Yoko (as opposed to merely noticing how she gives him a tent-pole in his trousers) and resolves the other main subplots in a way that makes staggering sense.

The ‘extreme’ moments suggest that this film is an exercise in being as lively and firecracker-under-your-backside startling as possible so it’s a bit of a surprise to realise that its extensive plot and eccentric cast are all in the name of an in-depth and remarkably affecting character study. Perhaps because of the four-hour duration or perhaps because so much batshit insanity happens during the course of the movie, the ending is all the more jaw-dropping and satisfying.

The time I needed to physically watch the thing was the main reason I put it off for so long, but within minutes of Yura Yura Teikoku’s Kudo Desu finishing over the end credits I went straight to ordering my own copy despite the fact that payday was still a week away. The striking storytelling and memorable characters made such an impression on me but I appreciate the fact that it’s so long, dark and twisted it’ll be more of a cult title than a mainstream hit. For all the importance placed on the importance of love, understanding and family I could never comfortably sit down and watch it with my own…

Ultimately it made me grin like a loon and gave me that rare ‘drained in a good way’ feeling and that of wanting to tell anyone who will listen about how it’s one of the best movies I’ve seen in months. And Hikari Mitsushima is still HAWT. ^_^

*And I might add more original screencaps when my retail copy arrives.*

It goes without saying that Godzilla is a cultural icon; the image of a giant lizard owning the streets of Tokyo is one of cinema’s most enduring images but out of the people who recognise the popular silhouette of this radioactive dinosaur, how many have seen its first silver screen outing? With the aid of my Lovefilm subscription I decided to conduct a little experiment in experiencing a piece of filmmaking that’s around the same age as my parents…and the results were surprising.

I was expecting a black-and-white movie whose storytelling and technical approach are clumsy and dated, but I didn’t expect its intended power and entertainment value to reach as far as a twenty-something UK viewer who’s been brought up on full-colour contemporary cinema. The common assumption that it looks like what it is – a stuntman in a rubber suit trampling on studio models – is impossible to refute but there’s one hell of a lot more to Godzilla than that.

It’s an historical curio in some ways, but it’s still surprisingly watchable and affecting. Even though the script is bogged down in its 1950s sensibilities and the acting is similarly a product of what I’m guessing was a relatively young and inexperienced industry there are still elements of tension and meaning. I was prepared for laughter at the primitive special effects and expected to feel bored for the rest of the time, but Godzilla is still fundamentally a gripping story.

Of course there are over five decades of cinematography evolution working against Godzilla: not only that, it was made with the A-bombs of WWII fresh in the memory and the opening scene of a Japanese fishing boat caught in the fallout of the atomic bomb test was inspired by a real-life event that had occurred shortly before filming began. These are all history to us now so the background to the movie is unlikely to resonate with audiences now as much as it did on its release. Nevertheless, atomic bomb tests (and the controversy that results) are still newsworthy and the general Dangers Of Science concept is still a movie script staple in some form or another.

Despite the fact that it’s a product of a bygone era, there’s still a definite sense of unease and foreboding as the main characters are introduced and the existence of the monster begins to be felt. In short, as a disaster movie it still works. I noticed little details such as a ‘wipe’ scene cut, which was a personal favourite editing technique of the aforementioned Kurosawa, which work to give a plot progression that’s actually quite natural and sophisticated.

The slow build-up is an example of the screenplay’s deliberate pacing in that the screen time of the monster itself is held until as late on in the story as possible; ample opportunity is devoted to constructing a mythos before it appears with villagers recounting local legends of a ‘Gojira’ out at sea and the scientists finding the first signs of radiation and *something* having found its way ashore.

Although the film was inspired by a combination of Japan’s then-recent wartime trauma and early ‘monster movies’ such as The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms, it has all the ingredients of the disaster films we know and love today. Now some aspects are tired tropes and clichés but none of this is Godzilla’s fault: for its time I can only imagine how groundbreaking it was (the countless sequels and remakes back this up, surely?). It’s important to remember that we only think of them that way because Godzilla did them first. Any eye-rolling at, say, character archetypes or a misanthropic scientist’s breakthrough saving the day is due to the fact that they were over-used by films made after this one. They, not this film, are the reason why they’re clichés in the first place.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I was glued to the screen when the camera peeks over the hill to see the huge scaly head of the monster for the first time and that its roar still sounds alien and unsettling. What I want to say is, Godzilla should be enjoyed as a film and not watched purely for scholastic purposes; its messages are still relevant even though its technical execution detracts from them at points. When we film fans get all nostalgic, there has to be something noteworthy to get nostalgic about, and Godzilla has that in spades.

For instance: the monster is not painted as evil in itself; in some ways you feel a bit sorry for it by the end. The common preconception of a monster film is that the creature is an evil force that must be stopped at all costs, but I didn’t get that impression here. Some of the characters, such as the superstitious villagers, revere it as a god or force of nature; one of the scientists wants to capture it alive to study it. Even the other scientist, who ultimately provides the final plan, is reluctant to use such a desperate measure to destroy something that most experts agree was brought about by human intervention.

Perhaps that’s why Godzilla is so enduring as a character; it’s a subject of fear and awe but the true evil of the film is the ignorance and rashness of humanity and the monster is a victim, and manifestation, of those human failings. The destruction and loss of life is meant to be terrifying and jaw-dropping but in a way the people of this world brought this monster on themselves.

Unfortunately it’s impossible to ignore the fact that yes, it’s not in colour and the monster is just a bloke in a rubber monster suit but there are enough moments of real cinematic genius that still pack a punch. To put it into perspective: I’m now willing to buy my own copy of this on DVD, but all I can remember of my viewing of the 1998 remake is that it was made in 1998 and that Jamiroquai wrote a song for the soundtrack. I think I’ll stick with the rubber monster suit and cardboard Tokyo, thanks.

The novel laid the philosophy on quite thick but fortunately there’s enough going on in there to make for a decent movie from the SF and conspiracy-thriller aspects without exploring anything else too deeply. I actually think the film would’ve been bogged down with Kyogoku’s long-winded intellectual musings but even with a more digestible narrative it still falls flat and, oddly, seems to be aimed at a somewhat different audience from the source material.

I did think the setup and background was very well done though – the views of Hazuki’s home from the surveillance cameras and the little detail of printing the SVC logo on the side of buses set up the Big Brother society of the novel very effectively. The character designs for Hazuki, Ayumi and the counsellor Shizue were also exactly how I’d imagined they’d be; needless to say it’s subjective but I was pleasantly surprised at how the character designer’s visions of them were so similar to my own.

The rendering of Cat painted her as being slightly older than I imagined…I had an image in my head of someone who was around the same age as the other girls and, for some reason, looked a bit more destitute. I suppose there’s room for interpretation in aspects such as these, so I wasn’t bothered with how they were handled. Mio seemed much more jovial – excessively so – than I felt the book portrayed her…which is an appropriate juncture to start on where things began to go wrong.

My take on the novel’s worldview is that the characters are, by and large, socially maladjusted thanks to their generation’s isolation and reliance on technology. Hazuki for instance comes across as clumsy and stupid here, but she’s supposed to be representative of the kids in L-G and how they find understanding of their surroundings so difficult. There are numerous points in the novel that indicate regular use of hand-held monitors has a severe detrimental effect on people’s ability to judge things like direction and distance; Hazuki has impaired communication skills and sense of physical perspective thanks to the environment she grew up in. The more streetwise personalities of Mio and Ayumi are the exceptions rather than the rule.

One unforgivable change was merging the role of a side-character into Kunugi, the old police officer and ‘good guy’ who works alongside Shizue. In terms of streamlining what is after all a fairly long novel into one feature film, it does require some editing; I thought the way the movie shook up Ishida’s place in the story for example was really well done, since it built up to a tense finale that could leave even those of us who’d read the book surprised.

What the film did to Kunugi’s character however crossed the line. It required a complete U-turn of his morals and values since the loyalties of the side-character in question were the polar opposite: he came out of it in an unflattering light and that left a bad taste in my mouth.

The final act, which involves a showdown at SVC HQ (very reminiscent of the box-shaped lab in Mouryou no Hako, coincidentally), was the only part of the original novel’s narrative that really stretched the credibility factor for me: the idea of a high school girl being able to storm an entire building armed with a plasma rifle is a bit far-fetched, even if she’s a genius hacker. If that was implausible, imagine how much worse it would look if she was on board what can only be described as a robotic cuddly toy…I genuinely have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA what the writers were thinking at this point. Why swap a decent concept that’s very cool and just about believable for something so ridiculous?

That reactionface is completely genuine and wholly appropriate

The fact that the film doesn’t make any attempt to dive into Kyogoku’s philosophical angle is perfectly understandable: it’s a necessary sacrifice in delivering a plotline that is able to move along and make sense to a casual moviegoer who hasn’t read the source material. It is however still a futuristic murder-mystery with a gruesome revelation at the end so dumbing it down and trying to lighten the mood earlier shouldn’t be on the agenda at all. Some of the moments of violence were also shown in graphic detail, which only made the contrast more jarring and baffling.

This makes me wonder: who exactly is this film made for? The novel is long, complex and takes a long time to build momentum; it’s thematically dark, mentally demanding and is very serious in tone. Just because it’s sensible for the film to be more accessible, that doesn’t mean it ought to pull proceedings in the direction of some sort of high school action show.  The concept of communication was an important one, but someone decided to use that idea as an excuse for a breezy girly romp about friendship. WRONG.

I’m not suggesting it should’ve been as deadpan as the novel was, nor should it have retained those lengthy bits of dialogue where the characters stand around discussing moral issues – heck, that was heavy-going on paper! – but it doesn’t seem to want to be a convincingly dark murder-mystery either. Except, that’s what Loups-Garous fundamentally IS…there’s no way you can sugar-coat or sanitise this sort of tale without tearing the heart out of it, which is what has happened here.

I’m sorry this has turned into such a rant but it was a solidly-written story with a background that’s equally complex and has plenty to say on several levels…and yet the film somehow manages to completely ignore its strengths, misunderstand its intentions and deliver something totally different and very much inferior. I now feel like one of those Tsukihime diehards by beating my head on my desk and mumbling “THERE IS NO LOUPS-GAROUS ANIME” to anyone who will listen.

On the plus side, it’s made me appreciate the book more.

The inescapable factor is the Serial Narrative Compression Effect or, to put it simply, the fact that an episodic TV series has to be squeezed into two hours or less of screen time. Certain details have to to be left on the cutting room floor, others are shuffled around and the thematic emphasis shifts too. Itsuwari no Utahime (a.k.a. The False Songstress) does suffer from these limitations but the streamlined plotline and the production values stemming from the feature film budget are where it really shines.

Looking at previous experiences, there were several options open to Kawamori for this movie. Alienating new fans may not be an issue when the franchise has such a broad appeal to begin with, but anyone who’s seen the Unlimited Blade Works without watching the Fate/Stay Night TV series first will tell you how the experience can be a little frustrating. The remake has to offer something new on its own; it has to leave us surprised.

The summary-style effort whereby existing footage is merely edited down is another option, and is even less desirable. The hack-job that is RahXephon: Pluralitas Concentio proves that this approach can’t offer a smoothly-paced and coherent storyline: if a set of production notes in the DVD box is essential to make sense of who’s who and what the heck is going on, something has gone very badly wrong.

An alternative approach, which The False Songstress takes in my opinion, is to retain the general concept, character traits and relationships but make use of the second chance with a bigger budget to tell the same story with new footage. This way, it’s an acceptable compromise through keeping much of what made the original successful in the first place, but isn’t held back by trying to twist the old structure into a new shape.

The end result is a surprisingly enjoyable film, albeit with some sacrifices made. Alto and Ranka already appear to know each other and the two hour duration means that, between the battles that form the opening and finale, the pacing slackens off quite noticably. Even so, it’s still the Macross Frontier story I know and love – there are none of the jarring changed allegiances and character roles that made the Eureka Seven movie so difficult to enjoy.

As a matter of fact I’d say the majority of us who loved the series will find much to love here too. The feel, the chemistry, the spirit of Frontier is unchanged; there are just some minor tweaks to keep it fresh and exciting. In fairness this is mostly on the presentation front because when it really matters this movie looks…pretty damned awesome actually.

I was wondering what Yoko Kanno’s Universal Bunny mini-album was in aid of, but it appears that the new songs were written with The False Songstress‘ concert scene in mind. Quite frankly this is one of the movie’s highlights because the sheer spectacle of that segment is up with the best of the Macross universe…which I think was a deliberate gesture. The name-dropping of Sharon Apple, Fire Bomber and Minmay herself felt like this particular offering was a genuine attempt at breaking the fourth wall and providing fan service of the highest order on both sides of the screen. And it worked.

Similarly the space battle business is I imagine breathtaking on the big screen and is the point where objective assessment of how well it fares overall goes flying out the window (not that you should assume I can be entirely unbasied about anything Macross-related anyway). It also makes this a genuinely worthwhile experience and saves it from being just another cash-in. The final shoot-out is set in motion by what is, as far as I can tell, the only significant deviation from the TV storyline; and it presents yet another take on how the power of galactic pop can save the day.

The Alto/Ranka/Sheryl love triangle is effectively set up, albeit without any more verve than before, but the subplot about Sheryl being suspected of spying but eventually financing a rescue mission on her Galactic Idoru credit card was indeed the movie’s Crowning Moment of Awesome. Her role in the story is already somewhat different from her fallen-star TV incarnation, and we’re not even yet into the second half.

There’s only so much I can write about how I was a one-man Reaction Guys re-enactment at that point, grinning so widely that the top of my head was ready to drop off. For all its flaws The False Songstress is about placing familiar characters in a bigger, bolder and more expensive-to-animate spectacle…but crucially keeping the essence of Frontier intact along the way.

Perhaps the best way of summing it up is that it’s just different enough to keep the viewers on their toes and spectacular enough visually to justify the cinematic budget. Seeing how similar ventures had failed in the past perhaps made me more relieved than I ought to have been that the Macross franchise won’t be joining them. Even discounting the “it’s good because it could’ve been so much worse…” argument though, it’s left a few new threads for the second film to pick up…and then there’s the music. Goddamn it, that music…

Oh yeah. A happy new year to everyone! It feels good to be able to write again.

Last weekend was a lot of fun though, and kicked me out of my little funk for a while. Ironically I watched more anime during the course of Sunday afternoon that I had during the past month…with the exception of finishing my childhood fave The Mysterious Cities of Gold. LIFF always has a lot of interesting things on offer but the anime line-up this year was impressive: I didn’t get time to see Gintama and One Piece isn’t my thing but I was able to make it to Mardock Scramble: The First Compression, Rebuild of Evangelion 2.0 and Redline.

Mardock Scramble: the First Compression

I’d been warned about how this ends abruptly and sure enough, it does. I’d like to think it’s an hour-long opening episode of a series, which makes the cliff-hanger in the final scene easier for me to swallow. A next-ep preview or even a “to be continued…” title card would’ve made things a bit clearer however, especially since the screening was so soon after the Japanese premiere that info on what the deal is with sequel(s) is so thin on the ground. Part of the confusion is I think down to the fact that the project was originally an OAV that was subsequently cancelled, then it surfaced suddenly as a theatrical remake.

I do know that the original novel is currently being prepared for English language release by Viz early in the new year, so if nothing else we’ll have the full story in print if not on the silver screen. Setting aside the issue of the ending and the standard of other fare on offer, I must confess that Mardock Scramble was my favourite of the day: the cyberpunk premise, mixing futuristic cityscapes reminiscent of William Gibson and Masumune Shirow, with the accompanying gothic-meets-industrial aesthetic clicked with me; the backstory of the protagonist meant it went further down the Nasu-esque line of the subjective nature of morality that I really appreciated too.

The violence and unsettling sexual abuse subplot isn’t for the squeamish though, and some of the villains of the movie were so comically grotesque they might have been more at home in an episode of Speed Grapher. It felt like a tribute to cyberpunk’s OAV-fuelled glory days of the 80s actually, only with up-to-date animation and artwork. It’s derivative in some ways but everything’s pulled off with such unflinching flair and with such tantalising undercurrents it endeared itself to me. I don’t think this will be the last time I’ll rave about it.

Evangelion 2.0: You Can (not) Advance

I’ve set out my thoughts on this movie already, and to be honest another viewing hasn’t changed my mind for the worse or for the better. It was just nice to see the thing on the big screen (even if the sound system seemed to be suffering a bit under the strain), and sharing views with friends was of course a lot of fun.

Not much to say about this then, apart from the fact that my respective criticisms and praises still stand. It does look spectacular in the format it was intended for (a cinema full of caffeined-up geeks) and I was in a state of fanboying bliss at another Maaya Sakamoto VA role. Re: the post-credits sequence and next-ep preview: Anno, you bastard. ^_^

Redline

I might take a bit of flak for this in saying I didn’t enjoy this *quite* as much as I expected. At this point the auditorium was getting pretty warm and the caffeine was starting to wear off, but I also think my flagging enthusiasm was because Redline is a victim of its own success. That is to say, the truth behind the rumours about it being a Gurren Lagann-esque visual and audio assault are right on the money, which is precisely the problem: the experience is so full-on that the breakneck pace and dazzling colour gave this viewer sensory overload.

Dat hair!

The artwork is exquisitely detailed so the sheer amount of time and effort invested in this film shines through with every frame. It doesn’t make any pretence, either: it’s a movie purely about larger-than-life characters driving implausible racing cars at implausible speeds; the kind of film that nay-sayers claim can’t be made any more, but every now and then someone has the balls to make one and we’re all grateful for it.

Surprisingly the characters aren’t buried under this adrenaline rush – they’re settled enough into the archetypes to make the plot progression smooth, yet enough is inferred about their personalities and motives to stand out amongst the visual noise. I heartily recommend this movie purely because it’s so good at what it does, but I suspect you’ve already decided to watch it anyway. So watch it.

Click for full size

An extreme example of the importance of context that I stumbled on is William Gibson’s Neuromancer. It’s an enjoyable enough cyberpunk novel but not as enjoyable for me as I expected: I’m finding it tedious in places but when I remind myself that it was written before any of that stuff related to the internet, VR and even the cyberpunk genre itself were commonplace, I admire it more. Not that it makes the book itself more fun, but it makes its limitations at least understandable.

Yukikaze is a pretty old novel in its genre too (the same age as Neuromancer, coincidentally). It also deals with issues concerning A.I. and the interface between humans and machines…again back in the mid 80s before such things were regular themes in either scientific research or science fiction. It too was ahead of its time, but time doesn’t stand still.

In some ways then the real world has caught up with the technology of Yukikaze, which takes the futuristic edge off things like fly-by-wire control systems, on-board computers and the general performance of the planes depicted in the novel. On the flipside, it’s a little easier to visualise how they would look and behave IRL because there are now some pretty cool pieces of hardware in service today that aren’t far from Kambayashi’s vision.

There’s also an element of the ‘knights of the sky’ ideal that’s lasted right from WWI to the present day in perpetuating the notion that fighter pilots are a breed apart. Kambayashi has married that mystique of the elite magnificent men in their flying machines and added a SF twist by giving the machine a mind of its own. To its credit, that element of the novel still holds quite a lot of its magic.

The portrayal of Yukikaze is full of tantalising contradictions: a poetic name painted on the fusalage in stylised calligraphy that was nevertheless chosen at random and borrowed from a WWII warship; a machine designed for death and destruction, yet Kambiyashi’s prose paints it as awe-inspiring and beautiful with a mind and will of its own. As a military hardware geek, I consider it to be beautiful in its own way, at any rate.

One curious thing about Yukikaze’s A.I. is that it’s hard to work out what, if anything, it’s really thinking. Similarly, the novel doesn’t even answer the question about whether the JAM are more interested in the planes than the people piloting them; introducing the idea of the aliens being more interested in our tech than us as a species is neat in itself and only adds to the cool, detached ambiguity of everything that’s going on.

The story demands a hero of few words; the fact that this character trait is pivotal to the story doesn’t make the reading or viewing experience more fun however. For what it’s worth, I don’t think Fukai’s humanity is ever in danger of being lost altogether because the devotion and care he would have otherwise lavished on the humans in his life are directed at his plane. I suppose he’s an aeronautical dori-kei, to steal the term from Eve no Jikan.

Such things as Fukai’s feelings towards his plane and the people around him come across better in print because in the cinematic or animated format everything has to be either spoken outwardly or implied with imagery as opposed to internal monologues (see what I mean by ‘glaringly obvious’?). A hero who rarely speaks would either require infodump-style exposition or text overlays, which may not sit well with the target audience of a production that sells itself on air-to-air combat with aliens.

That’s not to say that Kambayashi can’t write a good action scene; hell, the combat in Yukikaze leaves the likes of Tom Clancy standing. One of my favourite scenes is when the flight envelope protection limiter switches off and the plane does a missile launch maneuvre backwards that makes Fukai black out and takes the JAM by surprise – it’s true edge-of-your-seat stuff and the OAV captures that sort of moment very well.

I guess the crux of this post is that some of these aspects work better in print than on screen, and vice-versa. Yukikaze the OAV is a companion to the novel – if I were to rewatch it I’d probably enjoy it more than I did the first time around. It’s not however a replacement for the novel: the combat looks awesome but there’s a lot more going on at a thematic and characterisation level that the OAV either leaves out or is unable to address. Long story short, if you want to see Yukikaze dance in the skies of Faery, buy the DVDs. For everything else, read the novel. Or just read the novel because it’s an excellent and thought-provoking read.

Which leads me to Unlimited Blade Works. Like the OAV of Yukikaze it’s a shortened retelling of a story that was originally comprised mostly of words rather than moving pictures, which at least partly explains why certain things didn’t come over as well as they did in their original format. If I observed it correctly, the writers wisely opted to use CGs from the VN in the movie so if I were to recommend the UBW movie purely on the combat and the general approach to animating the characters on a feature film budget, I would. So I do.

Even so, UBW suffers the same problem as the much-maligned Tsukihime anime; that is, there’s too much quality content squeezed into too little time. Simply put, the film was too short. There, I said it. There’s no escaping the cold hard fact that the editing was choppy and the plot jumped uncertainly from scene to scene rather than progressing smoothly. The opening scenes, bringing the story up to the point where the plot diverges between the Fate and UBW route, feels like a last episode recap. Which, appropriately enough, is I think what it is.

I asked myself who would bother with this movie unless they had played the VN or at the very least watched the TV show. I haven’t had chance to check for interviews with cast and crew, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was deliberately aimed at people who were already familiar with the franchise. Half of the viewers in its theatrical run probably knew exactly what would happen…but just wanted to see it animated.

As far as I can tell the movie doesn’t do or say anything the VN didn’t, but if it’s merely an act of animating Takeuchi’s artwork and Nasu’s strings of text, is that actually a flaw? The jerky editing is something I think the movie should be criticised for, but failing to stray from the source material is a perfectly acceptable aim.

That said, if cinema tickets and DVDs of the two-hour cinematic adaptations of Paradox Spiral and Murder Speculation Part 2 can sell like hot cakes on a cold day, I don’t know what the excuse was to keep the running time to a mere ninety minutes here. If the Industry is having trouble finding audiences outside the ‘safe’ minority of existing fans, surely it’s disadvantageous to exclude casual viewers with such an insular narrative approach?

What I will say in this film’s defence is that it only needs to place emphasis on the aspects that work better in the animated format to avoid failing altogether. But yeah, it could’ve done more than that without betraying its source material, even when doing the tricky transition from prose to cinema. Part of me is wishing that Heaven’s Feel is left well alone after all now.

If it makes you feel any better (it certainly did for me), the sequel to Yukikaze will be out sometime next year. Yay.

The best part of all is the fact that this is in full HD: the series was from the outset a cut above the made-for-TV fare in terms of details in the artwork and fluidity in the animation, so the big screen treatment is what it deserves. If much of the content itself is the same then seeing it all in such glorious resolution is in itself worth the experience…and of course the increased detail means you’re less likely to miss some subtle yet potentially important plot point.

My impression of this feature-length format is slightly different from that of the series however, so I’m reluctant to recommend one without the other. The series served the narrative’s ideas in bite-sized chunks; you were encouraged to think it over and savour every moment because the releases of each instalment were so sporadic. The film takes the viewer all the way through in one go which gives a more cohesive experience, but offers less time to pause for thought: there’s a clearer sense of the ‘big picture’ but the trade-off is that it gives you less opportunity to appreciate the details in its writing.

That’s not to say that it’s more poorly paced than its predecessor: most of the content is the ONA’s footage spliced together after all, except shown without breaks for OP/END credits and with a few ‘new bits’ added in. It still has that same sense of succinct storytelling that I loved about the series: every exchange of dialogue is meaningful and not a moment is wasted on filler. That distinctive simulated hand-held camera approach also fits the big screen format – it’s as though Studio Rikka wanted Eve no Jikan to end up here from the very beginning.

I can finally say I CAN HAS FULL SIZE

The first difference I noticed is a slight, yet thematically significant, shift in emphasis. Much of this is due to rearranging the order of some scenes so overall there isn’t much that wasn’t in what I remember of the ONA. Many of these are short and, I must confess, really sweet moments in which Rikuo’s houseroid Sammy reflects on the relationship she shares with the family she works for. Her character comes across as even more endearing, introspective and tellingly more human that in the series.

The more major changes are in the ‘big picture’ of the story, which was originally drip-fed during the course of the six episodes but here is introduced in the first scene. It’s also evident in the closing one so the real treat for fans of the ONA comes in these final moments and during the end credit segment, in case you’re tempted to look away early. It inevitably poses a whole host of questions that only fuels my desire for a sequel, but also addresses a few earlier questions that the series didn’t explore as fully.

The recent passing of Satoshi Kon prompted the question of how many other directors have a natural knack for making innovative works that bring fresh ideas and perspectives to familiar concepts: narratives with an effortless ‘flow’ and an ability to balance differing sentiments and moods from scene to scene, but not always following the conventions. Sadly there aren’t very many who can do this: Tensai Okamura, Makoto Shinkai, Hideaki Anno and Mamoru Hosoda are the only people in the field of animation that I can name off the top of my head, but Yoshiura is another rare talent who is able to smoothly guide the story between tear-jerking, intriguing and laugh-out-loud hilarious. The characters of this story – human and android alike – are expressive and full of life, and the familiar issues associated with AI in society still hold a lot of potential for further discussion.

The important thing is, Eve no Jikan never lays the philosophy on thickly enough to get in the way of appreciating the everyday ramifications of androids in everyday life; it brings up Asimov’s Three Laws and technical jargon only when relevant, and resists the temptation that’s common in CGI-rendered productions to go overboard in portraying the future as being so far advanced that it’s unfamiliar. Sometimes little details are more effective than grandiose cyberpunk cityscapes.

The icing on the cake for me is that the ending theme tune, I have a dream, works far better in this context than it does as the closing track of Kalafina’s last album. On its own it’s as close to underwhelming as Yuki Kajiura’s songwriting has gone for me, but I’ve now warmed to it far more than I expected. Toru Okada’s BGM is still too quirky and lo-fi to be taken seriously but it fits in well with the playful and light-hearted vibe of the movie – a production that takes on one of the most popular yet weighty themes in science fiction, yet is still enjoyable.

Sammy is adorable.</discussion>

This is the kind of movie that is crying out for exposure at film and SF festival screenings worldwide; not just as a visually impressive indie film but a shining example of how speculative fiction can be thoughtful, inventive and fun. Those of you who haven’t yet followed up my recommendations to watch the series might as well track this down instead. You really won’t regret it.

This is very much a product of its time: it features Tomoyo Harada, a screen idol of the early 80s who has since become a singer/songwriter with a pretty respectable back catalogue, albeit no longer as a household name. The director Nobuhiko Obayashi is another old industry regular that I’m not familiar with but he’s apparently notorious for his surreal style; any oddness present in this film isn’t excessive, but it’s interesting.

The special effects of the time leaping are probably the worst thing about it since they really do look like something from the 80s. Other aspects have aged better: Obayashi does some cool stuff with colour saturation, starting the opening scene off in black-and-white then bringing the full colour gradually into the video frame (screenie below). It’s an innovative little arthouse touch that I don’t recall seeing anywhere else but works well here. I thought MPC was playing up but the aspect ratio is indeed different at the beginning: I wonder if it was the inspiration for Shinbo in Bakemonogatari and other recent experimental types.

I’m assuming this movie was originally promoted using Harada’s appearance in the starring role, which is probably a point lost on us now. It was her feature-length debut too and I believe she earned a best-newcomer award or two for that; she took a bit of flak for her performance of the end theme but quite frankly I’ve heard a lot worse. Besides, her acting performance seemed to improve as the movie progressed and by the time the twist at the end appeared I was pretty impressed.

One aspect of the casting I did find familiar however was that of Ittoku Kishibe, who has since gone on to star in a lot of other stuff. I personally know him best from playing up his dependable father-figure role in the excellent Survive Style 5+, but the performance from his considerably younger self here was also worthy of a mention.

As slow as it is, this take on the Tokikake franchise is a pretty moving romantic drama. The love triangle and the coming-of-age aspects that helped make the 2006 animated version so enjoyable are also present here and the plot plays out slightly differently: it’s nothing major but there are just enough surprises for those of us who have seen the anime. The ending in particular is quite well done, especially if the foreshadowing succeeds in fooling you as it did with me.

I suspect this has slipped under a lot of people’s radar but I’d be interested to see whether it gains a resurgence in popularity in light of the new live-action sequel. The synopsis of the 2010 film suggests that the protagonist of the 1983 version is also an important character, albeit played by a different actress. Part of me wishes that Harada could be given a cameo in the new version, but maybe it really has been too long for the audience to appreciate such a subtle nod to its heritage.

Looking up the background to this film was therefore almost as interesting to me as actually watching the thing. For starters, it highlights how extensive the Tokikake franchise is as a whole: there’s the original novel penned by acclaimed SF writer Yasutaka Tsutsui (of Paprika fame), a TV drama from the 70s, this feature-length movie, a 1994 TV series, a 1997 feature film remake, another made-for-TV film in 2002 starring members of girl group Morning Musume, the 2006 anime movie and that live-action sequel earlier this year.

I really had no idea about most of these – it’s pretty fascinating to see how many famous names have been involved with it over the years. My experience with Japanese cinema is mostly limited to the past decade or two with the exception of the obligatory Akira Kurosawa thrown in, so it was a new experience to watch an old but not really old film (as in, it’s almost as old as I am).

I guess it’s also an earlyish example of the now-familiar practices of promoting a film off the back of a popular novel and casting a young and popular face for the protagonist. The task of being the poster girl for the movie, playing the lead role and singing the end theme (which, naturally, was released as a single) is therefore far from a new idea…here in Internet Land where memories are short it’s commonplace enough as topic for conversation, but I got a bit of a kick out of seeing how far back these ideas go.

Beyond that, there isn’t a great deal I can say about this film. A lot of the ideas and storylines are familiar ground for those of us familiar with the Hosoda version that I’ve blogged about before, and there isn’t an easy way to outline the differences without spoilers. For some reason, trying to write this post made my brain seize up so I’ll leave it here and move onto something else. My time off work is almost at an end so I guess I’d better enjoy the feeling of having get-up-and-go while it lasts.

If there’s one thing I find fascinating about contemporary Japan it’s the presence of contrasts that are baffling to an outside first-time visitor. This has been heightened in the past decade or two by fundamental changes that are inexorably altering the society’s status quo, so the ramifications for its defining features of harmony, tradition and smooth routine are quite striking.

Given the current international economic uncertainty, the knock-on effects on industry and everyday life are as noteworthy now as they’ve ever been. What makes this a significant film is that this ultra-modern yet tradition-based Japan is rarely portrayed at the grassroots level: it’s a refreshing change to see a filmmaker point his camera away from the familiar high-rise cityscape and focus it on the ordinary working people who ultimately make the country what it is.

The people in this case are the Sasakis, a family comprised of office manager Ryuhei, his wife Megumi and their two sons Takashi and Kenji. From the outset their lifestyle is shown as typical: functioning day to day with a strict formality. As soon as this premise is established we see Ryuhei lose his supposedly safe job to cheaper foreign labour and it becomes immediately apparent how fragile the neatly-ordered domestic arrangement can be.

Anime and manga fans are familiar with how ‘outsourcing’ is making waves in that industry, but job security is a hot topic in the economy in general. The Sasakis’ predicament is a case study and I suppose a metaphor for the problems that the Japan of today as a whole is facing: people set themselves on a course in life but they are, understandably really, ill-prepared for unforeseen uncertainties such as outside influences. When the unexpected occurs they are lost.

Because Ryuhei’s change in status is so sudden he cannot adapt quickly enough – he conceals the shock and shame of redundancy from his wife and children, pretending to go to work then spending the day at job centres and soup kitchens. His attempts at finding alternative employment are almost as laughable as they are genuinely tragic, but in fairness he’s had the way of life he was competent in snatched rudely away and replaced with limited, unfamilar options. Interestingly, he’s not alone. During the course of the film, other respectable-looking men in business suits fall in and queue up with the jobless and homeless, which suggests that the problem is widespread, but never overtly acknowledged.

I appreciated the setting in that it’s the quiet suburban environment of narrow streets filled with small, cosy family homes; the colour palette is full of muted browns, beiges and greys rather than the bright neon and gleaming glass of Shinjuku and Shibuya (it reminded me a lot of Asakusa and Machida actually). I can’t comment on Kurosawa’s credentials as a horror film director since this is the first movie of his I’ve seen but this humdrum environment breeding a palpable sense of unease and impending disaster, coupled with the predicament of individuals at the mercy of unseen forces outside their control, are as effective here as they would be in a psychological or supernatural thriller.

The downward spiral of this film is more pedestrian and everyday than that a horror movie but in some ways is equally alarming. Ryuhei carries on his charade while his domestic authority crumbles; Takashi makes a career decision but hesitates in telling his parents for fear of their disapproval; Kenji seeks escape from being a class misfit by taking piano lessons in secret using his lunch money; Megumi carries on her role with quiet dignity in the face of painful loneliness and isolation, yet it’s clear she has has mounting doubts about her husband’s credentials as the traditional authoritative patriarch.

With the exception of a couple of scenes involving physical violence and raised voices – all the more shocking because of their infrequency – the entire affair is extremely subtle and restrained. The performances are superb, and background music is used sparingly. My only criticism is a sudden divergence in tone late on in the second half which carries a brilliant kind of tragic comedy that made me unsure whether to laugh or cry at its poignant absurdity, but goes against the grain with what precedes it.

Things get back on track for the final arc though, which returns to being stoic and understated. The simultaneous declarations from Ryuhei and Megumi of “Can I start over again?” are followed by moments of almost God-given redemption then a symbolic return home: battered, dirty and exhausted, they and Kenji walk in separately and sit at the dining table in a heart-wrenching echo of the harmonious opening scenes. The only verbal acknowledgement of the strangeness in this return to normality is Kenji’s nonchalant comment on his father’s dishevelled appearance.

The poetic finale speaks volumes with no dialogue at all, holding back from drawing conclusions but leaving things open-ended with an appropriate balance of cautious optimism and the inescapable fact that things are bound to change, whether we’re prepared for them or not.

Above all, the combination of quietly effective cinematography and an unflinching study in the characters and their motivations is what makes this feel so genuine and relevant. It avoids excessive sentimentality over their misfortunes or criticism of their flaws, resulting in a portrait of contemporary Japanese family life that never pulls its punches but stays true to telling a recognisable human story. The intimate view of their lives makes them living, breathing characters rather than the cut-out archetypes the film’s premise may suggest: I was mindful of the mistakes they made, but I couldn’t bring myself to pass judgement on them when their situation has no easy answers.

RahXephon for example suffered greatly from the condensed plotline issue and Eureka Seven lost a lot of the spirit of the TV show, so both were disappointing to me. The Evangelion rebuild in particular is an undertaking I personally wouldn’t enjoy being responsible for since it’ll piss off a significant proportion of the fanbase regardless of what the production team do. Over the past decade and a half it’s bred so many conflicting opinions that whatever approach is taken, it’ll hit somebody’s sore spot square-on.

To be honest, I have more important things to do with my time than speculate on the motives behind the Rebuild; I’d rather spend it on deciding whether I enjoy it as *just* a series of movies. As in, how well it tells the story compared with the great-yet-flawed TV series rather than questioning its status as a cash-in. Aside from the usual problems with the Feature Film Remake, You Can (not) Advance also has to contend with being part of a greater whole, which makes it a slightly different experience from, say, those remakes of Rah and E7. To put it another way, this is a two hour-long episode of a mini-series; fulfilling a role not unlike that of the first Higashi no Eden movie sequel.

I really didn’t know how to judge The King of Eden because I’d be jumping to conclusions before I’ve seen the film that follows. Even so it felt incomplete somehow, but that could easily be attributed to the fact that its main role is that of a link between the prequel TV run and the final movie. YC(n)A is in a similar situation: I could for instance complain about how Mari doesn’t get the screentime I expected from a prominently-advertised New Character, but how do I know she won’t play a pivotal role in the third film? The simple answer is that I don’t, so I’m reserving a solid opinion on her for the time being.

I recall the promo art and the gossip when her appearance became common knowledge, but the reality isn’t nearly as dramatic as I expected. It’s a bit anti-climatic really; not that the writing’s necessarily at fault there. Rather, the fans’ doom-mongering was unfounded (she’s hardly the most extreme fanservice figure to emerge from Gainax and its relatives, you know?) and she merely fills some minor positions in the narrative that were left vacant from the rewrites. Unless Mari is given something bold and unexpected to do, I don’t think her introduction is that big of a deal. Yet.

Although I have sentimental attachment to the franchise, the nerdrage and marketing campaigns have left me disinterested in everything about it apart from the production itself. I’d also like to think that I can appreciate it without being blind to its flaws; for instance, juxtaposing an innocent-sounding pop ballad-type tune with a scene that’s violent or otherwise hard-hitting works brilliantly once but loses a lot of its impact when employed twice in the same feature.

Watching the whole film a second time though yielded some satisfying observations, such as enjoying the cheeky bits of humour without them being distracting, and little details such as the marine wildlife reserve laid out like the Tree of Life. The decontamination sequence reminded me a bit of The Andromeda Strain too, but that says more about how my mind sometimes makes weird connections more than anything.

One of my favourite scenes was that of the depiction of an early-morning Tokyo-3 in its updated, CGI glory: familiar scenes such as the capital’s skyline and crowds of commuters are given the NGE twist with its iconic retracting buildings and so on. Another fave moment was the awkward Shinji and Asuka bedtime scene, except this time they’re lying back-to-back and it’s expanded to a more insightful section of dialogue between them.

Perhaps the problem with YC(n)A is that there aren’t enough of these moments. The background art and conceptual planning that went with it is one of the franchise’s most overlooked aspects for me, and in terms of taking a moment to stop dashing around and examine what everyone’s up to and why, it’s sorely lacking: the narrative is more concerned with moving things along in time for the next set-piece. For a two hour feature it covers the ground so quickly that certain plot points that were particularly significant before are given a much more cursory treatment.

It’s also a striking example of how the Gainax alumni have changed stylistically (for an even more extreme example, watch the two Gunbuster OAVs back-to-back) because the aesthetics that are merely revamped old-school make the new ones look out-of-place. Yes, I know this isn’t strictly speaking a Gainax production but it feels like it has one foot in the 90s heyday and one in the 00s: the redesigned plug suits and especially the rendering of Unit 02′s The Beast mode look like they don’t belong.

In a more straightforward sense it’s also a transition piece thanks to its middle-portion status. This is after all the part of the story that fooled the viewers into thinking “it’s just a mecha versus monsters show, innit?”, before going batshit insane and pulling the rug from under them in the final act. I shouldn’t be surprised then if this film is a relative no-brainer next to whatever must follow; You Are (not) Alone rarely strayed from the series while this one makes some more marked deviations so if the third is to continue the trend I think it’s going to throw up some twists that are very unexpected indeed.

Which is why I’m happy to let the events of this movie whizz past me and why I’ve not tried to sift through the info deluge to pick out the real clues from the red herrings (some people have taken the trouble, and quite impressively too). I liked some of the updates, such as the re-written entrance of the Ginger Whinger and the designs of the Angels, but other lingering feelings of mine were ambivalent and mixed: Mari neither ruins nor revolutionises the story, and it somehow feels too short despite being two hours in length.

Most worryingly I’ve written an entire post without feeling compelled to go into more depth into those familiar characters I love, hate and/or love to hate. What about a certain redhead whose obnoxious neuroses helped to popularise the tsundere archetype? Or how Kaji is too cool for his own good? Or how Misato is still awesome and my favourite of the bunch? It’s not a bad movie as a cinematic experience so it’s earned a place on my Blu-Ray wishlist, but I was after something more. I wanted glimpses into their troubled psyches in true Anno style, rather than seeing them playing out their roles with the entertaining-yet-overused tropes that the series debunked so infamously…unless saving that U-turn for the final film is indeed the ace that Rebuild has up its sleeve.

Oh yeah, the new arrangement of the Hikaru Utada end theme is lovely.