The Eigakan

Shiroi Kyotō, 1966

Warning: The Following review is filled with unintentional puns.

Novelist Yamazaki Toyoko’s 1966 Shiroi Kyotō is one of the most reworked stories in Japanese cinema and television history, having enjoyed no less than four subsequent productions in its home country, whilst more recently crossing over into Taiwanese and Korean territories. Yamamoto Satsuo’s The Great White Tower has the obvious distinction of being the first cinematic treatment of Toyoko’s work; released in the same year as the author’s publication, it went on to sweep up at various Japanese award ceremonies, its legacy a seemingly unstoppable one.

The story concerns a top surgeon named Goro Zaizen (Tamiya Jiro), who specialises in pancreatic cancer treatment at the Naniwa University, and who is currently an assistant professor under the wing of First Surgical Dept. Professor Azuma (Eijiro Tono). Azuma is due to retire in a month or so’s time and he needs to begin preparations for someone to succeed him. The most obvious choice is Zaizen, but he’s concerned about the surgeon’s wildly inflated ego and the need to further his own status at the expense of running high risk operations amongst his patients. Azuma decides that he’ll take the matter further. Meeting with First Internal Medicine Professor Ugai (Eitaro Ozawa) they discuss other options and decide that it might be best to involve other medical associations across Japan and thus stage a national election process that will involve sixteen specially selected candidates. When Zaizen gets wind of this he tries to usurp proceedings and gain the upper hand, resorting to any means necessary in order to secure his place as Professor. Meanwhile his former classmate Satomi (Takahiro Tamura) is concerned that Zaizen is neglecting his patients. When a patient of Zaizen’s become sick directly after surgery Satomi recommends that Zaizen re-diagnoses him as there could be an underlying problem he missed. Stubbornness gets the better of Zaizen, who considers his every decision to be 100% right, but when his patient dies he soon faces a law suit accusing him of malpractice.

The Great White Tower is a slow and stirring medical drama/satire about democracy, inflated egos and gunning for status in the competitive field of medicine. It’s an examination carried out with sharp precision as it explores the dark underside of human determination and the acts that a single man – or to a greater extent an established council – will go to in order to maintain a perfect reputation. A multi-faceted piece of work, director Yamamoto painstakingly sees to it that every ounce of his characters are bled dry in highlighting nefarious schemes, from eliciting acts of bribery to vote rigging and back-stabbing, without a single thought of integrity from anyone, save for the film’s main anchor Satomi – the only voice of concern and the only soul whom we have any reason to champion. Yamamoto aptly paints Japan as a society in need of change, where old school factions face imperative disbandment to make way for fresh young blood; those who will dictate future decades of research development and cutting edge techniques. With all of this the director makes his statements clear, undoubtedly touching nerves along the way. It’s ultimately a cynical portrayal of a government gone mad and it never ceases up for a single moment. It’s depressing, shrugging the cold shoulder and leaving nothing by the way of hope; a vicious attack on corporate greed and consumption, where scruples are thrown out the window and money does all the talking. Yamamoto’s film isn’t just a product of its time, then, forty years on there’s still a tremendous amount of relevance to be had – and that’s quite a scary thought. It’s No wonder that every so often it gets reinvented for a new generation.

And it’s all done with such grand conviction, featuring an ensemble who play no small part in realising the severity of the situation. While the cast is excellent across the board, core to the films’ success is Tamiya Jiro and Takahiro Tamura, who deliver two outstanding performances as practitioners who are complete polar opposites of one another. Goro Zaizen and Satomi Shuji are clear representations of the morals and corruption that make up the society in question: Zaizen is ruthless and egotistical, driven by blind ambition, which is enough to see him overlook the more important aspects of his job, while Satomi is simply integrity and honesty in its purest form. And indeed Yamamoto takes these characters and sets up a cruel game, whereby the antagonist Zaizen – who in fact leads throughout most of the picture – triumphs in the face danger, brought on by massive media exposure. It leaves a cold taste in the mouth, a frustrating denouement that only reinforces our worst fears.

All of this is fine to an extent. With no redeeming outcome other than having the ability to stick it to the man and tell us how politics is: that the justice system and certain medical ethics suck in equal measure, The Great White Tower has very little else to say. That in itself may seem adequate enough and indeed it makes its point loud and clear but it takes a laboured two and half hours to do so. It certainly demands viewer patience, particularly when Yamamoto spends copious amounts of time with no less than fifteen participants who debate the rights and wrongs of the entire selection process, not to mention the final thirty minutes which takes place entirely in a court room. He occasionally injects some more subtle commentaries into the fold, such as family status and marrying into specific classes, much to the angst of Azuma’s daughter Saeko (Shiho Fujimura) in this case; additionally showing the care free nature of Zaizen’s infidelity, while never focusing a great deal on his home life, which is most odd considering Zaizen’s mistress (Mayumi Ogawa) Keiko gets an awful lot of screen time. The direction, however, is confident, relying most of the time on steady master shots, which neatly capture the intimate conversations littered throughout, whilst also conveying the film’s ominous tone with Sei Ikeno’s occasionally over the top “dun dun dun” score. At other times there’s no holding back during the editing process: there are several instances in which real operations are shown to be taking place, alongside shots of the actors hard at work, proving to be a tad yucky in their detail but adding that much needed sense of authenticity. A dark sense of irony also underlines the picture; considering that the film deals primarily with cancer research it’s interesting to note that half the doctors in attendance smoke like chimneys! Oh, how times change.

Chō Inran: Yareba Yaruhodo Iikimoch, 2008

Lying on his deathbed, Takashima’s (Koji Makamura) life is about to flash before his eyes. Confronting a mysterious young woman (Yuria Hidaka) at a lonely beach, who responds only with “Eiga” when asked of her name, he is soon whisked away to recount a life spent dreaming of making the best movies he could, as key fragments from his youth and adulthood mark the development of his tremulous journey toward defining his career.

The Muse’s opening title proudly proclaims that we are now watching the 100th film from industry veteran Yutaka Ikejima. Twenty-three years since making his directorial debut for theatres (he was acting as early as 1981 and subsequently produced adult videos), his contribution to Japanese cinema, in general, has been nothing short of outstanding. The Pink Grand Prix acknowledged the importance of this feat by honouring him in 2008, an accolade which was further sweetened with The Muse taking the Best Film prize, Best Screenplay for Daisuke Goto, Best Score for Hitomi Oba and Best Actress for Riri Koda and Yuria Hidaka.

Filmmaking is a fascinating process and one that’s perhaps easily taken for granted by many audiences. Throughout the years, documentation on the trials and tribulations of getting from page to screen have provided riveting insights into the dizzying heights and spectacular pitfalls faced by director and crew. Some artists have found alternative ways to express the hardships of realizing their vision, notably via the Metafilm approach; dating as far back as the forties, though arguably popularized decades later, with seminal contributions from directors like Jean-Luc Godard and Francois Truffaut, it’s a technique that has become all-too-prevalent today.

In the pink industry, writers and directors continually seek new ways to challenge genre rulings: providing a set quota of sex scenes and completing shoots on a minimal budget within the space of a week, they are otherwise given free artistic reign to explore whatever their minds can conjure up. It’s a commendable system, which welcomes diversity, although like any other tests the will of those who choose to base their livelihoods around it. An indebted Ikejima and Goto seek to find their own Anna Karina in Shintoho’s The Muse; a film about filmmaking that’s unlikely to ever be held in the same kind of esteem as those seen from the French New Wave pioneers, but one that’s no less heartfelt in a rapidly moving industry that remains strict and arduous.

It’s with pathos, then, that the words of Samuel Fuller and Eric Rohmer bookend Ikejima’s milestone feature, the significance of their philosophies not only being integral to the art of filmmaking itself but so too their influence on the director’s approach in putting together what is undoubtedly one of his most personal works to date. After all, how does a man act in over five-hundred movies, direct over one-hundred of them and still find inspiration today? The pairing of he and Daisuke Goto is a solid one, as Goto’s screenplay marks an important journey of discovery, neatly matched by a pacey sense of direction which takes the viewer through a series of vignette-like sequences.

Pooling his resources as one of the pink film industry’s leading spokesmen, Ikejima surrounds himself with a string of talent, placing onscreen other well-established, creative figures in the field, who add authenticity to his vision by re-enacting a typical day’s shoot on actual ADR and editing stages. Although such moments are marginal, given the feature’s commitments to other areas – some creatively filmed sex scenes, which often work tremendously well as scenes within scenes – these provide some of its more amusing pieces, from the post-dubbing of grunts and moans to tempers flying on set as actors struggle to convey their emotions for the benefit of delivering a titillating encounter.

Such insights into the daunting task of making movies to entertain are bolstered by an overarching study on the value of one’s self. The non-linear structure of Daisuke Goto’s reflective script effectively illustrates the continual search for inspiration, as repeated in the referencing of Godot, as a young Takashima searches for his ideal muse. The women who enter his life provide him with fleeting moments of creativity, only for him to discard their feelings and needs in the pursuit of cinematic perfection. Koji Makimura and Naoyuki Chiba excel in their roles as the conflicted artist, remaining wholly likable in the selling of the life of a man filled with selfishness, frustration, and regret, who didn’t realize his own worth until the very end. Co-stars Riri Koda, Erina Aoyama and Yuria Hidaka also startle with their natural performances, which is high even for pink standards.

Fellini once said, “You only exist in what you do”. It’s in how we craft what we want to say that’s more important than the inspiration which fuels creativity itself. Yutaka Ikejima has arrived at that crossroad it seems. The Muse isn’t just a great pink film, it’s a poetically played introspection, which deals with the concept of artistic integrity and our continual pursuit in finding answers to life’s meaning. Regardless of its roots, it certainly deserves to go down as one of the most life-affirming pieces put to film.

Nora-neko rock, 1970-1971

By 1970, Japan’s major film studios were undergoing a severe crisis as television viewership had begun to far outweigh that of cinema attendances, while films that did perform well theatrically happened to be Hollywood efforts. To combat this unforeseen shift, studios such as Toho, Daiei and Nikkatsu began to rethink the way in which they handled film production; Nikkatsu’s ‘New Action’ films, aimed at the youth market, which had dominated much of the 60s, needed a serious shakeup, which they felt equated to adding more violence and sex in an effort to bring back audiences and speak to a disillusioned generation now caught up in revolutionary idealism.

That shakeup would come in the form of the Stray Cat Rock series, made between 1970-1971, itself inspired by the success of Toei’s Delinquent Girl Boss features, which had themselves taken inspiration from Roger Corman’s The Wild Angels, released in ’66. With Nikkatsu continuing to lose money, they drastically altered their financing, lowering their budgets and allowing for their directors to have complete creative control in exchange for quick turnarounds and meeting specific requirements. The task fell to directors Yasuharu Hasebe and Toshiya Fujita. Between them they made five films: a collection of socio-political tales, which featured disheartened youngsters at their core, with the looming presence of the U.S. military in the backdrop. They were defiant to the last reel, but ultimately they signalled a Death knell for Nikkatsu, who by the end of 1971 ceased production on action films and turned their attention elsewhere.

As part of Nikkatsu’s ‘New Action’ line-up, the Stray Cat Rock series was originally pitched to the studio by talent company Horipro, as a collection of films that were to follow a delinquent biker girl, who travels from town to town helping others like her in need. That role fell to rising Korean-Japanese star Akiko Wada: a former delinquent herself from the streets of Osaka, now under management by Horipro.

In Yasuharu Hasebe’s Delinquent Girl Boss, Wada plays Ako: a no-nonsense gal who soon rushes to the aid of girl gang ’The Stray Cats’, led by Meiko Kaji’s character, Mei, when they’re threatened by local gang ‘The Black Shirts’, under the direction of Katsuya (Tatsuya Fuji). Meanwhile, Mei’s boyfriend, Michio (Koji Wada), has big dreams of joining the fascist Seiyu Group, but in order to do so must convince his best friend – and now pro-boxer – Kelly (Ken Sanders) to throw a boxing match. When it all goes pear-shaped, Michio’s life hangs in the balance, with Kaji and her crew left to race to his aid.

If Delinquent Girl Boss is thin on actual narrative it certainly does well to encapsulate the desperation of its period with a lively swagger. Hasebe’s desire to showcase a feature that comments on a society which infringes upon youthful idealism, affords a great deal of scope in terms of its changing environment. As a city on the cusp of being a world economic powerhouse, the director’s sense of pacing and enthusiasm for directing action from down and dirty viewpoints ends up being both vigilant and immersive. While its social observations come across as being stitched together, with little exploration between, they nonetheless serve as interesting insights into a decade fuelled by protests, ignorance and major social change. And, in a bid to sex things up as per Nikkatsu’s intentions, it also indulges in a little bit of taboo with its homosexual undercurrents; Ako’s overly touchy fondness for female companionship raises questions that it never quite answers – an obtuse quality which only further goes to provide an extra bit of edge to a film which means to end as abruptly as it begins.

It stands to reason, then, that Hasebe would choose to incorporate other voices in the film, designed to appeal to its target audience. With appearances by not only Akiko Wada – who contributes a couple of songs on stage – but also The Mops, Olive, Andre Candre (the stage name of Yosui Inoue) and Ox, Delinquent Girl Boss’s energy is boundless, ensuring a healthy supply of funk and doo-wop beats, which do well to underline its otherwise serious subject matter and carry the message, much like the town’s slogan, that “Everybody can live free”.

By the time Wild Jumbo went into production, however, Akiko Wada had become a pop sensation, scoring multiple hit releases and appearing across national media. With Nikkatsu having considerably cut their budgets and shooting schedules, Wada was ultimately forced to bow out early, and make way for her previous co-star, Meiko Kaji, to take over the reigns.

As such, Wada appears only in re-used footage from Delinquent Girl Boss during its opening set-up, which goes on to tell of a group of young ruffians calling themselves ‘The Pelican Club’ (Kaji, Tatsuya Fuji, Ox vocalist Yusuke Natsu, Takeo Chii and Soichiro Maeno), who cross paths with a beautiful, upper class woman named Asako (Bunjaku Han) and discover that she’s a mistress to the leader of a religious cult known as the Seikyo Society. With the help of Asako, The Pelican gang plan to rob funds from the Seikyo, with their newly acquired arsenal of WWII guns, dug up from a local school ground!

Toshiya Fujita helms Wild Jumbo in a manner that separates it almost abstractly from that of the first feature, harbouring a bevy of subliminal and cartoonish edits and a wildly fluctuating tone that sees it go from bumbling, frat-style comedy to heist thriller. In contrast to Delinquent Girl Boss its look at social standings perhaps resonates on a greater scale with regards to youthful radicalism, particularly as for the majority of its run time we witness the sprightly Pelican Gang run amok throughout various towns, doing little more than upsetting the locals by being a bit noisy and running into rival gang the Seibukai (made up of rich-kid wannabe gangsters), while a ludicrously infectious score by Yoshio Saito plucks away in the background. On opposite sides of the spectrum, the film’s new religious movement backdrop provides a monetary concern. It’s certainly the black sheep of the five films in the series, entirely unhinged and vignette-like in its presentation that you’d be hard pressed to believe that this was anything but outtakes from the previous production; a largely improvised turn of sorts, riffing on Taiyo-zoku and Boso-zoku (youth tribes) culture, masking an otherwise anaemic plot. And just when you think that these kids will happily drive off into the sunset to harass another day, things take a crushing turn as the climax rears its head, basically reminding us that sticking it to the man doesn’t always prove to be fruitful, and reinforcing the idea that our protagonists in this series don’t really deserve the peaceful resolutions that we might otherwise ordinarily seek.

By the time of Wild Jumbo’s release, Meiko Kaji had become a more prominent presence in the series, though still her role was fairly inconsequential to overall plot developments. She’d already proven her acting chops in the likes of Teruo Ishii’s Blind Woman’s Curse in 1970 and in Stray Cat Rock it appeared as if producers were still trying to figure out what to do with her. By the third film, Sex Hunter, Kaji is front and centre as its driving force, donning the famed black, panama-style hat and funky getup that spilled over into the subsequent Female Prisoner Sasori flicks and cemented Kaji as a fashion icon not to be trifled with.

Keeping within its desire to establish common social themes in the series, racial tensions form the backbone of Sex Hunter, as Mako (Meiko Kaji) and her girls come to blows with the male-dominated Eagle gang, led by Baron (Tatsuya Fuji), when Stray Cat member Mari chooses the affection of the half-cast Ichiro, above that of Eagle member Susumu (Jiro Okazaki). This move doesn’t gone down well with Baron, whose distinct memories of his sister being raped by a gang of “Half-breeds”, leads him to go on a vendetta to hunt down every mixed-race member of the town’s population. Soon a stranger by the name of Kazuma (Rikiya Yasuoka) wanders into town, searching for his long-lost sister, whom he believes to be part of Mako’s outfit. When Mako herself falls for Kazuma, Baron is sent into fits upon learning of the man’s mixed-race heritage.

With Yasuharu Hasebe back in the directors seat, Sex Hunter immediately benefits from having not only a tighter narrative and visual elegance, but so too in supplying one of the more serious underlying issues in the series – that of cultural identity, as it brings to the fore Western intrusion and Japanese acclimatisation. Much of this is centred on the plight of Tatsuya Fuji’s Baron, who has an unhealthy obsession with systematically wiping out mixed-raced folk in fear of a seemingly unstoppable Western threat; a long-held resentment spurred on by a terrible memory. Juxtaposing the reality of recently settled Army bases, Baron’s exclamation of being at war himself with the “Half-breeds” creates a manner of implications which are deservedly questioned throughout the feature, creating a paradox worthy of note. It’s no fluke that Sex Hunter sticks to its guns here, and much like the musical accompaniments prior, which complimented themes with like-minded lyricism, the inclusion of female pop group Golden Half – who themselves were comprised of mixed-race members – provides a level of keen observation, with a very clear intent to fashion a more positive reaction; amusingly, the club at which they play states at the door “Japanese people welcome too”, typifying the sense of boiling pressure faced by a young generation still recovering from fierce conflict and uncertain as to where their future lies.

Hasebe directs all of this with the same flair seen in Delinquent Girl Boss, using voyeuristic framing devices, whilst adopting some overseas influence to paint scenes as if a western was playing out before our very eyes, replete with an utterly miserable and futile denouement. Perhaps the most deliberate and assured film of the bunch, however.

By this point, if you’re feeling that everything has become a bit of a blur, with converging plot threads and the same returning cast members, you’d be forgiven for wondering just what the hell is going on. In fact, the fourth feature in the series, Machine Animal, is a quite potent mixture of elements from Delinquent Girl Boss and Sex Hunter, bolstered by a tale which partially examines the volatile relationship between Japan and the U.S. in the midst of the Vietnam conflict.

It tells the struggle of three men: Nobo (Tatsuya Fuji), Sabu (Jiro Okazaki) and Vietnam deserter Charlie (Toshiya Yamano), who are seeking a boat out of Japan to Sweden. They have on hand 500 capsules of LSD, which they try to peddle at a local club, not knowing that it’s already rife with gang activity. When they cross paths with – yet another – Stray Cat girl-gang, led by Maya (Meiko Kaji) they soon find themselves in a hopeless situation when the drugs are stolen. Now they have Maya’s girls to deal with, along with rivals The Dragon Gang, led by Sakura (Eiji Go) and a more villainous Bunjaku Han.

With its elements of racial concerns, Machine Animal is a fairly satisfying extension of Sex Hunter’s themes, pitting its protagonists at the heart of political unrest, with issues of drug abuse and anti-war protesting. With student movements ever present and cultural confusions setting deeper, it’s anarchic tone seems well realised from director Hasebe, who helms his final picture in the series. Here he establishes a desperate tone as our three leads hope to flee a homeland that they feel is now lost to them – a commentary entirely justified given the timing of its release, and one which is fairly delicately handled in its refusal to overly dwell on things and just get downright silly with its back and forth drug and hostage capers and lengthy but fun motorcycle sequences; the latter, which includes Kaji exclaiming the best line of the entire series “Shit! We need Hondas!”, provides perhaps the greatest endorsement for a product ever committed to celluloid. It also has the least amount of on-screen deaths by its conclusion, so that’s something…

What makes Machine Animal rise above some minor failings is that its primary cast members are given an interesting re-shuffle. While Kaji appears in a token role by this point, it’s refreshing to see Tatsuya Fuji taken on a more sympathetic character in Nobo – a self-appointed named derived from “Nobody” – while Bunjaku Han goes against type. Equally Hasebe throws in more experimental camera trickery, sometimes without rhyme or reason, whilst we get plenty more musical interludes to provide momentary relief from several chaotic situations.

With Toshiya Fujita returning to direct the final film in the series, Beat ’71, things take a predominantly reflective turn as a close-knit band of hippies go from aimless wanderers to rescue crew.

The film begins with Furiko (Meiko Kaji) and Ryumei (Takeo Chii) fooling about in the grass, when suddenly they’re interrupted by a biker bang, led by Piranha (Yoshio Harada), who informs them that they’re there to take Ryumei (who has re-named himself from Tadaaki) back to his family. When a fight ensues, Ryumei stabs and kills one of his attackers (Sex Hunter star Rikiya Yasuoka), before he’s knocked out cold, at which point he’s taken away by an elderly gentleman  and Piranha – after punching out Furiko – places the murder weapon in her hands, thus framing her and having her sent to prison. Two months later, she makes her escape with her sister Aya (Yuka Kumari); Furiko goes after Ryumei, while Aya heads back to the hippie commune. However, Furiko is soon kidnapped by her boyfriend’s Father, Mayor Araki (Yoshio Inaba), who is up for re-election and can’t afford to have Furiko spread vile accusations. Upon learning of this, Furiko’s band of friends elect to ride into the countryside town of Kurumi, with a newly adopted child in tow, in a bid to save her and restore order to their idyllic kingdom.

Unsurprisingly, Fujita’s Beat ’71 follows a similar pattern to that of Wild Jumbo, with its tale of serious implications: fuelled by Japanese political events but largely sidelined with frivolous vignettes of hippies riding on a five-seater tandem, enjoying the highs and entertaining lifestyle reporters for quick cash. Once again, Fujita uses humour as much as possible, be it through topics of conversation, musical accompaniments (look out for Monkey! star Masaaki Sakai, then at the height of his Spiders fame, spontaneously appear) our gang of misfits entering the town of Kurumi and providing a huge culture shock to its elderly residents. There’s even an impromptu moment involving the appearance of The Mops once again, who proceed to sing their song “Iijanaika”, the title itself roughly translating under context to “Let it be”/“Who cares?” (and a term often used in political protest) suggesting either passiveness or defiance to an inevitable change. This notion, coupled with the gang’s sense of idealism, leads toward a darker turn of events involving patriarchal jabs; Araki and his son’s volatile relationship ultimately plays out well against the adopted family aspect of the former, which does a fine job in delivering its message of what true family means. As the scene inevitably shifts to an abandoned Taijin mine, located beside an old Wild West theme attraction, the destruction invariably ramps up as our hippies face off against corrupt police officers and yakuza, culminating in them saving the day and riding off into that old sunset…

…Of course they don’t, let’s not get carried away here.

Amidst all of this, Meiko Kaji is notably absent, though not entirely missed. Much of this is down to the pleasant performances of the central group and plenty of diverting scenery to help ease the amount of cynicism coursing throughout.

Marking the end of the series, Beat ’71 is by no means perfect, but it does signal a major shift from Nikkatsu, who having found difficulty in restructuring their company, coupled with the box office failure of Sex Hunter, Machine Animal and Beat ’71, turned to new enterprises with the focus on financing Roman Porno productions. Nevertheless, the Stray Cat Rock collection proves to be an important and invaluable part of cinema history, documenting an increasingly turbulent period in post-war Japan. It attempted to speak to a young audience, on their terms, but seemingly failed to provide any worthwhile answers. The end of an era for sure, but a precursor to another decade of historical significance.