Film reviews in 500 words or fewer

Tag: horror

  • Contrasts, consequences: Kore-eda’s Nobody Knows (A review)

    Contrasts, consequences: Kore-eda’s Nobody Knows (A review)

    This review contains minor spoilers.

    I’ve never seen a film with an ending as excruciatingly painful as it is quietly tender, as Hirokazu Kore-eda’s 2004 childhood abandonment drama Nobody Knows. Yet even the word “drama” might be overdoing it, for this scandalous film burdens its viewers with the weight of reality in such a dignified and constrained manner.

    “Nobody knows” speaks about the fact that save for a handful of people, nobody really knew nor cared, about a very young brood after their mother went missing-in-action.

    This is in stark contrast to how the audience is burdened with the full knowledge of the brutality of parental indifference to what is supposedly the most crucial phase of human life. The result is a film that implicates the viewer with a sense of responsibility for a reality that they might never encounter in real life, made all the more devastating in its quiet, matter-of-fact portrayal.

    Kore-eda’s signature storytelling techniques work particularly well here to evoke such contrast. Harking back to his days as a documentary filmmaker, he presents the charming but messy domestic life with children using a grounded and unadorned style, almost like reportage.

    And then there’s Kore-eda’s use of mono no aware, a uniquely Japanese sensitivity to the impermanence of things, to evoke in the film a strong sense of vulnerability, frustration, and eventually, resignation. This is mainly showcased through the recurring juxtaposition of extremely tight shots of the children and inanimate objects such as toys and household implements, as if the objects mirror the children’s emotions. Together with his trademark lingering shots, Kore-eda used that visual motif to intimately portray innocence, and then later, innocent pain.

    Another study in contrast can also be found in the protagonist Akira, in an award-winning portrayal by Yuya Yagira. Akira is the classic “child who grew up too soon”, learning to have that perceptive look of a mature adult at a very young age. But the most excruciating aspect of his performance is the painful conflict between irreconcilable desires: on one hand, to be a responsible oniichan to his siblings, and on the other, to live a boyhood so ordinary it’s extraordinarily out-of-reach for someone in his situation.

    There is a minor story in the film where the children get to take care of their own individual plants after a particularly happy event in their confined lives. What would’ve been a teaching moment in responsibility, something that parents would want to give their children early, quietly devolves into a symbol of decay and neglect as the physical effects of parental neglect of them becomes inescapable. 

    With this, my final thoughts go to the contrast between Akira and his mother. Not only was she absent, but in her brief appearances, she is patronizing, evasive, and emotionally manipulative. As it is, the film is already tragic, but what’s more devastating is how her irresponsibility was not just in her neglect, but in her refusal to grow up—even as her son was cruelly forced to.

  • Such lightness of being: Momoko Ando’s ‘0.5 mm’ (A review)

    Such lightness of being: Momoko Ando’s ‘0.5 mm’ (A review)

    It’s not an easy feat for a film to be lengthy, entertaining, and profound all at the same time. Yet Momoko Ando’s 2014 masterpiece 0.5mm is all three, and then some. 

    With a runtime of three hours and 18 minutes, this film is expansive not just in length but more so in its thematic ambition. 0.5mm is a singular achievement not only for Ando, who is both the film’s director and screenwriter, but also for her sister, Sakura, and her ineffable and career-defining take on the caregiver-vagabond Sawa Yamagishi. Sawa embodies a certain “lightness of being” that, contrary to the title of the famous novel, is not unbearable. This lightness extends to the whole of the film itself, so that it is both profound and outrageously funny. 

    Set, it seems, in the late 1980s to the early 90s, the film is divided into four parts: a prelude where Sawa is introduced as a caregiver of a bedridden elderly man, two acts where she would live with and care for two other elderly men, and a final act of resolution that harks back to the prelude. Throughout, Sawa’s character moves through the film with what I’d call “buoyant grace”—unattached, adaptable, and at times, mischievous. But while she is physically a drifter (and a mysterious one at that), she is not aimless.

    Sawa is not just a character—she is also a remarkable narrative device by which the film becomes an epic and complex meditation on human connection, the loneliness of the elderly, and the strange forms that kindness can take. It is through Sawa and her relationships that seemingly disparate themes such as the war nostalgia of elderly Japanese men, the collective versus the individual, the male gaze, and the kindness and seductiveness of a woman as both wife and caregiver come together and come alive.

    Among those themes, the latter two are particularly prominent. They could’ve been touchy subjects, if not for Momoko’s writing and Sakura’s acting. Their collaboration made for a deft portrayal of how a woman makes peace with society’s patronization and misogyny, subverting them to gain power that is not only seductive but more crucially, substantial, generous, and real.

    Sawa’s “feminism,” if you could call it that, is not vindictive nor activist—it’s human through and through. One recurring incident in the film highlights this. Sawa’s drift, it seems, is to catch elderly men in scandalous, reputation-wrecking moments and use these to “coerce” them to let her live with them. However, she would use the power she gains not to extort nor to persecute, but to care, quite literally. In each case except the prelude, Sawa brings and inspires order and healing in the lives of the elderly men she was involved with.

    I may have made Sawa sound extraordinary, but what lingers most is her plain, unadorned humanity. She feels like a mystery only because tenderness and generosity have become rare. 0.5mm is special for letting that quiet humanity shine.

  • The Moon, dir. Yuya Ishii (2023)

    The Moon, dir. Yuya Ishii (2023)

    “No one wants to see the truth.” But in attempting to open one’s eyes to the truth and tell it to the world, what will one actually come to know?

    Seeing the truth and knowing it are two different things. This is a powerful dichotomy that runs through Yuya Ishii’s The Moon, giving this film guiding threads to pull together its disparate themes.

    Yoko, played with signature tenderness and nuance by Rie Miyezawa, is an award-winning writer who begins a caregiving job at Crescent Garden, a facility for the disabled. This facility, nestled deep in a forest, plays a major emotional role in the movie as it emanates a tension that never quite eases. It is depicted with classic horror tropes— the ominous score hinting at an impending or already happening disaster, the dimly-lit hallways, the overhead shots suggesting someone/something is watching, and the uncanny demeanor of the people who work here.  

    It is through Crescent Garden and what it stands for that the film explored various questions; it is the object of the truth that needed to be seen, known, and made known.

    For example, Yoko wanted to work in this facility to help her deal with past personal trauma, but will she, as a writer, open her eyes to the horrific truth about the facility and write about it truthfully? Or will she succumb to conceit and write only what would sell? This is a challenge constantly raised by her co-workers–her namesake Yoko (Fumi Nikaido), who aspires to be a writer of the same caliber as her, and Sato (Hayato Isomura in a brilliant performance), a seemingly sympathetic caregiver with an increasingly mysterious undercurrent.

    Both Yoko 2 and Sato’s own personal issues are also dealt with through the lens of the facility. For Yoko 2, it’s the question of personal worth. For Sato, it’s the meaning of being human itself. Concurrently, the film also tried to address the grief of Yoko 1’s husband, Shohei (Joe Odagiri), although not directly in relation to the facility itself.

    While well-intentioned, this attempt to offer answers to every philosophical question that the narrative met along the way has made for an unnecessarily long but somehow incomplete film, as some of the big questions that the film opened were not satisfyingly answered. It is also a bit uncanny that the film tries to be about the disabled, disability, and their place and dignity in society, but much of the exposition of this theme comes from the abled.

    The film naturally resolved from the perspective of Yoko 1, who saw the truth and knew what it meant for her personally and in relation to exposing it to the public. But in the end, you will be hard pressed to know what kind of film this is. A melodrama? A psychological thriller? A philosophical slasher? There are a lot of films that are genre-agnostic, but the sort of thematic mishmash in The Moon didn’t quite build into a solid whole. 

    3/5

  • Show, don’t tell: Sho Miyake’s Small, Slow But Steady (A review)

    Show, don’t tell: Sho Miyake’s Small, Slow But Steady (A review)

    Show, don’t tell. 

    This film is a triumph of visual storytelling, that, like its protagonist and title, is small, slow, but steady. Without much dialogue (even sign language dialogue at that), the movie excelled in capturing the life of a deaf woman boxer and how the impending closure of her home gym and the deteriorating health of her head coach (the “chairman”) affected her deeply.

    The movie’s visuals are small in the sense that the cinematography is restrained. Camera movements are very limited and takes are long and lingering. The “smallness” goes as far as the very limited, if non-existent use of ultra-wide shots. Even cityscape external shots seem to be no less wider than 20mm and while that is certainly not claustrophobia-inducing in any way, the effect gives the viewers the sense that they live in the protagonist’s personal world and Tokyo and the city at-large is at best background noise (train sounds are a repeating motif in the movie). Even the fact that the setting of the story is during the COVID pandemic is not really that palpable—it’s almost a non-factor in the story that is steadily focused on its protagonist.

    With that said, I thought that the direction held on with steadiness to its vision with no letup in the narrative and visual consistency. By design, nothing significant seems to be happening but like the protagonist herself, the narrative builds to a climax and ending that is emotionally resonant and cohesive. 

    Yes, the build up is slow, and as with other excellent films, the viewer will be rewarded with a gentle but satisfying pay off as the story resolves. This is not just because of the screenplay—Kishii Yukino’s portrayal in the lead is understated yet sufficiently nuanced and clear that you don’t need her to speak (vocally or otherwise) to feel her. And you will feel her.

    PS. That use of grainy film simulation throughout the movie made it feel a bit dated and I guess it adds another layer of “slowness” (throwback to “slower” eras?) to the work in a good way. I also loved that the protagonist being deaf was just a fact of her life and was not melodrama-tized, if that makes sense.