First Love (첫사랑, Lee Myung-se, 1993)

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Expectations were high for Lee Myung-Se’s third film, First Love (첫사랑, Cheot Sarang), given that My Love, My Bride had been a runaway success. First Love proved to be, however, one of the worst box office disasters in Korean cinema history, selling fewer than 6000 tickets in Seoul during the Lunar New Year holiday. The film was however well received by the industry with star Kim Hye-soo picking up best actress at that year’s Blue Dragon Awards. Lee had originally intended to cast Choi Jin-sil, the female lead of My Love, My Bride, who had even turned down a TV drama series to do the film, but she apparently didn’t take to the personality of the character after reading the script and withdrew. Casting former child star Kim Hye-soo was seen as a left-field choice, but paid off in spades as Kim perfectly embodies the innocence and heartbreak of first love in charming fashion.

In some respects, the film is structured in a similar way to Thornton Wilder’s Our Town which first-year university student Young-shin’s (Kim Hye-soo) theatre club is performing. As the Stage Manager explains in the play, the first act will deal with everyday life, the second with first love, and the third with something else he assumes the audience will be able to guess, in case of the play, death. The film, however, ends with something more like continuity as the street where Young-shin lives turns from summer into autumn, winter, and then comes full circle into spring as one of the poems that pepper the screen pops up to remind us that everything begins and ends with nothing, or in other words, life goes on.

Set in the 1970s, the film opens with Young-shin taking a trip to Seoul from her rural hometown where she is a student in order to recruit a director for their play. She is immediately disappointed by Kang Chang-Wook (Song Young-chang), reflecting that she was expecting someone much more literary and poetic who in contrast to the local men wouldn’t smoke and drink excessively. Chang-wook even has an off-putting habit of rubbing his hair to shake the dandruff out which suggests poor hygiene. Nevertheless, her initial aversion to him soon transitions into attraction and an all-consuming, obsessive love, though she is only 19 and he 32. 

Much of the film takes place within her romantic fantasy and flights of fancy in which she develops superpowers such as invisibility or telekinesis while pursuing Chang-wook, her bicycle seemingly moving on its own under the vibrant cherry blossoms. She frequently addresses the camera directly to explain aspects of her life, particularly how boring it is in this rural town where the height of excitement is sending her younger sister out on an illicit late night mandu run. This thrill of romance is also, in that sense, a way of passing the time, though it’s often difficult to see what she sees in Chang-wook who is often patronising and has a bad drinking habit. When the pair go on a kind of date to a historical temple, he drinks so much that they miss the last train and Young-shin has to take him to a hotel, booking into a rent by the hour type place without realising and having to lie about her age on the register. 

But while she is experiencing her first love, so are others. Her childhood friend Moon-su (Jo Min-ki) is clearly in love with her, trying to declare his feelings by giving her a copy of Tugenev’s First Love, though this proves too obscure a clue for Young-shin who is still wrapped up in her own romantic drama. The deliberately artificial set design, mostly taking place on a studio set, evokes a strong sense of nostalgia for an idealised youth. Young-shin and her friend fancy Gregory Peck and Jean-Paul Belmondo, while there are posters for South Pacific in the background, echoing the ways in which Young-shin has also turned her life into a romantic melodrama. The saturated colour scheme also echoes the Technicolor past, golden light pouring in through the studio windows as Young-shin ponders her romantic dilemma. Only once are we reminded of the less cosy side of the ‘70s as the sirens blast to mark the start of the curfew, trapping Young-shin in the motel room with a passed-out Chang-wook waiting for the first train. Young-shin’s story may be tinged with melancholia as her romantic illusions are smashed by an unexpected discovery, but she still holds on to the memories of this magical time while knowing that there are other loves to still to come as time marches on.

Trailer (no subtitles)

My Love, My Bride (나의 사랑 나의 신부, Lee Myung-se, 1990)

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Following his anarchic debut Gagman, Lee Myung-se’s My Love, My Bride (나의 사랑 나의 신부, Naui sarang, naui sinbu), might seem like a more subdued affair recalling the technicolor rom-coms of 1960s Hollywood, yet makes use of innovative stylistic techniques to explore the lives of a newlywed couple in a newly democratising Korea. Like many similarly themed films, it is keen to poke fun at the protagonist’s chauvinistic perspective and self-involvement, but cannot completely condemn them either in expecting at least a degree of audience identification with this Korean everyman.

The film opens boldly with Young-min (Park Joong-hoon) directly addressing the camera to introduce himself and explain that this is the most important day of his life as he plans to propose to university girlfriend Mi-young (Choi Jin-sil). She, however, has got the wrong end of the stick and is convinced that he’s going to dump her. This set of mismatched expectations and miscommunication sets the tone for much of their early marriage as they struggle to settle into the rhythms of co-habitation and gendered expectations of married life.

Mi-young has given up work on her marriage, though Young-min often stays late at the office and expects Mi-young to take care of all the domestic responsibilities. When Mi-young tells him that she’s going to stay overnight after visiting her mother, his first question is what he’s supposed to do about his dinner. Mi-young has already prepared it and left it in the fridge for him to warm up later, specifically instructing him not to stay out too late drinking. Young-min, however, takes this as an opportunity to rebel against the constraints of his newly married life and fill the temporary feminine absence by pursuing a colleague, Seung-hee (Kim Bo-yeon).

Seung-hee is in many ways portrayed as the polar opposite of country girl Mi-young whom Young-min occasionally mocks and looks down on for what he sees as her lack of sophistication and poor cultural knowledge. Seung-hee is a poet who dresses in smart suits exuding confidence and power that suggest she will not be subservient to men but assert her power over them. She shows Mi-young up first when everyone at the office suddenly invites themselves over to Young-min’s apartment for a “house warming”, expecting Mi-young to conjure up a dinner party to show off her domestic skills at moment’s notice. Seung-hee is a fine singer and offers a poignant rendition of Love Me Tender, prompting Young-min’s boss to insist Mi-young entertain them with a song. She obliges with a popular love song, but her singing voice is much more ordinary and her inability to hit the high notes provokes horrified faces from Young-min’s colleagues who continue to make fun of the pair because Mi-young had spelled out “I love you” in peas in the lunchbox she made for Young-min. The older men, meanwhile, all go to lunch together reflecting that they can hardly expect the same from their own wives after so many years of marriage.

Young-min is also constantly asking himself what love is and wondering if his married life will continue to be happy. Split into a series of chapters, the film focuses a number of episodes in which the couple must confront various issues from a fairly traumatic honeymoon and wedding night to Young-min’s wandering eye and irrational jealousy. Though he tells Seung-hee that marriage should be about love rather than ownership, on spotting Mi-young in a cafe with another man he jumps to the immediate conclusion that she must have met with an old lover who is trying to win her back. In fact, it was her old boss whom she ran into by chance while waiting for Young-min, and the reason that she’s crying is that he informed her one of their former colleagues has passed away. Young-min makes no attempt to talk to Mi-young about any of this, but starts giving her the cold shoulder for no reason endangering their growing bond as newlyweds. Mi-young, meanwhile, looks back on first love after receiving a letter from an old boyfriend who moved to Canada. He is no longer the handsome young man she once knew but portly middle-aged father of two. 

To escape the boredom of her married life she takes a trip to a random rural town where she buys cigarettes, has her photo taken, and is offered an unexpected job opportunity after wandering into a cafe that is clearly a front for a delivery coffee service. Though Young-min is often quick to pride himself for his emotional intelligence as a writer, he’s often inconsiderate of Mi-young. When he wins the New Writer’s Award, he insults Mi-young’s outfit moments before they leave implying that she looks cheap and common and that people will expect a writer’s wife to look sophisticated. At the party, she’s sat sadly on her own ignored by everyone including Young-min, while he expects to trot her out for interviews as his loyal and supporting wife. Even when, she’s taken ill, his mind flashes to the scenario of her death on which his main thoughts are that he’s too busy for all this right now, and though it might be nice to live alone, who’s going to take care of his laundry?

Nevertheless, Mi-young’s temporary absence does make him realise that he misses her in ways other than the practical and seems to paper over the other cracks their relationship so that they can put all the petty disagreements to one side and love and accept each other. Lee uses a series of humorous devices including onscreen graphics and speech bubbles to reflect the protagonists’ thought processes, while the fantastic production design gives their world a sense of cosy unreality. Meanwhile, he uses the changing of the seasons to reflect the changing dynamics of couple, embracing romantic imagery such as the moon rising and snow falling as Young-min and Mi-young fall into a more settled rhythm and an older Young-min reflects that he is still in the process of finding out what love is, but is grateful for the happy life he’s been able to make for himself as a husband and father.

Trailer (no subtitles)

Harbour Toast: Victory Is in Our Grasp (港の乾杯　勝利をわが手に, Seijun Suzuki, 1956)

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A former sailor’s dreams of returning to the sea are disrupted by his brother’s brush with romance and crime in Seijun Suzuki’s directorial debut Harbour Toast: Victory Is in Our Grasp (港の乾杯　勝利をわが手に, Minato no Lanpai: Shori wo Waga Te ni). Co-scripted by Toshio Nakagawa and Kirio Urayama, the film explores themes of post-war orphanhood, loneliness, and the corrupting influence of desire while hinting at the style Suzuki would later make his own in its brief moments of surrealism and romanticism. 

Shinkichi (Ko Mishima) had to give up sailing after taking the rap for a maritime accident, but still dreams of returning to the sea which is his only real him. Meanwhile, his younger brother, Jiro (Shinsuke Maki), is an up-and-coming jockey. A mysterious woman (Sumiko Minami) often appears at the track and bets big, supposedly waving a red handkerchief when she wins though no one can remember her horses ever coming. There is indeed a kind of ghostliness to Asako, as if she were a kind of mermaid of lingering spirit sent to beckon men to their doom. She is a little more etherial than your average femme fatale, and is apparently drawn to Jiro by his apparent loneliness. 

This loneliness is also something that worries Shinkichi, explaining that their parents passed away young while Shinkichi has spent most of his life at sea. Jiro too seems a little resentful of his brother, accusing him of selfishness and suggesting that he never really cared for him or he wouldn’t have run away to be a sailor. This is a little unfair and Shinkichi appears to take good care of Jiro, offering to do his laundry and having already not only laid out a futon but put a hot water bottle in there too before Jiro even got home. Even so, this sense orphanhood and isolation are also what draws Jiro towards Asako as if also to death. Though everyone at their local bar is expecting him to get together with kimono-wearing barmaid Sanae who appears to have a crush on him, Jiro isn’t interested. He describes her interest in him as a burden, and resents the interference of the customers at the bar. In some ways, he desires to remain alone, but in others is seduced by Atsuko’s bewitching sense of sophistication as she invites him to upscale bars and into a world he had not yet known.

Yet Atsuko is also under the thumb of petty gangster Misawa (Shinsuke Ashida) who has set him up as a target for the purpose of fixing bets. Misawa promises to give Asako up if Jiro throws the race, leaving him with a dilemma in which he must choose between integrity and his racing dreams, and romantic fulfilment. For her part, Asako seems to have fallen for Jiro for real and tells him to stand up to Misawa by winning the race, though in the end his decision is sort of made for him leaving Jiro open to further threats and intimidation by Misawa. In the end, it’s Shinkichi’s self-sacrificing nature that comes to the fore as he gives up his own dreams of returning to the sea in order to rescue Jiro and prevent his future from being corrupted by Misawa, though unlike other similar films Asako is framed more as a secondary victim and allowed the possibility of redemption by starting a new life with Jiro. Instead, Shinkichi takes on the burden of their crimes and symbolically frees the younger generation from them. 

Suzuki leans into the same sense of ghostliness as in the later Inn of the Floating Weeds while using artistic devices such as the haze which surrounds Asako in Jiro’s imagination, or the super imposition of Misawa and Asako as Jiro faces his dilemma on the track. As spinning shot echoes Jiro’s dizziness in falling in love, while the bar scenes feature the kind of joyful camaraderie familiar from similar moments in Suzuki’s later career. Though he is not yet working with production designer Takeo Kimura, the film nevertheless bear out Suzuki’s aesthetics and not least in the use of a white rose as symbol of Jiro’s pure-hearted love for Asako, later literally chewed up and spat out by Misawa whose nihilistic cynicism is perhaps the greatest threat the the post-war future.

Ah Girl (泡泡糖女孩, Ang Geck Geck, 2026)

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A young girl attempts to make sense of the world around her amid her parents’ acrimonious separation, but finally discovers that all she can rely on is herself in Ang Geck Geck’s autobiographically inspired drama Ah Girl (泡泡糖女孩). Set in the Singapore of the 1990s, the film casts its young heroine adrift without parental guidance or even a firm sense of home as each parent is, in their own way, immature and resentful of the responsibility of raising children.

That’s partly why Swee Swee and her tomboyish sister Ah Tian are mainly being raised by their paternal grandmother, supported financially by their mother who spoils them at weekends, and ignored by their father who has started a series of new relationships each with larger ladies, which is something that puzzles Swee Swee even as she begins to realise what’s going on. One evening, Swee Swee’s mother tearfully phones her, saying she’s found a flat she likes and swearing that Swee Swee can come and live with her when she’s saved enough money to secure it. Swee Swee’s mother makes no mention of Tian, which is another thing that worries Swee Swee as she finds herself adopting a maternal position over her sister.

Despite her mother’s tearfulness, it appears that she does not always want the children with her either. When Swee Swee injures her foot after becoming upset on a swing, her mother is annoyed to have been called at short notice and tells Swee Swee off rather than trying to comfort her or express concern for her injury. Though she is also stressed by the need to keep up with mortgage payments and secure their new home, she also embraces the freedom of her newly single life. While taking the girls to the swimming pool, she remains on the side reading a magazine rather than playing with them before ignoring her daughters completely to flirt with another man. In some ways, Swee Swee doesn’t mind. She prayed to god to ask for her mother’s happiness, and is glad that she seems to be doing better emotionally, but also feels neglected and pushed out.

When her mother asks her whom she’d like to live with in the future, Swee Swee diplomatically says she doesn’t know, though her mother obviously looks hurt. Tian immediately says she wants to stay with her father, but this may not actually be an option. The question only undermines Swee Swee’s faith in each of her parents as she begins to see their flaws and hypocrisies. She wonders why adults always lie, but comes to the confusion that they’re perpetually “confused” and have no more idea what’s going on than she does. She can’t rely on them for guidance, nor even for a strong foundation. The only grounded relationship she has is with “Auntie Japan,” one of her father’s girlfriends who genuinely cares for and tries to help her, but even this is eventually ruined by her father’s irresponsibility. 

Everyone seems strangely obsessed with Japan despite its recent economic downturn. Her grandmother’s neighbour has just returned from a trip there, while her grandmother likes to watch Japanese variety shows on television and wants to visit there, too, but at the same time was a child during the Japanese occupation and has ambivalent feelings towards the nation. Swee Swee’s mother is a Japanese-speaking tour guide who plans to take a tour group to the memorial for those who were killed during the war, but also buys Swee Swee large quantities of Japanese chewing gum that she illicitly sells at school for a little extra money. As a news item reveals, chewing gum has recently been banned for sale or importation in an effort to improve public hygiene and there are heavy penalties for bringing it into the country.

This rather draconian measure may serve to bear out the oppressiveness of Singaporean society and its obsession with rules, but also demonstrates Swee Swee’s cheeky resourcefulness. She and Tian raid the local rubbish bins, picking out things like crayons and toy cars for Tian that no one is providing for them now that they’ve been caught between their parents with no one taking full responsibility. Perhaps because of this, Swee Swee is keen to assert her own identity. She’s confused on her first day at school because the teacher tried to use an English name she didn’t know she had. She asks to be called “Swee Swee” instead, though most of her classmates use English names and some call her “Eileen” anyway. 

Swee Swee takes a liking a boy who tells him that he has two girls that he likes, but can’t choose between them. Given her circumstances, Swee Swee asks if one is for weekends and the other during the week, but the boy says his mother told him that in life you have to make a choice, you can’t have one thing and the other. This, of course, upsets her, because she knows she’ll have to choose one parent and agonises over the choice. Meanwhile, her father plans to have Tian adopted by a wealthy couple who are moving to Australia, despite her loyalty towards him. The boy tells Swee Swee he likes girls with long hair, which is one reason she resents it when her grandmother forces her to cut it, but eventually loses faith in him when she sees him fondling another girl’s plaits, abruptly ending their friendship. In the end, she has only herself to rely on. The 4:3 aspect ratio may evoke a sense of nostalgia, though Swee Swee may not have much to feel nostalgic about. Nevertheless, the film exudes a sense of warmth and a generosity of spirit to those around her who aren’t necessarily bad, just struggling in their own way, while despite her melancholy Swee Swee seems to have reached an understanding of herself and the world that eventually allows her to transcend her circumstances.

Ah Girl screened as part of this year’s Toronto International Film Festival.

Trailer (Traditional Chinese / English subtitles)

Barren Illusion (大いなる幻影, Kiyoshi Kurosawa, 1999)

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A listless young couple attempt to rebel against the world’s meaninglessness, but discover only further despair if tempered by their togetherness in Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s oblique drama, Barren Illusion (大いなる幻影, Oinaru Genei). The film’s title could refer to the world itself which has its own degree of unreality while offering little of consequence to either of the protagonists who might dream of escape but are incapable of effecting it. Instead, they exist like ghosts trapped within the perpetual limbo of the contemporary society.

Musician Haru (Shinji Takeda) literally fades in and out of his surroundings, captured in a slow dissolve as if somewhere else he were awakening from this dream only to blink back into existence. In the early stretches of the film, he’s repeatedly told to “disappear,” which in an odd way affirms his existence even while negating it. He appears to react to this instruction with violence, throwing rubbish bags around in the street, but also placing a bag under the head of a sleeping person in a small gesture of kindness.

Michi (Miako Tadano), meanwhile, seems to rebel against her monotonous life as a postoffice clerk by pilfering from the mail and dreaming of going abroad. To add to her sense of isolation, the customers at the postoffice are unable to see her face or she theirs. There is a vertical blind in front of her through which customers hand their packages or documents to be processed. This seems to be done wordlessly. Customers don’t even state which service they require, but simply pass whatever they’ve brought across and then leave. Michi’s job chiefly seems to consist of stamping things in triplicate, removing the top level to hand to the customer, and then filing the counterfoil. 

Tellingly, her stamp says that it is 2005, which is six years after the film was released. Yet a kind of inertia has set in even in this near future setting. Michi encounters a strange woman who complains that the photocopier has been broken since the year 2000, perhaps a casualty of the millennium bug, but no one has made any attempt to fix it. The woman seems strangely insistent about the broken photocopier while her face is ominously hidden in shadow. Michi meets the same woman later on the rooftop where she again throws papers around before trying to pull Michi over and then abruptly jumping herself just as Michi will later do.

It might be tempting to think of this woman as a ghost. Her actions have a looping quality as if she were stuck in a purgatorial cycle, but then this seems to be true of pretty much everyone. Someone ought to do something, people seem to say, but just as no one bothered to fix the photocopier, no one is really applying themselves to anything either or seriously trying to resist their despair-filled existence. The pollen that has begun to plague the young with allergies seems to be a metaphor for this sense of inertia as it saps their energies, causes them to wear masks that further isolate them from human connection, and eventually forces them into a binary choice between infertility and becoming a functioning member of society.

Both Haru and Michi later agree to try the new drug even if it prevents them from having children, but then in many ways they continue to behave like children themselves. They spend significant amounts of time playing with inflatable balls in the local park, and though they discuss getting a dog or cat, quickly tire of caring for it. A foreign woman attempts to hand out postcards in a bar which may hint at a desire for geographical escape, though she finds no takers. Michi, meanwhile, is fascinated by an inaccurate map she discovers in the home of a Chinese woman who for some reason barged in on her looking for escape from a persistent boyfriend. “You can go on your own,” the woman tells him in Mandarin, “I’m not going,” before he simply picks her up and takes her away all while ignoring the literal alarm bells that Michi later tries to warn her about. 

Michi trails her suitcase along while pursued by both a wandering band of percussionists that seems to follow her around, and a gang of black-clad, seemingly violent fascists who beat her with clubs as if they were either symbol of societal collapse or a cleanup tool trying to remove a bug from the system. She seems to come to the conclusion that leaving would be pointless without Haru, but the two of them remain trapped on either side of an external door until an attempt to take action seems to put them on the same side, albeit as passive observers amid the cacophony of the percussionist band. The low-level thrum of interior spaces hints at industrial corruption and a deadening effect on human communication, while it seems that togetherness is perhaps the only real path to enduring this looping existence in which everything is just an echo of something else and that remains is a vague desire to know what lies over the horizon.

Survive Style 5+ (Gen Sekiguchi, 2004)

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“What is your function in life?” It is, after all, quite a difficult question as an air stewardess (Tae Kimura) points out when interrogated by an irate British hitman (Vinnie Jones), and perhaps one that most people never really think about. Indeed, many of those questioned struggle with the meaning of “function”, replying with the most obvious answer of their occupation or job title without really considering any deeper implications or whether their existence is really meaningful. The hitman seems to have a secondary mission of eliminating those whom he deems “unnecessary”, while simultaneously giving his only sign of approval to a man who straightforwardly tells him that he doesn’t have one.

Gen Sekiguchi’s Survive Style 5+ is full of this kind of questioning but ultimately a tale of how one learns to survive in an often absurd world. Like many films from the mid-2000s, it cuts between several interwoven plot threads that at first seem nonsensical but finally coalesce into a complete whole. An artist (Tadanobu Asano) repeatedly kills his wife (Reika Hashimoto) who is forever trying to kill him in bizarre ways only for her to respawn back at their very weird Western-style country lodge in the woods. An ad executive (Kyoko Koizumi) becomes fed up with her vain hypnotist boyfriend (Hiroshi Abe) who mocks her career. A salaryman (Ittoku Kishibe) is hypnotised to think that he’s a chicken, and a trio of burglars (Kanji Tsuda, Yoshiyuki Morishita, Jai West) deal with repressed emotion and romantic longing. 

They are all to some extent trying to find some way to survive along with a sense of purpose in their lives. Ad executive Yoko is forever coming up with zany ideas for TV adverts that she records on her dictaphone, sniggering to herself at their surreal humour though she is the only one who finds them funny and her work is often dismissed by her corporate clients who complain that her ads don’t do anything to inform the prospective customer about the nature of the product. Sekiguchi was himself also a director of TV adverts which informs the film’s short and snappy style, and Yoko’s artistic frustrations perhaps echo his own as she tries to fulfil herself creatively while meeting the client’s demands. 

The CEO of the pharmaceuticals company she’s working with (Shinichi Chiba) is forever taking “emergency” calls from his wife about such important issues as the bulb having gone in the bathroom which he treats with the upmost seriousness while admitting that he really doesn’t know how to address any of these domestic issues. Similarly, the salaryman is prevented from living a full family life because of the demands of his job, but becomes a temporary hero after getting tickets to see the sold-out hypnotist. In someways, he might even be happier as a bird which after all offers more “freedom” if only he could learn to fly. While his wife and daughter are most interested in curing him so that he can become a stereotypical salaryman again and fulfil the roles of father and husband by providing for the family, only his son determines to accept his father’s new reality and love him for who he is now. 

The family’s home is designed with an artificial quality giving it the appearance of the set for a TV sitcom, bearing out the ersatz nature of conventional family life in which everyone is forced to bear out their particular “function” without imbuing it with much meaning. When the burglars break in, they too inhabit this space as if they were children who’ve come over to play by sitting down and playing cards rather than looting the place, though it turns out the family don’t actually have very much worth stealing. While Tsuda is forever taking calls from a girlfriend, Morishita and J exchange a series of longing looks but are otherwise unable to express their feelings for each other due to lingering societal homophobia and emotional vulnerability. Only when challenged by the hitman are they able to express their feelings after questioning their own “function in life”.

Jones was clearly hired for his hardman image which he’d successfully brought off the football pitch and into a series of gangster movies in the late 90s, imbuing each of his lines with an absurd intensity which is equally matched by Yoshiyoshi Arawakawa’s comical attempts to echo his intimidating speech patterns as his interpreter though without the physical presence to pull it off. The hitman is quite clearly a harbinger of death, but at the same time it’s his existential probing that points the way towards survival as his various targets are forced to consider what their “function in life” really is and if they’re living in ways that are meaningful and fulfilling. The film’s anarchic production design and deadpan humour add to the sense of surreality as Sekiguchi gleefully ricochets between one storyline and another looking for new modes of survival in an increasingly absurd world.

Survive Style 5+ is currently screening in select UK cinemas and released on UHD/Bluray on 19th October courtesy of Third Window Films.

Trailer (dialogue free)

We’re Both Grooms (僕もアイツも新郎です。Koji Tanaka, 2022)

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Ryosuke (Shono Hayama) is about to marry the love of his life, Mizuki (Hiroki Iijima), but there’s just one snag. He’s never got round to telling his family or any of his friends that he’s gay, and a sizeable contingent of the wedding party are under the assumption that he’s going to be marrying a woman. A recent addition to the wedding farce genre, Koji Tanaka’s We’re Both Grooms (僕もアイツも新郎です。, Boku mo Aitsu no Shinro desu.) explores both the lingering homophobia in the contemporary society and the internalised shame and fear that prevents people from fully committing to what it is they really want out of life.

It is after all perhaps a little bit strange to meet your child’s intended for the first time at the wedding, but no one really seems to remark on the fact that they have no idea who the groom is supposed to be marrying. But then again, it seems Ryosuke didn’t invite half of these people, they were reeled in by his overzealous mother who, like everyone else, has made a massive assumption. That in itself may imply that Ryosuke doesn’t have many friends. He doesn’t seem to have invited anyone to the wedding aside from his boss, the headmaster of the school where he works, whom he also hasn’t told he’s gay leading to some last minute wedding speech panic. Though his boss is keen to assure him he’s fine with that sort of thing, it’s clear his original speech was full of misogynistic jokes and male banter, while his attempts to correct himself reveal a latent homophobia.

Meanwhile, a childhood friend, again invited by Ryosuke’s mother, is on the one hand hurt he never shared this part of his life with her, and resentful as it seems she had romantic designs on him that prevented her from pursuing other relationships. Mizuki has also invited an ex to the wedding who takes Ryosuke to task for treating Mizuki like a dirty secret, asking how they can live a happy life together if Ryosuke can’t even acknowledge their relationship in public let alone tell the world of his love for Mizuki. Mizuki is also starting to feel guilty and conflicted, realising that he’s insensitively forced Ryosuke into coming out because of his desire to paper over his own anxiety about their relationship through a public commitment ceremony. Japan does not currently legally recognise same-sex marriages, but Mizuki is hoping that the wedding will clarify their relationship status and what they mean to each other, only it seems to have backfired. 

The main obstacle is Ryosuke’s traditionalist, civil servant father (Mantaro Koichi) who outright tries to stop the wedding claiming that his son is just “easily led” and must have been led astray by Mizuki. While all of Mizuki’s family know and accept that he is gay and have also warmed to Ryosuke, Ryosuke’s family do not seem to understand and cannot get their heads around the idea of two men being in a committed relationship despite the grandmother’s public telling off of her son and unexpected announcement that she too is bisexual and that her first love was another woman. Surprisingly, Ryosuke’s father explains that he used to be a delinquent so he faced familial disapproval when he married too but was warmly supported by his wife. Though he confesses that he really just wanted to see Ryosuke marry someone who would make him happy, it takes him quite a bit longer to figure out that he’s trying to do just that. 

The biggest problem remains, however, Ryosuke himself who has evidently not reached the level of self-acceptance that would allow him to fully commit to a romantic relationship, as he’s advised by the ever-helpful wedding planner trying to keep the event on track. Only once he becomes more sure of himself, can tell people proudly that he is gay and that Mizuki is the love of his life, do those around begin to see the authenticity of their relationship and accept it as they would any other. Even Mizuki’s incredibly stiff father eventually comes around with a speech to the effect that the true beauty of life lies in diversity. Despite the farcical comedy at its centre, the film ends on a surprisingly touching note as the couple reaffirm their love for each other and also see it embraced by those around them.

Trailer (English subtitles)

The Blue Pearl (青い眞珠, Ishiro Honda, 1951)

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An ama diver finds herself caught between tradition and modernity when a handsome young man arrives from the city in the debut narrative feature from Ishiro Honda, The Blue Pearl (青い眞珠, Aoi Shinju). Honda became fascinated by the lives of ama divers while filming a documentary about the Ise-Shima National Park and bought the rights to a novel by Katsuro Yamada in order to make use of the underwater filming techniques he’d developed to capture scenes of the women diving. In its way, the film also has an ethnographical component in incorporating elements of traditional village life such as the festival featuring Kagura dancing and puppetry along with ancient superstition.

It’s clear from the opening scenes that Nishida (Ryo Ikebe) is going to be a corrupting force in this environment as he disrespects the sea immediately after disembarking from the boat by petulantly throwing his empty cigarette packet into it. This action may make it seem as if he’s not altogether happy to be here, though he seems to adapt well enough to island life serving double duty as an assistant lighthouse keeper and schoolmaster. Apparently arriving on the same boat is a woman who is returning to the village after having run away to Tokyo. Riu (Yuriko Hamada) represents another source of corruption and is not fully accepted by the other islanders having become to a degree “foreign” in her urbanisation. Unlike the other women, she wears Western clothes and puts on makeup while behaving in a brazen and flirtatious manner. Despite having trained as an ama diver since childhood, she is no longer able to dive with the same dexterity as the other women and constantly brings in poor hauls or rotten shellfish.

According to lighthouse keeper Fujiki (Takashi Shimura) who offers some ethnographical detail while explaining the ama diver tradition to Nishida, a woman’s worth before marriage is largely determined by her skill in diving. Married couples mostly work together with the man operating the boat and reeling the divers back in from their deep dives. As such, it requires a high degree of trust as the diver must be sure the person on the surface will reel them in if they get into difficultly. Noe is currently the top earner among the women, but this is also partially because she feels herself to be something of an outsider. Her father was not from the island and eventually left her mother for another woman to start a new life in Hokkaido, while her mother also left and has not been seen since. She worked hard to become a good diver so that she could support her mother should she return in her old age, but is also tiring of the ama life and fearful of the prospect that there is nothing beyond it. At present, she’s paired with a local man, Shintaro (Kan Yanagiya), whom the islanders expect her to marry though she appears not to want to.

Her attraction to Nishida is then partly that for the outside world and an escape from the village. The local superstition against marrying outsiders seems to suggest that they can never really be fully accepted by the community and it is generally assumed that they will eventually leave rather than choose to live on the island. As Fujiki points out, diving makes up a significant proportion of the local economy, and so they do not want to risk losing a skilled diver who may choose to leave with a romantic partner from elsewhere. The superstition then serves a practical purpose in discouraging the ama from leaving, though it’s unclear to what degree they really believe in the retribution of the Dragon God. Despite Nishida’s prodding, Noe clearly believes in it to some degree as she eventually asks a shamaness for advice, but also disregards it when she’s told that she ought to give up on Nishida as nothing good will come from their relationship.

This superstition is perhaps why she comes to doubt Nishida when he unwisely agrees to dance with Riu after she walks into the lighthouse and puts on modern dance music to flirt with the other men. Riu does this originally out of jealously and resentment towards Noe who is regarded as the village’s golden girl but later claims to have developed feelings for Nishida, though her primary goal seems to be to ensure that Noe cannot have him. Noe, meanwhile, begins to lose her mind and starts diving recklessly claiming that she doesn’t care if she dies. The pair are positioned as diametrically opposed poles, the corrupted returnee from the city and pure-hearted island girl, yet in some senses Riu is also another possible future for Noe should she choose to leave the island alone. Both women are, in a sense, fighting for the different future that Nishida represents. He later suggests that he may leave to go to Hokkaido, the same destination as Noe’s father and in a certain way of thinking, still regarded as a new frontier society in contrast to the traditional life represented by the coastal village in the Ise peninsula. 

But pitted against each other, the two women eventually fall victim to the superstition in becoming obsessed with retrieving the blue pearl from the Dragon God’s well which is said to grant romantic fulfilment. Riu dives out too far and reaches the pearl first, but is trapped by a falling rock, perhaps the Dragon God’s revenge for leaving the island and abandoning the sea. She calls out to Noe for help, but she either runs out of air before she is able to free her or wilfully chooses not to do so. Noe’s relationship with Nishida is then forever cursed, as she’s haunted by Riu’s frantic cries for help and her own sense of guilt while remaining uncertain if she could have saved Riu if she had really wanted to. In the end, the two women destroy each other because their desires cannot be reconciled nor is either one really complete without the other. Riu cannot to return to the world of the village nor live a settled married life with a man like Nishida, but neither can Noe reconcile her desire for a more interesting existence off the island with the island culture that lives inside her and the ingrained fear of the Dragon God. In the end, they must return to the sea. Honda makes full use of the expressionist possibilities of the landscape as raging waves seem to stand in for Noe’s tumultuous emotions culminating in a terrifying storm as she confronts Nishida in an attempt to ascertain his true feelings. Don’t mock the sea, Noe cautions Nishida on his arrival in town, though it’s equal parts the awesome power of nature and the inability to let go of ancient superstition that do for her in the end.

Suicide Troops of the Watchtower (望楼の決死隊, Tadashi Imai, 1943)

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Produced by Toho and Chosun Film Production Corporation, Suicide Troops of the Watchtower (望楼の決死隊, Boro no kesshitai) was intended as a piece of imperial propaganda promoting a sense of unity between Koreans and the Japanese who had annexed their country in 1910 and thereafter ruled in an oppressive and often brutal fashion. Not that you would know any of that from the film which is directed by committed communist Tadashi Imai while equally surprisingly crediting Choi In-gyu as an “assistant director”, though Choi was already an established and successful director of colonial films such as Tuition (1940) and Angels on the Street (1941). 

Like Tuition the film is almost entirely in Japanese, Korean having been banned onscreen by this point, though small smatterings of Korean are heard in the background. The film is set in 1935, but there are signs visible at certain points reminding people to “use only the national language,” eg. Japanese, though one of the Japanese officers has apparently learned Korean to better communicate with the local community. Likewise, though Korean actors also appear in the film, they are mainly in smaller parts with the most prominent roles being played by well-known Japanese stars. Nevertheless, Korean characters have not generally taken Japanese names, but are referred to by the Japanese reading of the Chinese characters with which their names are written. Thus, the sister of the Korean border patrol officer who is killed is referred to as Eishuku (played by Korean actress Kim Shin-jae), rather than as Yong-suk. Meanwhile, another man remarks that if he called himself “Hayashi” he might feel more Japanese, while his wife has become accustomed to wearing Japanese kimono.

The earliest scenes of the film capture the idyllic pastorality of the Korean landscape and are intended to extend a degree of exoticism to the mainland Japanese audience who are likely less familiar with Korea or Korean culture. This is also true of the early scene in which members of the border patrol hold a welcome party for Asano (Hideo Saito) which takes place at a traditional Korean home. The men eat and drink outside sitting at low tables while the Japanese soldiers attempt to learn a Korean folksong taught to them by Kin. These scenes seek to paint colonial life as a more genial form of cultural exchange brokered by friendliness and respect even though in reality expressions of Koreanness are generally discouraged while the people are brutally oppressed and economically exploited. 

Unlike some similar films, however, Suicide Troops of the Watchtower presents Korean and Japanese people as equals who are fighting for the Japanese empire together. Though they are also portrayed as simple, rural people, the Koreans are never seen to be stupid or incapable and are overall honest and kind if grateful to the Japanese border patrol officers for protecting them from the bandits. In some surprising ways, the film at times presents a more progressive view of society than might be expected as the border patrol is universally supportive of Eishuku’s desire to become a doctor with one of the officers selling off his rice field to ensure she can continue her education after her brother’s death. The implication might be that this is an opportunity afforded to her by the “civilising” force of Japanese colonialism, but she is nevertheless encouraged to become an independent working woman who will also use her skills in support of the empire. 

On the other hand, the Chinese characters seen in the film are all played by Japanese actors and are generally viewed with a degree of suspicion. Cafe owner Wanryu (Ichiro Sugai) has crossed the border expressly to escape the violent bandits of Manchuria, but is still mistrusted by the border patrol despite repeatedly pledging his loyalty to them. When a man in stereotypical Chinese dress with a wounded arm turns up in Wanryu’s cafe and ends up killing officer Kin when challenged, suspicion falls on Wanryu. The Chinese population has essentially been characterised as the “other” and the force against which the Japanese and Koreans are unified, which somewhat undermines the final pronouncement that the bandit problem has been solved by the elimination of the border now that Japan has conquered Manchuria. 

Though they are described as “bandits” and it is said that they have been pushed into Korean territory by Japanese soldiers pursuing them, it easy to read these insurgents as Korean Independence fighters many of whom had gone into exile in China, particularly in Shanghai. Wanko, the estranged son of Wanryu, is not just a young man who ran off to live a life of banditry, but a guerrilla fighter resisting Japanese imperialism. His eventual conversion born the desire to avenge the death of his father at the hands of bandit leader Koryo who meant to kill Wanryu fearing he had betrayed them by warning his father of the imminent attack, is then depicted as a kind of homecoming as border patrol chief Takatsu (Minoru Takada) agrees to release him so that he can fight alongside them. 

To that extent, it might seem surprising that the film makes the bandits seem so powerful to the degree that they pose a genuine threat the security of the empire. Their assault is staged in a way that resembles Hollywood westerns. At the film’s conclusion, it really appears as if all is lost and the border patrol will be wiped out by the bandits, partly because they are clearly understaffed which would seem to be a strategic failure on the part of the authorities. Takatsu’s ever capable wife Yoshiko (Setsuko Hara) is seen lugging weaponry around bearing out the all hands on deck mentality. At the lowest moment, Takatsu gives his pistol to his wife with the intention that she use it on herself when they are overrun while the Korean residents make similar plans with a new mother preparing to smother her baby if the need arises. 

In the end they are saved by the timely arrival of reinforcements thanks to the efforts of the new arrival Asano who had been unable to cope with the harsh life on the border and was determined to quit. Even the one Korean who had subversively complained about being exploited as free labour by the entitled Japanese occupiers chips in to help so that the bandits are eventually defeated by the united force of Koreans and Japanese officers fighting side by side. Even so, the closing speech insists that the colonial authorities will now continue with their ideal of bringing “order” to Korea. Commander Takatsu proves his commitment by giving up  the opportunity to return home to see his dying mother, while his wife becomes a maternal figure to the local community. Released in 1943, the film is perhaps an advocation for unity born of increasing desperation as Japan suffered repeated defeat and domestic strain, preparing its audience for the necessity of defending themselves against a similar onslaught while suggesting that all must work together to save the nation.

Love Massacre (愛殺, Patrick Tam Kar-Ming, 1981)

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Is Love Massacre a massacre of love, a massacre for love, or is it love itself that inevitably leads to death? Patrick Tam’s second film draws inspiration from European and Hollywood cinema along with the French New Wave including the films of Godard, most obviously in its screen composition and bold use of reds and blues echoing Pierrot le Fou, while also leaning into Antonin Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty in focusing on a sensory experience rather than expository dialogue.

Shot mainly in the US on account of star Brigitte Lin’s schedule, the film takes place in an uncanny space of another Hong Kong peopled by overseas students in San Francisco. Ivy (Brigitte Lin) has become good friends with Joy (Tina Lau), an emotionally fragile young woman uncertain in her relationship with boyfriend Louie (Charlie Chin) who plans to move to New York. Feeling abandoned, she attempts to take her own life by slashing her wrists, but survives. Not knowing what to do, Ivy calls Joy’s brother Chu Chung (Chang Kuo-chu) for further support, but he insists that his sister is fine and resists their efforts to get Joy to see a doctor. Meanwhile, he and Ivy begin a passionate affair.

Up to this point, Lin had mostly starred in romantic melodramas and Tam plays with this cinematic baggage in beginning the film in the same vein only to later change direction as it descends into madness and violence. Chu Chung appears to be living with a mental health condition of his own which informs his reluctance to get help for Joy. Joy, meanwhile, appears to be worried both about the latent attraction between Louie and Ivy, and Ivy’s relationship with her brother. Joy tells Louie that she doesn’t like Ivy dating Chu Chung, leading Ivy to wonder if Joy may have had an incestuous obsession with her brother, though it may equally have been because she knew of his paranoia and violence and feared for her safety. 

At any rate, Chu Chung did not disclose to Ivy that he was already married to a woman in Hong Kong (Deanie Ip) whom he appears to resent because she tries to constrain him by medicating his mental health condition. He ends up killing her to free himself so that he can pursue his relationship with Ivy, but soon becomes dangerously obsessed with the implication that his madness is caused by an excess of primal emotion that he is unable to control as symbolised by the violent intensity of the Mark Rothko paintings seen frequently throughout the film. 

Ivy had felt herself conflicted on coming to know of Chu Chung’s marriage accidentally and feeling both deceived and abandoned by him. She lived in a kind of fantasy of idealised romance that has now been compromised by her uncertainty after reading about a man with the same name in the paper who has apparently killed his wife in Hong Kong and gone on the run. When Chu Chung returns, his behaviour is strange and obsessive. He insists on marrying Ivy while claiming to have dealt with his wife, later confessing in detail about how he disposed of the body and ominously adding that he’ll have to think of a better way to do it next time because it was altogether too much bother. 

Yet despite the intensity of Chu Chung’s romantic obsession, Tam depicts his violence with extreme detachment. Chu Chung’s killing is matter of fact and motivated by resentment in that he mistakenly believes they are deliberately preventing him from being with Ivy, who has ironically sought out Louie after running away from Chu Chung in fear. In the earlier stages of their affair, Ivy had often been seen in a vivid red dress given to her by Chu Chung which symbolised her passionate emotion, but on Chu Chung’s return she is mainly seen in white which is a colour more closely associated with death. Chu Chung is also dressed entirely in white, which, on the one hand, is designed for maximum impact as his clothes become stained with blood, but also marks him out as a figure who represents destruction.

To that extent, he comes to embody the violent intensity of romantic obsession suggesting that love itself is a kind of madness that can only result in death just as it does for Joy when her love for Louie is not met with the same degree of passion. In confronting Chu Chung, Ivy is also directly confronting the emotions she was otherwise afraid to face and perhaps conquering them in being forced to make a choice how best to “help” Chu Chung while his obsession threatens to consume her. Using Hitchcockian music cues and conjuring a sense of dread in a city that seems isolated and empty, almost an imaginary backdrop with its de Chirico-inspired murals, Tam subverts genre tropes to spin a tale of love and madness. In the end, the “love killing” of the Chinese title might not be the ones perpetrated by Chu Chung but the final decision taken by Ivy motivated either by mercy or a desire for liberation.

Trailer (English subtitles)