Murder in Mind

Cure (Kiyoshi Kurosawa, 1997)

The success of Jonathan Demme's The Silence of the Lambs (1991) set off a particular wave of psychological crime thrillers in the Nineties. The protagonists were often characterised with a mental hang up, such as a crippling trauma which needed to be overcome in order to finally take down the film's monstrous antagonist. These films were less action orientated and more adjacent to the horror genre. A major selling point was the killer's twisted methodology and his grotesque crimes. Kiyoshi Kurosawa's slow burner Cure (1997) is a stellar entry in this scene. The selling point being the killer supplanting  murder into the mind of others via his power of suggestion.

Tokyo detective Kenichi Takabe (Kōji Hashimoto) is tasked with investigating a string of murders which have plagued the city. The crimes are perpetrated by seemingly random people, who subsequently slash the carotid arteries, leaving a carved ‘X' on the victims’ necks. These actions are barely remembered by their assailants after they're caught. With the aid of Shin Sakuma (Tsuyoshi Ujiki), a hospital psychiatrist, the investigative pair make some headway discovering the random killings are brought upon by a hypnotist. The cool and calm Takabe also has to deal with his wife Fumie (Anna Nagakawa) succumbing to a deteriorating mental disorder. Both the case and his wife's illness are taking an immense toll on the detective.

As for Cure's heinous antagonist, Kunio Mamiya (Hasato Hagiwara), the dishevelled and mousy looking individual is introduced early in the film. A lost man on the beach, appearing to be suffering from amnesia when meeting his latest victim. With the aid of his lighter or spilt water, the drop out psychology student manages to hypnotise his prey before moving on. Thus, turning these random individuals who have had the misfortune in conversing with him into unwitting killers.

Despite some bloody scenes, Cure doesn't focus too long on the killings. Instead, it's the disturbing and uneasy build-up to these crimes which Kurosawa excels in capturing on film. One scene in particular, set outside a police box, shows the chilling act of a police officer gunning down his colleague so matter of factly. This is all filmed in daylight with one fixed point of view from a medium distance. The affect of which makes the whole scenario all the more disturbing, as it looks so mundane.

Cure possesses heaps of foreboding atmosphere thanks to an excellent combination of Tokushô Kikumura's gloomy and distant cinematography and a sound department able to make the drone of a tumble dryer sound oppressively frightening. Although preceding the J-horror boom by a couple of years, Cure's palpable atmosphere and pallid colour palette are arguably influential to the scene. The dark and flat visuals are pitch perfect with its subject matter. The production design of the various interior locations range from squalid, to urban hellholes. Thus, Cure shares some obvious common elements with David Fincher's Se7en (1995) not only with its premise.

Kurosawa has a great handle on showcasing Mamiya's power over others, not just with his hypnotic powers. The diminutive amnesiac can command a room with his sheer presence. A great example is the power struggle between him and Takabe in a darkly lit hospital room. During their scene, the antagonist manages to turn the tables as to has the greatest stature and command of the room. The camera composition frames the detective as the sick patient, while Mamiya slyly becomes the authoritarian figure.

Kind of shocked that Kiyoshi Kurosawa, a director associated with churning out low budget V-Cinema (Japan's straight-to-video) films like Door III (1996), managed to craft a gem of a cinematic thriller somewhere in between. Cure would be his belated break out success in international circles. The director would subsequently deliver the acclaimed, apocalyptic J-horror Pulse (2001), containing a similar look and under your skin vibe to Cure. A good film, but it's not one that I rate as highly compared to Cure; malevolent spirts from the internet don't exactly have the same impact for me as a serial killer Kenny Craig supplanting murderous thoughts into people's minds.

Embarrassed to admit that Cure is a new discovery for me. It's the type of psychological thriller that develops in a rich and intelligent fashion, without unfolding like some hackneyed police procedural which is so common today. A slow burn shocker that's so palpable, that it lingers on well after the closing credits; especially after that final scene. If you've seen it, then you know what I'm referring to. 

Highly recommended.

There's Somebody at the Door

Door (Banmei Takahashi, 1988)

Like politicians and Piers Morgan, you can add cold callers and door-to-door salesmen to the list of awful people who ought to be publicly flogged. Banmei Takahashi's 1988 psychological thriller, Door AKA Doa in Japan and Essex, does little to dissuade this personal opinion.

Yasuko Honda (Keiko Takahashi - Banmei's other half) is a young, yuppie housewife living in an apartment block, faced with daily harrassment by aggressive traders. Door is fundamentally a stalker thriller; a popular theme for its time. However, Door possesses idiosyncratic features which distinguishes it from its peers. As far as Japanese thrillers go, there's a distinct European aesthetic; Yasuko's appartment is decorated with western style art and sculptures such as Greek statues. Its cinematography, courtesy of Yasushi Sasakibara, lends a distinctive De Palma/Argento flavour to it, too.

Yasuko falls victim to the wrath of one particular pushy door-to-door salesman who crosses the line by trying to barge his way into her home. Instinctively, Yasuko slams the door and injures the hand of  Yamakawa (Daijirô Tsutsumi). Feeling insulted and sexually motivated, our antagonist launches an epic campaign of harrassment against Yasuko. These actions result with scrawling obscenities on her front door, singing to her on the phone and leaving cum soaked tissues in her mailbox. Absolutely no chill.

Sound also plays a major part in the film. Takahashi incorporates it to reflect Yusuko’s isolation from the outside world. When she reports her disturbing experiences to a police officer, he responds in this weirdly distant voice, like the bad reception on a telephone. A clever way of exemplifying Yasuko's isolation from the world beyond her front door, in my opinion. There's also the incredibly catchy theme which becomes torturous the more times it's played in the film. Not sure whether that's intentional or not, but it does lend to the insanity of the film as it progresses.

The film employs a slow burn style for its first two acts before switching into fifth gear with its blood splattered pay-off. Here's where my biggest grievance of the film lies; Yasuko's sudden about turn to slasher character imbecile. She doesn't immediately leave the apartment with her son when an all important chance arises, nor does she even bother checking the premises before putting her son to bed. I suppose this dumb oversight does lead to the ensuing carnage. However, as great that is, it does tarnish my overall opinion of the film somewhat, as Door plays out as a smart thriller with its previous acts. Still, you can almost forgive it as it does lead to the incredible overhead chase sequence in Yasuko's maze-like apartment.

Copped the Third Window Films blu-ray of Door which also contains the sequel as a bonus feature; apparently, there are three films altogether. The first film is the only one directed by Banmei Takahashi. Considering how much I enjoyed it, I'm keen to check out his other films, but judging by the titles on IMDb they read like they're part of Randall's video tape orders in Clerks which is somewhat offputting. He helmed a lot of pinku (softcore) films back in the day.

Tokyo Story

Godzilla Minus One (Takashi Yamazaki, 2023)

How ironic is it that a Japanese creature feature, with a modest budget of approximately $15M, does a better job than Hollywood at pulling off a compelling human drama. Takashi Yamazaki's Godzilla Minus One (2023) is a superbly faithful compliment to Ishirō Honda's original 1954 film, while convincingly serving as a modern update. It avoids making the same egregious errors of its American counterparts. Valuable screen time is not wasted on a distracting subplot or annoying characters; nor does it shroud the titular character from its full glory until the climactic finale. There are no nudging winks to some of the ridiculous past films. Godzilla Minus One takes its concept seriously; it is a film that both understands its namesake and respects its audience’s intelligence.

Set during the final days of World War II, Koichi Shikishima (Ryunosuke Kamiki), a cowardly kamikaze pilot, feigns engine problems with his plane and makes a makeshift pit-stop on a Pacific island. His failure to perform his duty leads to his first experience with the titular dinosaur (but much smaller due to it not being exposed to any atomic bomb testing yet) at a naval garrison on the remote island. This event leads to Shikishima's cowardice rearing itself once more, as he fails to open fire with his plane's guns during the Godzilla's rampage of the garrison.

Shikishima's encounter with Godzilla leads to him returning to his home city of Tokyo, where like everyone else, he must rebuild his life amid the ruins. From the rubble of a post-war city, this leads to him being thrust with a makeshift family; a destitute young woman and an orphaned baby girl. While Japan gradually rebuilds itself and Shikishima finds dangerous employment shooting sea mines, the atomically grown Godzilla unleashes death and destruction upon Tokyo. The tremendous sense of scale of this creature is amazingly brought to life in the film. The catastrophic attack; particularly from its nuclear heat ray, is spectacular. 

Godzilla Minus One perfectly crams Shikishima's redemption tale without suffocating the life of the film. A redemptive storyline interwoven alongside themes dealing with national pride, family and healing, mark it as a surprisingly philanthropic film.

The film is a celebration of the human spirit; a shining, positive light during Japan's darkest period. Witnessing the ensemble cast form such strong bonds with one another after such a historical low point that's made even worse with a monumental assault by Godzilla, makes the film feel all the more rousing once our characters get working together. There is no foreign aid for Japan; it must fend for itself against the towering creature. Courage and ingenuity are what our heroes (big fan of the eccentric Japanese scientist with the Taika Waititi hairdo) have left to vanquish the creature; resulting with a spectacular final battle.

Lastly, composer Naoki Sato's score is fantastic. Reincorporating Akira Ifukube's classic Godzilla suite and blending it with emotionally driven themes for its human characters, marks this return to Godzilla's roots all the more lovingly respectful. Honestly had to refrain myself from acting like a lunatic and leaping out of my seat, yelling "Get the fuck up! Simon says, 'Get the fuck up!'" whenever Godzilla's theme came on during my screening.

One of the best films of 2023.

Minus One + 14 = Unlucky for Some

Some old crooner once sang about this being the most wonderful time of the year; I vehemently disagree. This isn't a rant about the woes related to the festive period, but a simple question from an aging film junkie: why is Godzilla Minus One (2023) being released in the UK a fortnight after countries like Tajikstan and Uzbekistan?

A two week wait might not be a big deal to some, but juggling the chance of catching a niche movie* with limited screenings (based on my local theatre's dates) during the annual Christmas rush is a mission and a half for folks like me this time of the year.

Truth be told, I'm a King Kong man myself, but the chance of rounding off a disappointing film year with what potentially could be a final act of redemption for 2023 has me attracted to the film like a Mothra to a flame.

* Kaiju movie or not, if it's a foreign film with English subtitles, then it's niche according to my local multiplex.

Profondo Rosa

Maniac Driver (Kurando Mitsutake, 2020)

Whenenver a modern film cites itself as a "giallo" or "neo-giallo", more often than not, it's anything but one. These loose descriptive terms tend to apply to a colourful visual style which was prominent during the heyday of Italian thrillers. The structures and conventions of the giallo are often missing when throwback films started becoming the vogue from the late 2000s. Therefore, it's no surprise whenever cinephiles with a deep misconception of what the genre is spew mistaken precoceptions of what the genre consists of. Hence, it comes as no surprise when a film parody like The Editor (2014) mocks the giallo and reveals little comprehension of it, or awful click-bait lists by the BFI on great neo-gialli which comes across as rather ignorant.

Kurando Mitsutake's genre mash-up Maniac Driver (2020), which touts itself as a giallo, is a valiant stab at it, event though it's prominently inspired by both William Lustig's Maniac (1980) and Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver (1976). Those films are anything but gialli. Originally intended as a pinku-eiga film, Mitsutake opted for Argento-esque eye candy to go with the allure of Japanese AV actresses getting they're kit off. The end result is a film which consists of lurid, softcore sex scenes and technicolour Italian splatter. Personally, this pushes the right buttons for film degenerate like myself. That's due to it capturing the salacious exploitation and mean spiritism which was evident in various gialli and slashers from yesteryear. Factors which at the very least, bring a certain degree of autheticity when compared to the revisionist and venomless, retro throwbacks we've experienced in the 21st century. The inspiration just doesn't stop there, you can spot the obvious references to Lucio Fulci's gut vomiting scene from City of the Living Dead (1980), along with obvious homages to Taxi Driver.

Perhaps the biggest fault the film suffers from are the undercooked sub-plots. I wouldn't have known about Iori Kagawa, the film's heroine, having a boyfriend betraying her to some weird cult until Mitsutake mentioned it on the film's audio commentary. Having said that, I did enjoy the character study of the film lead are a bunch misanthropic, philosophical ramblings narrated by Tomoki Kimura, the film's lead, which smacks of nietzschean style humdingers like this:

"We like to be tied down and stripped of our freedom. Maybe this is the reason why we gravitate toward populists and fascists. Then self-destruct. It’s our fate." - Maniac Driver

The biggest highlight from Maniac Driver is its soundtrack. Moody synths which harken back to Claudio Simonetti and John Carpenter's eighties compositions, are another atmospheric layer to its retro appeal. Adding further to the mix is some melodic Japanese metal courtesy of Aiming High, which compliments some of the more intense scenes featured in the film. Hardly a novelty considering that's exactly what we got with Argento's Phenomena (1985), but it's a feature which  feels far better suited today on a low budget film rather than appearing at odds in one of Argento's celebrated efforts during his prime. Wish I copped the limited edition of the film when it was intially available as it came with a bonus CD soundtrack.

There's also the ending which would be a huge spoiler if discussed in real detail, but I found it reminscent of what the great giallo script writer Ernesto Gastaldi might have come up with. Then again, the film's title is a mash-up of Maniac and Taxi Driver, and therefore the ending should make perfect sense. It might realistically be a pinku-eiga film, first and foremost, but it does deliver the goods in what you might expect from an old school, giallo style slasher. LOL at the killer's laugh sounding like a kazoo, though. A worthwhile effort for a film made with little money and shot in just four and half days. Two thumbs up from me.

The Atrophy and the Ecstasy

Blind Beast (Yosuzô Masumura, 1969)

Cultural historians cite "the pill" as sparking off the sexual revolution, free love and drugged-up hippies; trends synonymous with the swinging sixties and early seventies. The world of film serves as a historical insight for those of us who weren't around in garnering some modest and skewered notion of what times were like back then. Judging by the works of notable erotic film directors like Walerian Borowczyk, Radley Metzger and Jesús Franco, I'm under the impression everyone was as it like rabbits. Japan was no different as the decade bore the Pink film, AKA Pinku eika.

Based upon Edogawa Rampo's 1931 novel, Moju: The Blind Beast, Yosuzô Masumura's Blind Beast is a perfect, yet disturbing example of this hedonistic period in film. More commonly labelled as an erotic horror, however, other than its finale, a more accurate description would be it's a psycho-sexual drama. In many ways, the film has a lot in common with William Wyler's obsessive tale The Collector (1965) and Pierro Schivazappa's battle of the sexes, The Laughing Woman (1969), AKA Femina Ridens, but it proceeds in its own unique direction once it reaches a pivotal juncture in the plot.

Aki is a beautiful model, who becomes the object of desire for Michio, the blind sculptor. The sightless virtuoso maybe a gifted artist, but, alas, not a pick-up artist. Conning his way as Aki's substitute masseur, he sweeps her off her feet via the aid of chloroform rather than chirpsing. Aidied by Michio's mother, Aki is kept prisoner in a dark studio decorated by various human body parts sculpted by Michio. Aki is forced to be her abducter's muse for his greatest sculpture. Thus, plenty of groping and fondelling ensues. Blind Beast chronicles Aki's eventual submission and love for Michio.

A compelling exhibition of Stockholm syndrome, where insanity and lust are in equal measure. Imprisoned for so long in her enclosure, Aki develops visusal atrophy and is left blind like her captor turned lover. The couple, addicted to each other's touching eventually become desensitised to this. Stronger displays of carnal affection manifest into S&M fetishism and even further extremes of sexual depravity, leading up to the film's show stopping finale.

Blind Beast is fairly minimalist; only three major characters and the majority of it is shot inside Michio's surreal looking studio. It's surprisingly well lit considering its gloomy location, and as already mentioned, a visual treat thanks to all the body parts adorning the walls. It makes for an unforgettable back drop in this macabre love tale. Its tone, along with the actors' performances are sincere and mature enough to never make the film appear salacious or truly exploitive. That might sound contradictive considering it falls under the pink film umbrella, but it equally crosses over into serious cinema territory to me. There's some telegraphed forshadowing which eventually comes to light for the film's unforgettable climax; a disturbing yet poetic bookend to the film, in my opinion.

Problematic by today's standards, Blind Beast is still a great film; which says a lot, since with the notable exception of Meiko Kaji's early run as Nami Matsushima in the Female Prisoner Scorpion franchise, the pinku eika I've sat through have been either dull or just down right nasty like the Entrails of a... films. Blind Beast is a rare winner in this category and makes me willing to give the genre another shot. 

We Are The Robots

Robotrix (Jamie Luk, 1991)

It goes without saying that both James Cameron's The Terminator (1984) and Paul Verhoeven's Robocop (1987) were hugely influential science-fiction films when they were released. Both of them spawned a slew of rip-off movies, including Jamie Luk's hybrid of the two, Robotrix (1991). An outrageous Catergory III co-production from Japan and Hong Kong, featuring Chikako Aoyama and buxom pin-up Amy Yip. Intentional or not, it's an aptly named movie considering the film's protagonist is a dead police officer brought back to life in a robotic body and is turning tricks.

 Always great when you find a diamond in the rough, but I can't honestly put my hand on my heart and say I'm a big fan of this film; it's largely a dull mess, and based on whatever information I could dig up regarding Robotrix's production, the cast had about as much idea with what was going on than I did. For me, the biggest cardinal sin a movie could commit is being boring. This is the major distinction I will make when defending far more notorious exploitation films, like Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS (1975) for example. At least there was never a dull moment in the stalag. There are a few eyebrow raising scenes lightly sprinkled here and there during its run time, but not enough to maintain my interest. Not even Amy Yip or the quarry fight scene could keep me interested.

 Robotrix (Quarry Fight scene)

(Jamie Luk, 1991)

The BBFC didn't pass this film for release until over seven minutes worth of cuts were made. Not to side with the bane of my youth, but I would have let Jamie Luk's problematic issues slide with no worries, if his film had a real sense of direction and offered a little something more than just sleaze.

File this in the "one man's trash is another man's treasure" section.

We'll Both Ride Home In My Automobile

Drive My Car (Ryûsuke Hamaguchi, 2021)

It's that time of the year when every blaggard sitting in front of a computer starts to compile their best of lists (including yours very soon), and sifting through Sight And Sound's Best Films of 2021 list of entries compiled by some of today's most pretentious film critics really does highlight the cultural barrier between the chin-strokers and the great unwashed.

Having endured a laborious three-hour sit through of Ryûsuke Hamaguchi's Drive My Car, I'm baffled how this film even made it on any critic's list, let alone a whole flock of them. Hamaguchi taps into themes pertaining to guilt and regret (something I definitely felt while watching this, might I add ) amidst the backdrop of a pre-production of Uncle Vanya, by the film's playwrite/actor protagonist. Performances are generally solid and the photography is capable enough, but it's the pacing that kills it for me; to the point where every pregnant pause takes the piss and every scene achingly outstays its welcome on the screen. If I were to hazard a guess, shaving off around forty-five to sixty minutes in the editing room, would have helped the film in a major way, as it stands, it annoyed the hell out of me.

Sure your typical, condescending pseudo-intellectuals are fawning all over it, but this is just another case of the emperor's new clothes to me. An agonising endurance test and the latest example of my disconnect with today's film critics. One for the Oscar chasers.

EDIT: Props to the dapper dressed gent, Kim Newman for at least keepin' it real.