Heaven is overrated — there's nothing there

UNCLE BOONMEE WHO CAN RECALL HIS PAST LIVES (2010)

Not too long ago I took a gander at Citizen Dog, the gaudy, heavy-handed romance from Thai “New Wave” director Wisit Sasanatieng that was perhaps a few steps outside of my usual boundary of weirdness, but intriguing nonetheless. However – I brought this up in my review for Citizen Dog and I’ll mention it again here – there’s often a cultural barrier in films like Dog that protrudes front and center, preventing me from fully grasping the story’s sum and substance, and ultimately taking away from whatever the director is trying to get across. Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives – the slightly deceiving, but clever title from Apichatpong Weerasethakul – is my second venture into Thai film, and while I found myself hitting the same barrier that seems to be housing Buddhist customs and beliefs that are just beyond me, the contemplative tone of Boonmee is far more refreshing than Dog’s – although the two are quite different.

Since Boonmee won the prestigious Palme d'Or during this year’s Cannes Film Festival, I’ve been scanning through several articles about the film and its director, one in which Weerasethakul calls Boonmee a lamentation, one particularly aimed at the deterioration of cinema itself – but in a way, Weerasethakul is also lamenting on a more intimate level. From what I understand, Weerasethakul is a very personal filmmaker, so themes pertaining to his own life usually echo through his films. He’s also known for scrutinizing Western misconceptions of Thai culture. So with that bit of history, Boonmee becomes interesting, because one can then infer that a political message may have been tacked on behind the superfluous religious connotations, but that doesn’t seem to be what Weerasethakul’s going for here. Or does it?

The narrative structure of Boonmee itself is daunting, but not wholly unconventional. Uncle Boonmee (Thanapat Saisaymar) is nearing death, and upon reaching it is visited by his city slicker sister-in-law (Jenjira Pongpas) and her apathetic nephew (Sakda Kaewbuadee). But before meeting them, we’re momentarily introduced to an ox that may or may not be the vessel of one of Boonmee’s past lives. The unspoken angle of Boonmee is this: Uncle Boonmee, on his deathbed, is recalling his past “lives”, or – from my perspective – past memories of deceased wife Huay (Natthakarn Aphaiwong) and long-lost son Boonsong (Jeerasak Kulhong). Both have returned in – more or less – otherworldly forms to help Boonmee approach his fate peacefully.

The idea of Boonmee’s “past lives” translated as literal reincarnations is also touched on, but vaguely: specifically Boonmee as a catfish who performs cunnilingus on a disfigured princess; or is Boonmee the receiver in this vignette? Ultimately, the story meets the inevitable, but climaxes on two peculiar out-of-body experiences that hike up the film’s eerie, atmospheric tone and then proceeds to roll end credits against an unbefitting Thai pop song.

Cryptic as it may be, Boonmee has a message, and while it may reside within our own – perhaps flawed – theoretical conjectures, it’s there. Subjectivity reigns in this film to a sickening degree and it's truly absorbing. There’s so little to take from the characters themselves, but plenty offered in the film's pensive ambience. Usually when a film lacks character development it’s a failure in my book, but the characters here are – to be frank – dispensable; Boonmee’s governed by themes – the characters are merely tools used to propel those themes.

Weerasethakul’s introspective fantasy presents notions of loneliness and confinement, living and dying, all engulfed by whims of reincarnation and visions of talking catfish – making it appear more obscure and enigmatic than it needs to be, but fascinating enough to command your attention. For the most part, Boonmee is a cerebral piece on the human condition, and although it promotes dull protagonists and meanders along a fairly uneventful path, I relished the pleasure of actually being able to take something away from it.

7.5/10

The only person standing in your way is you

BLACK SWAN (2010)

I suppose audiences were drawn to melodrama during the Golden Age of cinema. Back when the big studios were just emerging, society craved the sort of histrionic kitsch we'd probably deem "dated" nowadays. These days it’s all about shock value and controversy; the raw elements of cinema. Personally, I’d take realism over formalism any day, but I do often miss those grandiose films of the postwar period – not to mention their over-the-top directors; Powell and Pressburger, specifically. In 1948, they released an impressive rendition of Hans Christian Anderson’s “The Red Shoes” that presented a stark, but vivid contemplation of ambition and obsession. That film, in my mind, is a masterpiece, because we’re immediately transported into a realm of mythos and intrigue that remains taut throughout, symbolic to a fault, has no bearing on reality whatsoever, yet still retains a timeless message.

Darren Aronofsky’s (Requiem for a Dream, The Wrestler) latest film Black Swan – which, in many ways is congruent with Red Shoes, but also dabbles in darker motifs parallel to Dostoyevsky’s “The Double” and other doppelganger folklore – is a little trickier. It’s like a potent cocktail mixed with shots of reality and fantasy that leaves behind an odd taste. Like Red Shoes, Black Swan follows an obsessed dancer who strains herself mentally by trying to perfect her craft. However, while Red Shoes is aware that virtually every frame is there to convey some form of melodramatic effect, Black Swan sort of wavers between laughable theatrics and heavier themes one would expect to find in an understated drama.

The framework of this film is bewildering. Aronofsky’s style and direction are near immaculate, but he really drops the ball when it comes to tone and delivery. But I’ll give him this: I can think of few directors who would handle such an unusual plight in the remarkably ominous way he has; and he almost pulls it off.

Swan is told through the eyes of Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman), a reserved, but inspired ballerina who yearns to be featured as the Swan Queen in her ballet company’s upcoming production of “Swan Lake”. Opportunity knocks when artistic director Thomas Leroy (Vincent Cassel) decides to give prima ballerina Beth MacIntyre (Winona Ryder) the ax in order to steer “Swan Lake” in a more contemporary direction. And in spite of her demure and “controlled” method, Leroy chooses to reward Sayers with the esteemed role of her dreams.

The actual production of “Swan Lake” entails that the soft-spoken ballerina master dual performances as both the innocent White Swan and her malicious twin sister, the Black Swan. When Sayers – who's apt and well-suited for the White Swan – encounters a dash of rivalry in newcomer Lily (Mila Kunis) – who exemplifies the Black Swan’s sensual characteristics – her resolve is put to the test. Facing pressure from her fanatical mother (Barbara Hershey), Leroy’s uncertainty, and her inferiority to Lily’s effortless carriage, Sayers begins to suffer from violent hallucinations that ultimately hinder preparations for her big debut.

To say Portman delivers one of the most vulnerable performances of the past decade would be an understatement. She absolutely carries this film by employing herself with the burdensome task of transforming Swan into a dark meditation on perfection and individualism. She fully embodies Nina Sayers, allowing the audience to interpret her coyness and introvert qualities as an inner struggle to balance the good and evil necessary to personify both swans. As Portman tries to tap into her dark side onstage, Aronofsky thrusts Nina into an eerie world outside of the ballet studio by incorporating disturbing visuals that harshly exaggerate the troubled ballerina’s plight.

Darkening the mood and providing leeway for Nina’s sexual awakening is Kunis’ unabashed Lily. Adequately performed, Kunis manages to convince us that she is the Black Swan that Nina seems ill-suited for. Surprisingly, she’s handed the most challenging role in the film – fence-straddling between Nina’s tainted view of Lily and the genuine, presumably harmless Lily – but for some reason, Kunis doesn’t seem to broaden the character at all; and that's counting seducing Nina in a scene that – believe it or not – felt a bit tame if not completely uninspired.

A definitive verdict for Black Swan is difficult to hand down because the film essentially transcends genre. Not since Tarkovsky’s Solaris have I had this much trouble classifying a film, and perhaps that can be taken as compliment. Aronofsky seems to know what Swan is going for – be it a raunchy b-movie or provocative drama – but it's never clarified. His use of steadicam amplifies the gritty worldview we see through Nina’s eyes, suggesting a visceral approach, but then we see Nina experiencing some questionable – even silly – hallucinations that highlight a good portion of the film. The score’s orchestral whimsy only further complicates defining the tone here, but of course, being undefined isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Thought-provoking, but not in the way one would – or should – expect, Black Swan is by no means a masterpiece, but a head-scratcher. Aronofsky's bizarre angle on this all-too-familiar tale hampered my ability to take away anything remotely profound from the film, but the way it’s handled – technically – is worth commending. It’s the skeleton of a far more daring piece that, in the hands of Lynch or even Haneke, could have been spellbinding, but Aronofsky proves more than adept in offering a satisfying thrill ride that certainly leaves an impression.

8/10

Bread makes you fat?

SCOTT PILGRIM VS. THE WORLD (2010)

I’ll admit. Diving headfirst into the colorful and eccentric world of “Scott Pilgrim” wasn’t exactly an experience I was looking forward to. For starters, I walked in knowing zilch about the source material – penned by Canadian cartoonist Bryan Lee O'Malley – and the mere presence of Michael Cera – who plays the titular character – was off-putting enough. Be that as it may, I’m a bit of a nerd when it comes to video games; especially of the old-school Nintendo variety (I practically grew up with their franchises) so once the Mario and Zelda references began popping up left and right, I was sold. Even Cera, who usually grates on my nerves, was fairly tolerable here. Sure, the film may be catered more towards the graphic novel’s fanbase, but it’s also a picturesque ode to the side-scrolling classics of yesteryear.

As I mentioned above, I’m completely unfamiliar with the “Scott Pilgrim” series, but apparently all six of O’Malley’s graphic novels are covered in Edgar Wright’s (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz) screen adaptation – however it's not difficult for "Pilgrim" neophytes to follow. It’s the typical “boy meets girl of his dreams” paradigm that we’ve come across in hordes of banal, cliched films over the past several decades, except here “dream girl” has a considerable amount of baggage capable of pulverizing her potential suitors.

The suitor at risk happens to be Scott Pilgrim (Michael Cera), a 22-year old slacker and bass-guitarist for a band called Sex-Bob-omb, which consists of old high-school chums Stephen Stills (Mark Webber), Kim Pine (Allison Pill) and substitute bassist Young Neil (Johnny Simmons). In a pretty desperate attempt to cope after getting dumped by his ex-girlfriend (Brie Larson), Pilgrim begins dating 17-year-old Knives Chau (Ellen Wong), but eventually loses interest in the high-schooler soon after meeting the elusive Ramona Flowers (Mary Elizabeth Winstead). Quickly realizing that Flowers is literally the girl of his dreams, Pilgrim decides to break up with Knives; leaving her devastated and vindictive. However, once these two polar opposites are officially an item, a “league” of Ramona’s seven evil exes set out to destroy Scott and reclaim control over his dream girl's love life.

In all honesty, I loved this film. Cera and his charismatic cohorts managed to keep me interested throughout and the nostalgia fuel was refilled frame after frame. You have to respect Wright’s unfettered approach here; the visuals are insane and the lighting-fast editing only adds to the film’s high moments. As far as the acting goes, the battle sequences are where Cera really shines and surprises. Who knew the boy was capable of emoting? You can actually detect a sense of ambition across his face during these scenes. He trades in his bland, formulaic acting style for an unexpectedly expressive display of valor and pluck. Color me impressed.

My only qualm with Scott Pilgrim is its poor portrayal of women. Of course, I realize that Pilgrim’s universe is highly unrealistic, but the message this film seems to relay is that guys can basically cheat on their girlfriends and the cheated party will come out of the ordeal hunky-dory, perfectly amicable and having “never felt better.” That bit just rubbed me the wrong way, but of course, this isn’t the type of film one probes into. Bouncing off that sentiment, Ramona’s character seemed a tad underdeveloped; that is, in terms of further explaining the antecedents behind her – ahem – many relationships. Again, I haven’t read the graphic novels, so all sorts of little and/or significant details could have been scrapped for the sake of time.

All in all, Scott Pilgrim is fluff, but enjoyable fluff. It’s similar to playing Super Mario Bros. on speed with hints of mellow Beck riffs strumming in the background. I wouldn’t call it my favorite of 2010, but it definitely meets the standards of your quintessential popcorn flick.

8.5/10

Life is like a game of chess

EXIT THROUGH THE GIFT SHOP (2010)

I have a huge amount of respect for artists like van Gough who kept their work extremely personal; the type who never really cared much for fame or wealth and created art merely for the sake of creating art – allowing time itself to establish their importance. Then there's Banksy, who I’ll admit, is gifted, but also goes against some of the movements he’s claimed to support. I’ve accepted his debut documentary Exit Through the Gift Shop as a farce, an outlet he’s utilized to propagandize society’s more susceptible nature, but in turn he's also stained his artistic integrity by displaying a fascination with status, international distinction and controversy – let's not forget the pink elephant in the room.

While the idea of artistic liberation via street art intrigues me, it really all boils down to a desire for recognition, and perhaps what that recognition will eventually blossom into; and to be frank, Banksy has generated a fair bit of recognition, become a global phenomenon, and now he's laughing all the way to the bank. I’m not calling Banksy a hack – although for an “anti-capitalist”, he certainly doesn’t mind profiting from his empire – but his critical expose on pseudo-documentarian Thierry Guetta (AKA, Mister Brainwash) is almost hypocritical.

For a documentary that supposedly observes the lifestyle of the elusive Banksy, Gift Shop oddly surrounds itself around Guetta, the man behind the camera who follows, and in a sense collects documentations of several illustrious street artists from around the world. We learn that Guetta is a French immigrant, a family man with a wife and two kids, and owns a vintage clothing shop in Los Angeles. He also has a unique obsession with videotaping virtually everything he comes across. This “passion” is what ultimately leads him into the innovative world of street art.

He’s introduced to a number of prominent figures in the street art scene including Shepard Fairey – the man behind the “OBEY” campaign and those influential “HOPE” posters – and even discovers that his own cousin "Invader" is an infamous street artist in France. He begins filming these artists under the pretense that he’s compiling footage for a documentary; a documentary he has no intention of ever creating. But soon enough, his “weird” enthusiasm pays off and he finally meets the most private street artist in the field – Banksy. After becoming acquainted, Banksy spontaneously challenges the inexperienced Guetta to host his own exhibition of street art; street art that he’s suddenly capable of producing. Guetta undertakes the daunting assignment which surprisingly turns out to be a huge success. But has Banksy created a revolutionary artiste or a fame-hungry monster?

Trust me. I’m on the same page as Banksy when it comes to attaining the general “message” of this film. He does an incredible job at ridiculing society’s susceptibility to hype and word-of-mouth, but his social commentary here is somewhat of a double-edged sword. He’s essentially trying to suggest that many overnight-success-artists who enjoy premature fame aren’t creditable and are simply splattering paint on walls to get noticed and commercialize their work. However, Banksy – who, granted, is beyond creditable – is not only enticed by public spectacle, but he's also profiting from it. It’s almost similar to how we view dirty politicians. There’s a huge disconnect in trying to relate to an individual’s platform when said individual contradicts everything his platform stands for.

Gift Shop, despite my minor nitpicks, remains the achievement many have come to label it. It’s deeply engrossing and practically circumvents the conventions of typical documentary filmmaking. However, while I found the film to be brilliantly structured – vacillating between the ideals of both the subject and the filmmaker – there seemed to be a sort of grey area or inconsistency behind exactly why Banksy decided Guetta, of all people, should shift his focus on complex pop art, but I suppose if we’re to take this “documentary” as pure satire, then Banksy’s plot development there proved to be quite effective by the end of the film. Overall, Gift Shop is highly recommended, but not for those seeking a factual documentation. I’d suggest maintaining a certain degree of imagination while watching Banksy’s “street art disaster movie”.

8/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Seven

THE BAD SLEEP WELL (1960)

Bouncing off Throne of Blood’s Shakespearean bedrock, I decided to take a look at Kurosawa’s underappreciated The Bad Sleep Well; a film grounded in motifs akin to “Hamlet”, but told in a contemporary setting. As we all know, “Hamlet” entails themes of vengeance and corruption, and as it turned out – perhaps fatefully – corporate corruption was a fixture in newspaper headlines during the time this film was made, so Kurosawa found himself facing adversity and naysayers aplenty prior to the picture’s release. Not only that, the director’s biting commentary on Japanese bureaucracy underwent several rewrites from a total of five screenwriters, including Kurosawa himself.

Kurosawa apparently never trusted himself to pen any of his scripts alone; he typically solicited support from secondary writers to ensure that his own writing wasn’t used as a tool to make his directing easier. However, incorporating such a large amount of writers was bound to generate some difficulty, and that it did, as we can tell from the film’s somewhat erratic structure. Although sloppy toward the end – and even a bit rushed – the film still manages to be as engrossing as possible and the acting is hands down the best I’ve seen in any Kurosawa film.

The film’s opening is pivotal and really sets the vengeful tone that permeates throughout. It’s a wedding scene, but far from celebratory. Being my eleventh Kurosawa film, The Bad Sleep Well allowed me to finally pick up on Kurosawa’s recurrent use of choruses: groups of minor characters that fill the audience in on what’s occurring. In Throne of Blood it was usually a group of gossiping soldiers. Here, it’s a group of gossiping reporters. As we later learn, this is purely a marriage of convenience; the bride and groom being the daughter (Kyoko Kagawa) of a development corporation’s Vice President (Masayuki Mori) and that company’s President’s secretary Nishi (Toshiro Mifune, in a deceptively placid role). One would assume the “convenience” here is merely financial, but it’s far more sinister than that.

The reception encounters several noteworthy interruptions. First, the arrival of a mysterious wedding cake baked to resemble the company’s headquarters; with a single rose jutting out one of the windows. Following this peculiar event, Wada (Kamatari Fujiwara), a corporation employee, is arrested under suspicion of partaking in a bribery scheme and, following his inquiry, attempts suicide by jumping into an active volcano. Wada’s more or less “saved” by Nishi (who’s unveiled as a ruthless man bent on avenging his father’s death) but learns that the calculating secretary plans to use him as an accessory to destroy the corporation from the inside.

Not unlike The Most Beautiful, Kurosawa’s portrayal of Japan’s value system in The Bad Sleep Well would probably seem alien to most westerners. The notion of lower level employees vowing silence and even sacrificing themselves in order to veil their superiors’ unlawful activities sounds absurd to most of us, but in post-war Japan – and perhaps even today – many underling employees like Wada felt a constrained sense of loyalty towards their bosses – for reasons purely pertaining to principle – thus placed their lives on the line to protect them.

The most fascinating juxtaposition I’ve seen in a Kurosawa film so far is between Wada and Nishi. Both are victims of the corporation’s crimes in one way or the other, but only Nishi intends to exact revenge. Wada, even after discovering that his superiors essentially threw him under the bus, still adheres to that deluded sense of loyalty and remains reluctant about assisting Nishi. The most blatant difference between these two men is hatred. Mifune’s subservient demeanor is only a facade used to dupe his boss/father-in-law; the actor’s trademark ire – which Wada lacks – is revealed away from the corporation. He’s accepted the fact that the only way to conquer evil is to become evil. “It’s not easy hating evil,” Nishi confesses. “You have to stoke your own fury until you become evil yourself.”

Kurosawa’s taken several whacks at industrial demoralization (High and Low, Ikiru) but I found this to be his weakest blow. He sets the stage up brilliantly, but seems to have trouble structuring his acts. The concept of driving the corrupt insane paces the film nicely up to a point, but the film hits a dry area towards the end and starts to move unnecessarily slow; only to culminate with a cop-out ending. This filler space, however, is transcended by Mifune’s and Fujiwara’s captivating performances. Kurosawa, like Bergman, knows how to develop and examine his characters, so if the plot ever becomes drab in spots, you can always fall back on the man’s compelling characterizations.

Overall, the film’s tone is dark, bleak and coolly crosses lines most films of this period wouldn’t even consider touching. The inventive camera techniques and noir-esque cinematography – which accentuate the characters' grim qualities – are also worth praising. Often melodramatic, yet boldly expressive, The Bad Sleep Well depicts man at his most cynical.

8.5/10

NOTE: I have finals coming up, so I’ll have to postpone the series – and reviews in general – until the semester ends. I’ll pick it back up around December 6th or so.

Kurosawa Series: Part Six

THRONE OF BLOOD (1957)

There have been countless stage and film adaptations of William Shakespeare’s “Macbeth”, but many film critics hold Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood to be one of the most successful renditions of the classic tragedy. The film was developed during what some consider to be an experimental stage in Kurosawa’s career. Rather than executing a by-the-numbers adaptation of the Shakespearean play, Kurosawa essentially transposes the story of Macbeth to his own ends. While the parallels are obvious, much of the original play has been modified to correspond with feudal Japan. Even the Macbeth character – here referred to as Washizu (Toshiro Mifune) – has been altered to appear somewhat less vindictive; only corrupted after adhering to his lady’s artful persuasion. The entire film represents a sort of moral document on dehumanization really, and while having only seen ten of Kurosawa’s films, I think it’s safe to say that this is his most nihilistic.

Anyone who’s taken a high school literature course should be familiar with “Macbeth”, so I won’t bore you with details on the original. Blood, on the other hand, offers more in terms of cultural relevance – as far as medieval Japan goes – and the ominous elements that Kurosawa so masterfully applies here are worth discussing. More structured and direct than the source material, Blood is told in four temporal blocks, making “Macbeth” feel a little more prolonged – yet a few sequences in Kurosawa’s version still seemed unnecessarily dragged out, but I digress.

Washizu – Macbeth’s equivalent – and Miki (Minoru Chiaki) – Banquo’s equivalent – are two commanders who encounter an enigmatic spirit in a forest maze. The spirit prophesizes that Washizu will rule over a northern garrison, while Miki will command the main fortress. The spirit also foretells that, in time, Washizu will be promoted to Lord of the Forest Castle and Miki’s son will eventually inherit the castle’s throne. Once the first half of the prophecy is realized, Washizu’s ruthless wife Asaji (Isuzu Yamada) advises her husband to speed up the rest of the prophecy by assassinating the current lord of Forest Castle and succeed the throne immediately. Influenced by Lady Asaji’s ambitious proposals, Washizu carries out a covert killing spree to ensure his reign over the Forest Castle.

Free will versus fate was typically what fueled our “Macbeth” discussions in high school, and here Kurosawa seems to imply that free will is purely idealistic and everything and everyone basically correlates with fate. Blood is first and foremost a portrait of Washizu’s indecisiveness, demonstrating how the future lord is ultimately pinned into a corner after Asaji fills his head with apprehension. If you really observe this film, you’ll begin to notice how integral the role of fog is to the plot; mostly as a symbolic implication of Washizu’s confused frame of mind, but also as a reference to the sometimes empty, heartless abyss of man’s soul. Blood also takes several steps further than “Macbeth” as a social critique of feudalism in Japan. As we’re all aware, Kurosawa has never been one to shy away from political agendas and he sums up the terror-filled customs of the feudal era quite clearly in this film.

One would expect an interpretation of “Macbeth” to feature its fair share of theatrics, but the stylization and handling of Blood felt more Spartacus than Olivier-esque. The scope is by far the widest of any “Macbeth” adaptation I’ve seen, yet in many ways just as claustrophobic as a stage version would be. Without completely omitting that dramatic Shakespearean allure, Kurosawa incorporates plenty of classical Noh techniques, largely evident in Mifune’s and Yamada’s – Asaji – facial expressions, which resembled Noh masks in certain scenes.

Certainly not my favorite Kurosawa film – although it's perhaps his most influential – Blood manages to do “Macbeth” justice without following any conventional pattern. It’s essential Kurosawa, and while I wasn’t able to fully invest in the film’s often hammy atmosphere, I couldn’t discount the almost perfectionist approach taken in every frame of this film.

8/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Five

IKIRU (1952)

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD

Never before have I experienced a film that so beautifully encapsulates the human condition. “To live,” – which is the literal translation of Kurosawa’s Ikiru – is a task given to us all at birth, but how does one approach such a task when life itself seems so meaningless? Kurosawa never thought of himself as an existentialist, or as a director who probed the boundaries of existence, but with Ikiru, he does just that by employing an unfulfilled protagonist – who's on the brink of death – in order to emphasize humanity’s search for affirmation. I usually find films that hone in on old age and death to be unbearably somber, but when handled in a manner similar to Bergman’s Wild Strawberries, Ozu’s Tokyo Story and especially this film, I feel engulfed by a wave of optimism. The elderly protagonists portrayed in these films have attained peace of mind upon death, which gives the rest of us not something to look forward to, but one less thing to dread in life.

A narrator opens Ikiru by detailing the uneventful life of Kanji Watanabe (Takashi Shimura), a dull bureaucrat working the monotonous job of chief over a Public Works department. The corporate machine has essentially ruined Watanabe and his wife’s death certainly hasn’t helped in cultivating any form of active lifestyle. He’s unable to confide in his son (Nobuo Kaneko), who along with his daughter-in-law (Kyoko Seki) are oblivious to his despair and only show interest in benefiting from his pension. Making matters worse, the middle-aged chief has just recently been diagnosed – by a peculiarly vague doctor – with stomach cancer and, although uninformed, assumes he only has several months left to live. Watanabe’s cancer serves as the plot’s fulcrum, as it's primarily what drives the aging official on his quest for purpose. Faced with death, Watanabe is awakened to the doldrums of his existence, and from that point forward he seeks to live his life through others.

Similar to High and Low, Kurosawa’s Ikiru is separated into two introspective segments. The first half of the film, of course, summarizes Watanabe’s routine lifestyle and his eventual cancer diagnosis. It also sheds light on Watanabe’s relationships with two young people. The first of these characters is an uninspired novelist (Yunosuke Ito) he meets at a bar. The second is a young subordinate of his named Toyo (Miki Odagiri); who plans to resign due to the tediousness of her position. The loneliness Watanabe was subjected to over the years is momentarily appeased by these characters’ animated ways of life. However, the various activities he partakes in prove inefficient in aiding his journey toward individual purpose. In his old age, the bureaucratic drone begins to realize that he has lived his life in vain – contributing little to society – and no amount of boisterous activity with youngsters would change that.

Near the beginning of Ikiru, we’re shown several working class women who arrive at Watanabe’s department to complain about a sewage pit in their neighborhood. The women – mothers, factory workers, etc. – are given the runaround by virtually every department known to local government; failing to appeal to the better nature of these supposed “social” workers. By this point, Watanabe has finally come to his senses and resolves to vindicate his death by helping others with the power he’s held for years, but never implemented. Determined to accomplish something significant in life, Watanabe sets out to amend the sewage problem by initiating a proposed plan to build a park above the pit. The park is a godsend for Watanabe, and despite enduring severe illness, he succeeds at procuring that desired bliss he had long been searching for. In perhaps the most iconic scene in any Kurosawa film, Watanabe is seen swinging in the newly built park, presumably freezing, but hauntingly content and awaiting his inevitable demise.

Opposed to the first half of the film – seeing Watanabe in action and how he lived – the second portion of Ikiru exposes the aftermath of Watanabe’s death during his wake. The inner fortitude of his soul, expressed by his ungrateful associates, is displayed through flashbacks, mostly recounting his efforts to ensure the park’s completion. The wake scenes add a bittersweet touch on the film’s final moments, because in acknowledging Watanabe’s ambitious goals, all of his former co-workers seem incapable of giving credit to the man who made the park's conception possible. Only through alcohol are they able to understand the behavioral change Watanabe underwent following his “death sentence” and each of them vows to follow his example. Alas, sobriety annuls their dedicated spirits the next day, but the fruits of Watanabe’s labor do not go unappreciated by those who admired his determination the most.

Ikiru is more than simply profound. It’s a meditation on life and death that swells with human qualities capable of affecting us all in distinctive ways. I believe that, above all else – even critical acclaim – Kurosawa wanted viewers to comprehend the notion of living, and how the only way to truly live is by affirming one's place in the world. Life in general may in fact be meaningless, but what this film so vividly represents is man’s position as an individual and how the “meaning of life” is merely subjective.

9/10