In the
summer of 1994, Takeski Kitano—or "Beat Takeshi," as he's popularly known
in Japan—was involved in a near-fatal motorcycle accident that resulted in
partial paralysis and the need for extensive reconstructive surgery to restore
the use of his facial muscles. For any other performer, this would have been a
devastating, potentially career-ending development, but in Kitano's case, could
anybody really tell much of a difference? One side of his face may slump ever
so slightly now, but it's entirely possible that those muscles would have eventually
weakened from atrophy anyway. Depending on what mood he wants to strike,
Kitano's screen image is usually either Clint Eastwood or Jacques Tati, one of
those iconic stone faces that needn't be expressive in order to captivate. On
the rare occasion his characters flash a smile—rarer in the years
following the accident—it's like a startling, sometimes disturbing break
in the clouds, because the expression seems so unnatural to him.
Of course,
that can't be true. In reality, Kitano has many faces and is a Renaissance man
of astounding proportions: Not only does he write, direct, act, and edit his
movies, but his résumé also lists such occupations as comedian, novelist, film
critic, poet, painter, TV panelist and game show host, and video-game designer.
Over the years, his cult of personality has ballooned to such a degree that his
most recent films, Takeshis and Glory To The Filmmaker!, have labored to explore the Beat
Takeshi persona, and led helpless Kitano junkies on insufferable trips through
the hall of mirrors. Where once Kitano could barely find enough media through
which to express his ideas, he's now just spinning his wheels, hung up in an
ego-generated feedback loop. But that shouldn't negate the offbeat vitality of
his earlier films, which are violent, lyrical, sentimental, quirky, and oftentimes
all of the above.
Courtesy of
Quentin Tarantino's erstwhile vanity label Rolling Thunder, Kitano's 1993
yakuza movie Sonatine enjoyed a brief theatrical release in the states, drafting off the critical
attention given to his more sentimental (but also excellent) follow-up, Fireworks (Hana-bi), which saw arthouses first. It's
been marginalized in the years since, currently piggy-backing as a bonus
feature on the Zatoichi DVD, which is a little like tacking Francis Ford Coppola's The
Conversation onto
the Tucker: A Man And His Dream DVD. In any case, Sonatine may be the purest example of
Kitano's singularity as a cult filmmaker, a fresh take on the age-old yakuza
genre that's infused by odd flourishes of style and playfulness, and jarring
outbursts of humor and violence.
The story
is standard-issue yakuza stuff: Kitano plays Mr. Murakawa, an implacable Tokyo
gangster who has a reputation for running his turf profitably and coolly
dispatching anyone who gets in his way. Just when he's pondering retirement,
Murakawa's boss sends he and his clan on a new mission to Okinawa, where
they're to act as "peacekeepers" in a war between rival factions. Though he's
suspicious of the assignment, Murakawa dutifully follows orders and takes his
men to the islands; sure enough, attackers besiege their offices not long after
they arrive. Under cover of night, they retreat to a remote beachside residence
and bide their time while awaiting word from the Tokyo brass. And it's during
this limbo period—essentially the last two-thirds of the film, give or
take—that Sonatine wanders permanently off the genre trail.
One of the
questions Kitano asks is, "What do gangsters do when they're not shooting each
other?" The gangster genre is traditionally all about incident, about moving
the story forward like a steamroller, and scrapping any elements that don't pay
it service. Kitano wonders what goes on between the notes, when his yakuza
thugs are removed from all that plotting and shooting, and have a little free
time on their hands. (Hence the Tarantino connection, given how the gangsters
in Reservoir Dogs
and Pulp Fiction
discuss the finer points of Madonna's "Like A Virgin" and McDonald's burgers in
France.) As Murakawa and his clan hang out on the beach, waiting for what's
certain to be discouraging news about their future, you'd think this stretch of
time would be pregnant with tension. Instead, they revert to infectious,
childlike behavior, as if tacitly acknowledging that their sojourn on Okinawa's
beautiful beaches may be their last days in the sun.
Many of
Kitano's movies feature some playtime, but unlike something like his sickly
sweet 1999 road comedy Kikujiro, Sonatine's dark yakuza-movie underpinnings rescue it from being
overly cute. It also helps that the games are charmingly whimsical: Sumo
wrestling matches created first from paper cut-outs and then on a life-size
circle on the beach; skeet-shooting contests with a Frisbee and a handgun; homemade
traps built from giant holes carved out in the sand; a mock gangland shootout
staged with fireworks and cardboard shields. And all of it under brilliant blue
skies and a backdrop that's endless ocean on one side and rolling hills on the
other. Suddenly, in the middle of a gangster movie, Kitano has transported the
audience to a dreamlike idyll.
It's not
all fun and games, of course. Having a yakuza clan goof off wouldn't be nearly
as effective if Kitano didn't occasionally puncture the action with violence
and a nihilistic streak that creeps into the final third. The different tones
meld in this incredible scene, where Murakawa entertains two of his underlings
with a game of Russian Roulette that's simultaneously silly and unnerving:
Kitano
loves to keep the audience off-balance by keeping one mood just a cut away from
another: In Fireworks, for example, Kitano shares some laughs over drinks with his cop
buddies in one scene, then in the next, he's jamming a pair of chopsticks into
a gangster's eye. Serenity and violence co-exist uneasily in Sonatine, too, a reminder that death is always
right around the corner—abrupt, unexpected, and certain. There's a countless
accumulation of bodies in Sonatine, but none of the killings come via the slo-mo, protracted
shootouts familiar to fans of Hong Kong or Hollywood action films. Save for the
big finale, which still yields next to nothing in terms of scene-setting, the
violence often comes on the heels of relative tranquility, like a shot out of
the blue. Kitano isn't into big speeches or torturous build-up; he just fires
away. In this NSFW clip, he confines a bloody shootout to the space of a crowded
elevator:
As scenes
like that demonstrate, nobody shoots a movie quite like Kitano, who came to
cinema as a total novice and emerged as a kind of savant. He breaks all the
rules of conventional filmmaking: He doesn't care much about establishing basic
spatial relationships, his shots don't always go together, and his framing is
often static and blank. But there's a strange magic in the way his movies are
pieced together, owing to the combination of silent, Buster Keaton-like comedy
and the tender soul of Joe Hisaishi's music, the mix of suggestive off-screen
violence and on-screen violence that has the unreal quality of conceptual art,
and the way space is established through a series of cuts that would seem to
have no business with each other. Kitano's one of the those filmmakers whose
on-screen credits are superfluous; even if he didn't appear front-and-center in
most of his movies, it's pretty obvious who directed them.
Sonatine ends on a note of grim certainty,
which comes as a bit of a shock after the events that preceded it. Murakawa,
having just blasted his way through the waves of yakuza men protecting his
boss, would seem to be in the clear, and he retreats again to the idyll of
Okinawa. But he seems to know what Ray Winstone discovered in last week's
entry, Sexy Beast:
There's no retiring from a life of crime. And no redemption forthcoming,
either. Death is an inevitability that Murakawa chooses to embrace, and that he
gets to perish by his own hand, on his own terms, is the closest thing to a
silver lining that a nihilist like Kitano deigns to allow.
Coming
Up:
Next
week: Gremlins 2: A New Batch
August
28: Lars Von Trier's The Kingdom
September
4: American Movie: The Making Of Northwestern
September
11: hiatus (Toronto Film Festival)