Tag: foreign langauge

Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring [봄 여름 가을 겨울 그리고 봄/Bom yeoreum gaeul gyeoul geurigo bom] (2003)

Remove The Stone Of Shame… Attach The Stone Of Triumph!

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

It is a cliché to describe a film as poetic, but Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring is one instance in which I will do just that, as it is one of the most metaphorically and symbolically dense films I’ve ever seen. Although the picture is deeply rooted in Buddhist theology, the themes of the film transcend this into the realm of shared human experiences with concepts basic enough for anyone to understand. The most prominent of these (being baked right into its structure) is the cycle of life, which, as the title suggests, sees the movie tell its story over 5 vignettes, each taking place years apart and during one of the seasons of the year, before coming full circle once again. Likewise, the film is grounded in symbolising the significance of the number 4, from the aforementioned four seasons to the prominence of the four elements (earth, air, fire and water) to the most theologically significant for this picture, the Four Noble Truths in Buddhism. Although director Kim Ki-duk himself was a Christian, Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring does feel like Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Buddhist Theology, *But Were Afraid To Ask.

Spring, Summer… takes place on a floating Buddhist hermitage on a lake surrounded by forests and mountains, in which an old unnamed monk (Oh Yeong-su) and his child apprentice (Jong-ho Kim) live out their days. The location itself is the Jusanji Pond in Cheongsong County, North Gyeongsang Province in South Korea, an artificial lake, although one with a mystical aura (reportedly, the film’s production company had to convince the South Korean Ministry of Environment through six months of negotiations to film at the location). Spring, Summer… begins as a pair of wooden doors on the lake open (acting like a pair of stage curtains), revealing this near-mythical world with its thick morning mist and striking reflections in the water (similar to the setting Ki-duk had previously explored in his film The Isle). Many of the film’s panoramic views of the lake are genuinely breathtaking, from the deep, intense reds and oranges of fall to the snow- and ice-covered landscapes of winter.

If media has taught me anything, it’s that if I travel into the wilderness of a far eastern land, I will meet a wise old man who will bestow me knowledge and wisdom far beyond my current puny understanding (the older monk in Spring, Summer… does have his share of Master Yoda-like lines; “Lust awakens the desire to possess. And that awakens the intent to murder”). During the first of the film’s vignettes, that taking place during spring, the older Monk delivers his first lesson. The child monk in his spare time finds pleasure in tying small animals to rocks and laughing so innocently at their pain (which itself is unsettling to watch). The older monk observes his actions and thus ties a large rock onto the boy’s back while he is sleeping, so that he may now carry a literal burden of guilt on his back. The older monk tells him he will only remove the rock once he has removed the rocks from the animals he tied up. 

Kim Ki-duk’s films are controversial for their on-screen depictions of animal cruelty. In Spring, Summer…, the torture of a frog, fish and snake is captured on screen. While I’m not going to pretend I’m bothered by this on a personal level, I will offer some mild criticism, as there is some clear hypocrisy on the part of the older monk (and the director too), as later in the film, the older monk performs calligraphy with a cat’s tail, to which the cat itself is clearly in pain. This is one aspect which I do find uncomfortable to watch, but there is also the fact that it comes after the older monk was criticising the boy for tying up the animals. Regardless, this doesn’t undo the power of the penance, as during the later winter vignette, the younger monk (now a man) chooses to undergo the same punishment. 

Concurrently, when the child monk takes the boat by himself across the lake to abuse the animals, the older monk later appears behind him on land to observe his behaviour. How did the older monk make his way to land, completely dry, when they only have one boat? The movie gives a potential answer to this, as during the fall vignette, when the younger monk, now an adult man, is being taken away by the authorities, the rowboat will not move at first despite the police officer attempting to row. It appears the older monk may have a supernatural pull on the boat, which may also offer an explanation as to who is opening the gates at the beginning of each vignette (with the exception of the fall vignette opening, in which it transitions to reveal the older monk is the one opening the gate). Spring, Summer… is an example of a film in which its lack of explanation enhances the dreamlike nature. Why is a young boy being raised by an older monk on a floating hermitage in the middle of nowhere? One possible explanation, which is supported by the film’s latter portion, is based on reported real-life cases of babies in the past being abandoned at churches and monasteries; however, the film doesn’t feel incomplete without these answers. Even the film’s place in time is left ambiguous, with the dress of the outsiders who visit the hermitage being only one of the few indications that the film takes place throughout the late 20th/early 21st century.

During the summer vignette, with the younger monk now a teenager, an unnamed young girl (Yeo-jin Ha) arrives at the hermitage to be cured of her illness. What is the illness? This is never explained. Only some vague comments, such as the girl’s mother (Kim Jeong-yeong) commenting to the boy, “You look so very healthy” and “This tree is over 300 years old. You will grow as healthy as this tree.” Assuming this is the younger monk’s first interaction with the opposite sex and that he would otherwise be living a life of celibacy, he develops a primal yet innocent interest in her, touching her body and not understanding boundaries. Primal is the key word here, as the relationship they develop is not a romantic one, but one of pure lust, in which the two eventually do make love. It is this portion of the film which brings to mind the Lady Eve in The Garden of Eden, as the girl’s presence upsets the natural order of things at the lake. For example, inside the hermitage, there is a door leading into a bedroom with no walls attached. My initial reaction was to find this comical, as it is a well-established visual gag in Western animation to feature a freestanding doorframe with no walls attached, yet characters still obey the “rules” of the doorway (another aspect which enhances the dreamlike nature of the film). However, with the presence of the girl, the younger monk comes to disregard the wall-less doorway; an abandonment of the restrictions governing his life.

Once the older monk finds the couple in the aftermath of another love-making session, he determines that the girl has been cured. He declares, “Then it was the right medicine”, although it’s not clear exactly what he is referring to. The younger monk, however, has been infected by modernity, as he leaves the hermitage to go and live a regular life, only to return in the fall vignette. The boy, now a devastated and unkempt man, returns to the lake on the run from the authorities after murdering his wife for adultery (it is not made clear, however, if the woman he murdered was the ill girl from summer). As penance for his crimes, the older monk has the man carve and then paint an extensive array of Chinese characters on wood. This does lead to one of the film’s more oddly endearing moments, in which the two plainclothes police officers sent to the hermitage to arrest the man (who had been disrespecting the sanctity of the site with their littering and gun target practice) end up joining in the calligraphy and take a genuine interest in it. Once the man has finally been taken away by the officers, the older monk chooses to end it all and commits self-immolation, as his eyes, ears and mouth are covered by the Chinese character for shut or close (閉). Why does he do it? It’s up to you, my dear friend, the viewer, to make your own interpretation. Regardless, the powerful and harrowing imagery is apt to showcase the closing of the reproductive cycle that autumn represents. 

In the winter vignette, the man, now older, returns to the abandoned and run-down hermitage to revitalise it. For the remainder of the film, the man is played by director Kim Ki-duk himself. According to the audio commentary on the Umbrella Blu-ray release, Ki-duk’s self-casting was a last-minute replacement, yet he performs the role remarkably well, especially with the physicality he displays. Many of his scenes involve him shirtless in sub-zero temperatures as he performs penance by once again carrying a giant rock on his back and performing a Korean Buddhist martial art known as Sunmudo (complete with some impressive mid-air kicks). 

During the winter rebuilding of the hermitage, a woman arrives with a baby to abandon, with such shame that she keeps her face covered (only for herself to fall into a hole in the ice). The man, now the new elder monk, must raise the child like his predecessor raised him. Much of the action present within Spring, Summer… may lead many viewers to find it a very cynical film on the human condition. Delight in torturing other living things, corruption of that which was pure, murder, disrespect for the sacred, abandonment of responsibility. During the film’s final vignette, …and Spring, the new young monk (played by the same young actor as the first young monk) is once again finding joy in torturing animals, this time by putting rocks in the mouth of a fish and a frog. That said, the film in no way leaves me feeling cynical. To come full circle myself to the Four Truths of Buddhism:

Spring (Childhood and Ignorance)

Summer (Adolescence and Desire)

Fall (Adulthood and Anguish)

Winter (Maturity and the Path)

…and Spring (Rebirth)

I’m by no means a theologian (“mention something out of a Charlton Heston movie and suddenly everybody is a theology scholar”), and while Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring in many ways shows the cynical and destructive side of humanity, its spiritual structure shows that existence remains beautiful despite this. It is a cliché to describe a film as poetic, but Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring is one instance in which I will do just that, as it is one of the most metaphorically and symbolically dense films I’ve ever seen…

The Swimming Pool [La Piscine] (1969)

Euromaxing

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

I bestow Jacques Deray’s The Swimming Pool (La Piscine) with the oddly specific accolade of being the 2nd best 1960s swimming pool-centric movie. The other film of this double feature I am referring to is Frank Perry’s The Swimmer (1968). Both movies not only share aesthetic similarities but also explore a seemingly idyllic existence that isn’t quite what it seems, with the use of swimming pools as a metaphor. A pool creates a refracted, warped image, and it’s only when seeing through the surface that things become clear.

The majority of The Swimming Pool takes place within the confines of a holiday villa in the French Riviera town of Saint-Tropez (which I am reliably informed is pronounced san troh-pay for us word ending consonant pronouncing English speakers). This setting makes The Swimming Pool an oxymoron of a film in that it is a thriller, yet a relaxing one at that. I find myself watching on in jealous enchantment as the sexy, shirtless and effortlessly cool Alain Delon and his glamorous, bronzed-fleshed co-star Romy Schneider flex their sculpted physiques as they relax and make love in the nostalgic, rustic, sun-soaked atmosphere (as 60’s lounge music along with the film’s repeated song of choice Ask Yourself Why sung by Ruth Price echo in the background). Jean-Paul Leroy (Delon) and his girlfriend of two years, Marianne (Schneider), are madly infatuated with each other as they intensely make out (back scratching and all) and engage in light-hearted power plays and one-upmanship. However, there is soon trouble in paradise with the unexpected arrival of the couple’s old friend Harry Lannier (Maurice Ronet). 

Harry is a figure who gives off mid-life crisis vibes; a cringeworthy dad with his prized sports car and top shirt buttons always undone. Harry, however, merely goes from being a figure of cringe to one of great suspicion from the accompaniment of Penelope (Jane Birkin), a girl he claims to be his daughter. Harry speaks of his daughter and interacts with her in a very intimate manner, commenting to others that she is pretty and telling her that her skin is smooth and that she smells nice. Both Jean-Paul and Marianne are surprised to discover their old friend even has a daughter. Penelope is apprehensive to talk about her background when Marianne asks her questions, while Harry simply tells Jean-Paul, “Her mother is simply an Englishwoman, you don’t know her”. Even the very scenario of a father and daughter going on a European road trip together is an unlikely one, with the film never making it clear if Harry is her Daddy or her “daddy”.

Throughout the film, Penelope wears short dresses and skirts (even to a funeral), although regardless of whether she is trying to provoke, she ignites a lust within a youth-chasing Jean-Paul. Even from their first meeting, Jean-Paul grabs her by the hand and asks, “How old are you?”, to which she responds mildly nervously, “Eighteen”. This eventually culminates in the two making love and, by extension, the dissolution of his relationship with Marianne. Delon and Schneider were real-life ex-fiancés, with the word through the grapevine being that he continued to be infatuated with her, with Delon being instrumental in getting Schneider cast in the film. Regardless, I’m sure their real-life background contributed to their on-screen chemistry and to the emotional weight of the gradual, undramatic breakdown of a relationship and the quiet acceptance of such within the film’s very slow build approach. 

Harry brings about Jean-Paul’s gradual emasculation, both through Harry’s subtle flirting with Marianne but more so through his low-key taunting of Jean-Paul in relation to his failed and abandoned career as a writer. Jean-Paul now works for an ad agency while Harry has no issue showing off the expected-to-be hit music records he is producing (he even has to rub it in his face that Mariane herself is a successful writer). After several days, the once cool Delon is now grumpy and carrying a bad posture. The glamorous film star now comes off as a loser. It is this aspect of The Swimming Pool which makes the film strangely comforting, that the rich and beautiful, our betters, are just as miserable as John Doe. On the surface, Jean-Paul has an incredible life, from a gorgeous girlfriend to a high-paying job that permits him to enjoy month-long summer holidays. Deep down, however, he is unhappy as he gave up on his ambitions of becoming a professional writer (with it even being revealed that he has attempted suicide in the past). Just like how social media in the modern day shows other people’s seemingly perfect and amazing lives, the swimming pool offers a distorted reflection that hides what lies beneath.

On a more humorous observation, The Swimming Pool showcases the dangers that arise when close friends start living with each other and/or spend prolonged periods of time together when travelling. The Swimming Pool takes it to the extreme, with the outcome being murder, as the tension between Harry and Jean-Paul reaches its boiling point (both Delon and Ronet had previously appeared alongside each other in Purple Noon (1960), to which both characters see a similar fate). The film’s final act delves into Columbo-like territory, as an inspector (Paul Crauchet), questions Jean-Paul and Marianne about the irregularities in the investigation of Harry’s death. These being Harry wearing a non-waterproof watch when he was found in the pool (which is itself foreshadowed earlier in the film when Harry asks for his watch immediately after coming out of the pool), and perhaps the biggest smoking gun, the clean, perspiration-free clothes lying next to the pool (like someone had taken clean clothes and just put them next to the pool, hmmm). It is this final act in which the picture increases the suspense as the possibility of Jean-Paul being outwitted by the inspector feels dangerously close. Was it an irrational decision for Jean-Paul to remove the clothes from Harry’s corpse and lay clean ones next to the pool, or should he have just left Harry as he was? I guess when you’ve just committed murder in a fit of jealous rage, you cease to think rationally.  

During Jean-Paul and Harry’s final confrontation by the pool, both men are dressed in corresponding white tops and blue jeans. The two look like mirror images of each other, a metaphor that Jean-Paul’s interest in Penelope is partly an expression of Harry’s taboo desire for his own daughter. Likewise, when Jean-Paul is dunking Harry beneath the water, it echoes the myth of Narcissus, in which a young mortal, in love with his own beauty, drowns while trying to possess his reflection. Just like The Swimmer before it, The Swimming Pool takes its setting to its ultimate metaphorical height. The pool only reveals its true depth once you look beneath the surface.

That Night’s Wife [その夜の妻/Sono Yo no Tsuma] (1930)

Darkest Before Dawn

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

Aeons before the likes of Quentin Tarantino, Kevin Smith or Edgar Wright, Yasujiro Ozu may be one of the earliest examples of a director to showcase his film buff credentials through his own work. The director’s early films, including his crime dramas and student comedies, are adorned with love for American films and frequently featured posters of Hollywood movies garnishing the walls. This expression of love for American film permeates That Night’s Wife. The film is almost entirely devoid of any Japanese iconography (with the one major exception being the titular wife in her kimono attire), even down to the point that there is no act of shoe removal when entering a home. From tall buildings with Greek pillars, men in fedoras, candlestick telephones, noir shadows or that Fritz Lang-esque shot of a handprint on the glass, this mixture of Americana and German expressionism creates an infectious pulp world. It’s this unabashed display of cinephilia which really makes me love Ozu’s crime trilogy alongside the pictures Walk Cheerfully and Dragnet Girl.

The premise of That Night’s Wife is very simple but highly effective. A father, Shuji Hashizume (Tokihiko Okada), robs an office to pay the medical expenses for his terminally ill daughter. The loving father, however, is not very convincing as a master criminal, appearing rather awkward as a bandana covers his visibly nervous face. This is further compounded by the sheer size of the urban space, the towering architecture and the army of police officers, all dwarfing the individual as he tries to evade the law after committing his crime. Rather, Shuji is an effete artist whose family of three appear to live in a bohemian, artist’s studio, covered in the aforementioned movie posters, travel souvenirs, and an abundance of paint cans scattered throughout, implying that Shuji is a starving painter (a graphic designer perhaps?).

Much of the runtime inside the apartment itself plays out in a series of shifting power dynamics and mind games (like a miniaturised version of the movie Sleuth), between the married couple and a taxi driver who turns out to be an undercover cop (Tōgō Yamamoto), most memorably during a sleep standoff between the wife (Emiko Yagumo) and the cop. The husband and wife are co-protagonists in the picture, in which the loyal wife ardently remains by her husband’s side despite objecting to his decision to steal money. There is a tender and intimate simplicity in watching a mother trying to keep this domestic situation together and caring for her ill child; after all, nobody does domesticity like Ozu.

That’s Night’s Wife is a film of simple moral dilemmas. The parents’ love for a child supersedes all else as a father willing to sacrifice himself and his future to ensure the survival of his daughter. He does make a run for it when the opportunity arises, but only for his conscience forcing him to return to the apartment and turn himself in (“I must obey the law and return my debt to society”). The cop, on the other hand, is a calm and compassionate guardian deeply moved by the family’s predicament but also knowing that the law must be served. – Is a man justified to steal money and hold others at gunpoint to save the life of his own kin because he can’t afford healthcare?

What the film doesn’t have in meaning primed to be deeply intellectualised, That Night’s Wife is a film buried in symbolism and visual metaphor. From the fish skeleton on a plate as a backdrop in the opening titles (an image of hunger, death and desperation), the pessimistic image of a flower dying in a half-empty glass of water (or is the glass half full?), to the recurring motif of the floppy doll on a toy swing (a visual representation of the daughter’s vulnerability?). But perhaps the most significant symbolism of all is the film’s passing of time. Set over the course of a single night, the film concludes with the daughter having survived her illness, after the sun has risen following a very long, tiring and difficult night. It’s always darkest before dawn.

3-Iron [빈집/Binjip] (2004)

A Little Less Conversation…

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

Is it harder to construct a film with little or no dialogue compared to the average parlance-filled production? While the general rule of filmmaking is “show, don’t tell”, dialogue is still an important tool for revealing character motivations, relationships, plot information, themes, emotional states, etc. Since the majority of movies in existence (barring silent pictures) are comprised of characters speaking to each other, to watch a movie with this tool stripped out, it really makes you consider all that goes into the art of storytelling through only visual means. 3-Iron (Binjip) is one of several productions in which (the late) director Kim Ki-duk excels at this very feat. 

Not a single word is spoken by the two leads in 3-Iron (almost), yet the film still creates compelling characters through only visual means. The film’s initially unnamed young protagonist (Jae Hee) (later revealed to be called Tae-Suk) is a drifter who enters and lives in people’s homes while they are on vacation. However, he is likely not a poor man. He is a well-groomed, pretty boy with an expensive motorcycle and a passion for golf (hence 3-Iron), suggesting that perhaps wealth aids this dangerous and unethical hobby of his.

This pastime is aided by his technical know-how. He can identify when no one is home by placing restaurant flyers on the doors of homes, and when the flyer hasn’t been taken down after a period of time, he picks the door lock and makes his way in (as well as listening to the messages on the answering machines inside). From there, he treats the dwelling like his own home (watching TV, taking a bath, self-pleasuring himself in bed). Tae-suk, however, is not a thief (at least not in the traditional sense). He keeps the homes he has broken into clean, does the laundry, waters plants and even fixes broken electronics, thus helping create empathy from the viewer. This, however, doesn’t undo the ethical dimension of his actions. In much of the world, the protection of private property is held as sacrosanct and for good reason. To have someone break into your house feels incredibly violatory and people even end up moving house because of it. Why does Tae-suk partake in this hobby? Is he simply a thrill seeker and/or mentally unwell (especially since he remains mute) or a perverted voyeurist (his collection of selfies taken alongside family portraits would suggest so)?

These sequences of Tae-suk scouting and then breaking into people’s homes feel very reminiscent of French filmmaker Jean-Pierre Melville. In particular, his seminal film Le Samouraï (1967), which, like 3-Iron, depicts lengthy dialogue-free sequences in which illegal activity is perpetrated in meticulous detail but with a sense of calm and harmony. From the quiet, empty scenes of the suburban streets of Seoul to the film’s wide showcase of Korean home design, 3-Iron has a sense of comforting domesticity. Likewise, the film even acts as a nostalgic representation of the pre-Internet of Things world with its array of early 2000’s tech. Although the most memorable filming location present in the film is Seoul’s famous Bukchon Hanok Village, a residential area comprised of picturesque traditional Korean houses known as Hanok. Having been there myself in 2025, I can say there is no way that the officials monitoring visitors would allow anyone to attach flyers to the doors nowadays (although I don’t know if that would have been the case either in 2004).

Tae-suk’s blurred world of fantasy vs reality comes to a head when he finds out he is not alone in the house of a wealthy businessman, when he meets his abused and black-eyed laden wife (Lee Seung-yun). Like Tae-suk, she is also mute but is able to portray a sense of torment through purely visual means. Not fearing Tae-suk, the two form a bond and leave the house together to escape her abusive marriage, all while, as a viewer, I ask myself if they will ever actually break their silence. The law, however, eventually catches up to the two delinquents, with Tae-suk thrown in prison and the wife returned to her abusive husband. 

Depending on how you choose to interpret the final act of 3-Iron, Tae-suk may have died during his incarceration and became a literal ghost (as indicated later by his weight scale reading of “0”), or through the stealth manovers he learnt during this period (to avoid the regular beatings of a corrupt officer), has escaped from prison and has had a metaphorical transformation into a ghost. The following portion of the film plays out like a semi-horror film in which, through a series of voyeuristic point-of-view shots (even feeling quite Michael Myers-esque), he gets revenge on a corrupt police officer who wronged him, with the 3-Iron and some golf balls as his weapon of choice.

Tae-suk returns to the house of the abused woman, where the blurring of fantasy and reality reaches its zenith. Tae-suk remains in the house in view of the wife, while the husband is unaware of his presence. The woman smiles for the first time and utters her only line in the movie, “I love you”. The husband thinks the line is directed at him, but it’s actually to Tae-suk standing behind him. All three characters are now living a lie, yet for perhaps the first time in the film, all three appear content. “It’s hard to tell the world we live in is either a reality or a dream”.

The Girl Who Leapt Through Time [時をかける少女/Toki o Kakeru Shōjo](1983)

Absolute Anemoia

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

I only recently made a new addition to my vocabulary, “anemoia”; nostalgia for a time or place you’ve never known. A feeling I have experienced many a time before, but never had a word for until now. The Girl Who Leapt Through Time (時をかける少女/Toki o Kakeru Shōjo) is encapsulated in this specific feeling. Shot in director Nobuhiko Obayashi’s hometown of Onomichi (as part of his Onomichi trilogy), the film’s real-world locations create a tranquil yet painfully nostalgic representation of Japan’s Showa era and for parochial, small-town living. The film’s unnamed dwelling is full of traditional architecture and narrow streets, and although it is an urban setting, there is still a strong presence of nature within the setting. The film is even set during the cherry blossom season as if it weren’t already beautiful enough (although it appears many of the cherry blossoms have been superimposed into the image). Even the classrooms with their chalkboards and the townspeople’s use of analogue technology compound this blissful feeling. The film’s cinematography has a washed-out, hazy, dreamlike look, which, coupled with a melancholic, downbeat music score, evokes a sheer emotional anemoia, of which the closest film I can compare it to would be Cinema Paradiso.

The Girl Who Leapt Through Time combines many visual styles. Not to the extreme which Obayashi did in his more popular film House, but still to an extent which showcases him as a unique auteur. The film opens with a school skiing trip, shot in dreamy black & white with a 4:3 aspect ratio. The sequence perfectly captures that studio backlot look from the 1940’s in particular, bringing to mind snowy scenes from Citizen Kane, or It’s a Wonderful Life (helping me to suspend my disbelief that one student states on the top of the mountain that he forgot to bring his skis). By stark contrast, on the other hand, the film’s big special effects showcase comes in the form of a time-travelling montage which features extensive use of moving time lapses (which personally bring me back to the early days of YouTube content creation) and an amalgamation of practical effects resembling a 1980’s music video.

There is the irony that a movie which invokes such a feeling of longing for a different time and place is itself a movie about time travel. Kazuko Yoshiyama (Tomoyo Harada) unknowingly gets the ability to travel through time after exposure to lavender in the school science lab, to which she finds herself reliving Monday, 18th April (the time loop plot device was common in Japanese media before becoming popularised in the West through Groundhog Day). The in-universe logic of the film’s time travel mechanics is very vague, using lavender as a symbolic connection to the poppy field scene from The Wizard of Oz. These schematics are beside the point, however, as Kazuko has to use her knowledge of the day she has previously lived to save a friend from the danger (of that natural phenomenon etched into the Japanese physique), an earthquake. Likewise, in a particularly endearing if questionable scene, Kazuko travels back in time to witness a moment in which she and her childhood friend Fukimachi are playing when they accidentally cut their hands on the shards of a broken mirror. They immediately do the sensible thing and exchange bodily fluids via their open wounds. One interpretation of this moment is in relation to the Japanese idea of ketsuekigata, a widely popular belief system that blood type can be used to gauge compatibility between individuals. Either way, kids, don’t do this at home.

Harada’s youthful charm and ability to project a sense of innocent teenage romance within a love triangle help elevate the film above the two male leads, whom I do find very forgettable. The more significant of these two, Kazuko’s friend Fukimachi (Ryôichi Takayanagi), reveals he is from the year 2660, has a Ph.D pharmacy and informs us green planets will be scarce in the future due to an explosion in the population. This terrifying dystopian future, in which we rely on big pharma for our survival and hashtag, “Robert Malthus was right” is terrifying enough, but Kazuko is told all her childhood memories are all lies, created by Fukimachi. She is told she must lose her own feeling of anemoia (although the ending and her career choice would suggest this might not be the case).

This loops around to a piece of foreshadowing from the film’s beginning in which Kazuko states, “Science can be so unfeeling at times”. Fast forward to the future date of Saturday, April 16th 1994, and  Kazuko has become a pharmaceutical researcher, a rather dowdy-looking woman who chooses to dedicate herself to a field of research over a love life. Science may be unfeeling, but the ending of The Girl Who Leapt Through Time is itself hard to stomach in its sheer melancholy. With her chosen path in life, it is stated that Kazuko turns down dates, never dresses up or wears make-up, and her mother even asks, “How can she be a bride if she keeps going like this?”. Even an unmistakably early 80’s, synth-heavy track as the final song over the fourth-wall-breaking end credits, doesn’t quite shake this feeling of sheer emotional weight.

Joint Security Area [공동경비구역 JSA] (2000)

Crossing The Rubicon

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

What would possess someone to willingly want to cross the Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) from the safety, prosperity and freedom in the south to the communist, oppressive, hermit kingdom in the north? One such scene in Park Chan-wook’s Joint Security Area (JSA) shows the baseball cap of a tourist being blown off their head in the wind and into the northern side of the JSA (a portion within the wider DMZ), to which they naturally don’t even think about crossing that borderline to go and get it back. In the 21st century, the DMZ is the last remaining piece of the Iron Curtain, an international Rubicon, a seeming point of no return, a barrier one would never imagine wanting to cross from the southern side. Despite being set at one of the most volatile places on Earth, the story of Joint Security Area is localised and condensed to the relationship between a group of soldiers and the investigator sent to uncover the truth of their border crossing exploits.

Major Sophie Jean (Lee Young-ae) of the Neutral Nations Supervisory Commission, the Swiss investigator of Korean descent, is tasked with solving the whodunnit in a “perfectly neutral” manner alongside her Swedish partner (Herbert Ulrich). As the audience surrogate, she is soon provoked by southern authorities with such comments as “There are two types of people in this world, commie bastards and the commie bastard’s enemies”. The North Korean authorities, on the other hand, present her with a series of staged theatrics, including an apparent grieving North Korean family, to dealing with a deposition made and signed by a man in a coma. The first act of JSA follows the Rashomon model, in which a series of contradictory stories are presented. This act of the film also plays out as a procedural in classic CSI-like style with the man-woman duo interviewing witnesses and presenting their forensic findings to each other (with the film not holding back any punches with some very graphic gunshot wounds), with Young-ae bringing a feminine presence to an otherwise male-centric movie. The English present in the film does sound very unnatural, although one could argue this would be the case since none of the characters are native speakers of the language.

The middle portion of JSA pivots to a lengthy flashback, as two South Korean soldiers (Lee Byung-hun and Kim Tae-woo) come to befriend several soldiers from the North and start crossing the border every night simply to hang out with them. The bromance they share becomes endearing as they share southern contraband, including pop music tapes, cookies and Choco Pies, while also engaging in male bonding behaviour: looking at nudie mags, cracking jokes, giving playful jabs at each other and at one point, giving a fart as a present. There is still a real cinematic nature to these intimate moments, such as the use of two 360-degree shots during conversation, with Song Kang-ho delivering the standout performance among the soldiers as the North Korean Sgt. Oh Kyeong-pil, the domineering and alpha personality of the group. Joint Security Area was filmed on a mass recreation of the DMZ, and the sets never feel inauthentic and look indistinguishable from the real thing. I recommend watching the making-of documentary for JSA (included in the Arrow Blu-ray release) in which one of the film’s costume designers states that just a few years prior to the film’s production, he may have been breaking South Korean law by recreating North Korean military uniforms.

The partition of Korea is the division of a single ethnic group; thus, there is an understanding by many in South Korea that northerners are still their fellow Koreans. This can be seen symbolised by the scene in which the saliva from both a northern and southern soldier is mixed together at the borderline, as well as a prominent shot of the full moon as a soldier throws a package across to the north. In literature and K-dramas, the moon often evokes nostalgia or longing, especially for someone far away. This shared humanity across the border brings to mind historical events such as the football game during the Christmas Day truce in World War I. However, within the flashback of JSA, there is still an underlying suspicion that the northern soldiers are just trying to get the southern soldiers to defect, with a dose of Treasure of the Sierra Madre-style tension. If there is a main recurring theme in Joint Security Area, it is that of façades. Major Jean comes to learn that the real purpose of the Neutral Nations Supervisory Commission is to bury the truth on behalf of both sides, that neutrality is simply a façade. From fake grieving families, fake depositions, questionable friendships and apparent loyalty citizens claim that they hold to regimes, to even Jean herself removing her own father from a family photograph.

With the Korean DMZ being one of the final remnants of the Cold War, which still exists in the 21st century, Joint Security Area has a real old-school vibe (“Rice is communism”, proclaims an archaic billboard on the northern side of the divide). This sense of historical statis is just one of many reasons as to why of the 200-odd nations which inhabit this planet, none are quite so fascinating as The Democratic People’s Republic Of Korea (better known as North Korea). I am a North Korea obsessive (a North Koreaboo if you will) and will consume any bit of media which will increase my knowledge of NK lore. Needless to say, in April 2025, I fulfilled my dream of almost entering this hermit kingdom by visiting The Demilitarized Zone and getting (at closest) 140 metres from the Korean border. Unfortunately, I couldn’t visit the Joint Security Area itself, but could still bring some pieces of the JSA and wider DMZ back with me.

Departures [おくりびと/Okuribito] (2008)

To The Faithful Departed

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

Cultures across the globe have different approaches to how they deal with their deceased. In my own Irish culture, it’s normal practice for the body of the deceased to be on open display prior to the closing of the casket, which, to my surprise, isn’t even the case across the sea in Great Britain. However, if there is one thing which is consistent amongst many cultures, it’s the taboo nature of death as a topic of discussion. In the anglosphere, people don’t even like to use blunt language as “dead people”, rather opting for language such as “passed away”, “the late…”, “the departed”, “the deceased” or “those no longer with us”. Departures (おくりびと/Okuribito – “one who sends off“) is the only film I’ve ever seen about those who hold the job of handling bodies of the departed, well, at least in a serious manner (Night Shift, Weekend At Bernies).

Departures depicts men known as Nōkanshi and details their custom of ‘encoffining’, in which the body is prepared for its so-called departure. This is accomplished through a procedure of cleaning, dressing and applying make-up; there is such a level of dignity, grace and even an artisanal nature to the procedure as it is performed with such intricate precision (even when it involves a man undressing a woman and touching her body). In a way, the procedure brings life back to the body, as the application of makeup returns colour to the face after the blood has been drained from the face.

However, despite the importance of death rituals in Japanese culture, the subject is considered “unclean” as everything related to death is thought to be a source of “kegare” (defilement). This is the contradiction at the core of Departures: a job which is so vital and dealing with something so universal, yet those who perform it are scorned upon and discriminated against. Daigo Kobayashi (Masahiro Motoki) is only one of three employees at the encoffining company NK Agent, alongside his world-weary Freudian father-figure boss Ikeui (Tsutomu Yamazaki) and the secretary Yuriko (Kimiko Uemura), whom is herself a social outcast. Daigo is even openly insulted by a patron during an encoffining ceremony, while an old friend, Yamashita (Tetta Sugimoto), highly chastises Daigo upon learning of his profession. Well, that is until his own mother dies and he receives a metaphorical comeuppance. This discriminatory treatment reaches its zenith when Daigo’s Mika (Ryoko Hirosue) wife, temporarily leaves him upon discovering what he does. From an outsider’s cultural perspective, it’s hard not to feel that the reactions Daigo receives are anything but unreasonable (but I understand that I come from a particular perspective).

That being said, Daigo does receive praise from patrons during the course of the film for his work. This ties into the other (albeit positive) irony within Departures, that a man finds meaning in life through death. At the beginning of the film, Daigo is devastated to lose his job as a cello player in a Tokyo orchestra, as few people are attending their performances. This has been a lifelong ambition of Daigo as he has been playing the instrument since kindergarten (“You professional cello player yet?!”). This death of his music career, however, yields a new career, as just like in the real world, life doesn’t always turn out how we planned it (“What I’d always taken as my dream maybe hadn’t been one after all”). With so many people in the world stuck in dead-end (pardon the pun) jobs, Departures really showcases the importance of finding deep meaning and purpose in one’s work, and just what a spiritual privilege that can be.

Despite the subject matter, Departures is not a dour film, far from it. In fact, upon watching again, I was surprised to find the film rather funny. From Daigo wearing a giant diaper to film an instructional video, to live octopus antics in the kitchen, Departures injects an appropriate degree of levity, but not in a way to break the mood. Even during the opening scene, Daigo discovers the deceased person in question was actually a gender dysphoric male once he discovers she has “a thing”, leading to a funny exchange between Daigo and his boss (but not in a way which feels inappropriate or out of place). This levity also extends to the film’s montage, in which the complete spectrum of people dealing with grief is displayed. One funeral sees a family laughing with tears of joy and leaving lipstick marks on the face of their deceased patriarch, while another family happily proclaims “bye-bye” and “thank you for everything” to their grandmother while she wears her favourite socks (really putting the fun in funeral). On the other end of the spectrum, the POV shot from the deceased Christian boy as the lid is slid over the coffin into darkness gives me goosebumps. Likewise, the emphasis of the cello in the film’s narrative not only ties in with the Japanese love of European classical music but also influences the music score. Composer Joe Hisaishi emphasises the use of cellos in his score of which he described the challenge of centring a score around the cello as one of the most difficult things he had ever done.

In a classic “would probably never happen in real life” scenario, Departures concludes with Daigo performing an encoffining for his estranged father, who left himself and his mother for a waitress when he was a child. Daigo finds in the hands of his father’s deceased body a rock (a counter piece to a rock his father gave him as a child to symbolise their bond), showing that he never forgot about his son and thus acting as a form of redemption for this deadbeat father. Although I do have to question if this is enough to really redeem his character, should there have been evidence for more active measures by his character in order to achieve redemption? Regardless, as presented in the film, one can view it through either the Eastern notion of forgiveness vs the Western Christian notion of forgiveness.

Forgiveness doesn’t erase karma, but it helps release attachment and hate vs “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us”.

The Bad Sleep Well [The Worse The Villian, The Better They Sleep/悪い奴ほどよく眠る/Warui Yatsu Hodo Yoku Nemuru/] (1960)

The Corporations Sit There In Their Corporation Buildings And See, They’re All Corporationy And They Make Money

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

The Bad Sleep Well (悪い奴ほどよく眠る/ Warui Yatsu Hodo Yoku Nemuru, which translates to The Worse The Villain, The Better They Sleep) is Akira Kurosawa’s loose adaptation of Hamlet. By replacing the kings and queens of ye olden days with the chairmen of mega corporations, Kurosawa transports Shakespeare’s tale to the (then) contemporaneous sinister underworld of corporate Japan (in which the opening music score by Masaru Sato infuses jazz in with primal toms-toms as a perfect musical metaphor for this deadly urban jungle). Koichi Nishi (Toshiro Mifune) marries Yoshiko (Kyoko Kagawa), the daughter of wealthy industrialist Iwabuchi (Masayuki Mori), in an attempt to avenge the death of his father, of whom he believes Iwabuchi and his corporation are to blame. This, however, is only scratching the surface of a bizarre revenge scheme. Is Nishi’s wild and crazy plan to be or not to be?

The Bad Sleep Well has one of cinema’s most intriguing and unique first acts. The plot, characters and relationships are established through the wedding of Nishi and Yoshiko. This is not your average ceremony, however. Rather, it is a public, voyeuristic and somewhat dystopian affair swarming with journalists in which the main focus is not on the coming together of two families but rather a focus on corporate business. The wedding not only acts as the tying of a union between a man and a woman, but more so the amalgamation of the fictional entities of Dairyu Construction and Public Corp. Whereas in Hamlet the titular protagonist stages a play referencing his father’s murder, watching for the King’s reaction to the scene to ascertain whether he did commit the crime in question, in The Bad Sleep Well Nishi  (unbeknownst to the attendees) has the most bizarre and superlative wedding cake delivered. A cake which is modelled after the company headquarters with a rose marking the window from which Nishi’s father plunged to his death. Aside from the intriguing, bizarre nature of this opening 20 minutes, the sequence is also made highly effective by the chatter of the onlooking journalists as well as the wedding narrator, acting as an effective way to deliver exposition – as a viewer, you become just as curious as the onlooking media men. The sequence concludes with a fitting meta-reference by two of the journalists: “Best one act I’ve ever seen.” “One act? This is just the prelude.”

The not-so-benevolent conglomerate that is Public Corp are sending officials instructing people to take their own lives or else an assassin will be sent out to do so. This is seen early in the film when a man is told by company officials, “You’ll carry this through until the end”, and immediately proceeds to throw himself in front of a moving car. With this threat in place, a government official named Wada (Kamatari Fujiwara) attempts to commit suicide by throwing himself into a volcano (and I thought Hara-Kiri was hardcore), but is prevented from doing so by Nishi (in order that he can use Wada to expose Public Corp). I might be able to accept Nishi knows about Wada’s attempt to commit suicide, but how does he know the location where he intends to do so? Likewise, at the volcano itself, Nishi waits until he can make a bad-ass entrance, even though Wada has had the opportunity to go ahead and jump into the volcano – typical movie-land logic.

In The Bad Sleep Well, Mifune is clean-shaven and suited up with specs. Yet, Mifune has the ability to play such a dorky-looking character and still look cool (“Well, well, a big muscle-bound nerd”). Likewise, he is playing a male secretary in Japan circa 1960, although no reference is made to working in a traditionally female job being beneath him. Nishi, however, is not a man you want to get on the wrong side of. From his unsettling use of a whistle motif (similar to that which is seen in Fritz Lang’s M), to going full Christian Bale’s Batman through extorting a man by hanging him out of the same window his father supposedly committed suicide. He even torments the already suicidal Wada even more by showing him his own funeral (itself a dystopian affair in which a corporation itself shows its respect by laying two huge wreaths).

Nishi’s plan, however, is complicated by the fact that he inadvertently finds himself falling in love with Yoshiko, stating he can’t take advantage of the girl after being “touched by her innocent nature on their wedding night”. Yoshiko is particularly vulnerable due to having limb length discrepancy (one leg is longer than the other), due to a motorcycling accident. In a film full of humanity at its worst, the sweet and sentimental love story within does act as a counterbalance. We get classic aborted kiss cliché, but I do appreciate films of many decades past never partaking in the dreaded liar-revealed cliché. Yoshiko’s feelings towards Nishi are reciprocated even when she is fully aware of his plan, rather than having that scene in every contemporary rom-com (you know the one); “No Yoshiko-chan, I can explain!”. Nishi, however, is not alone in his revenge plan, as he is assisted in creating a fake identity by his long-time friend and war buddy, Itakura (Takeshi Kato). There is something endearing about their bromance in that friends could be so tight to the point that he is willing to assist in such an elaborate plan. Like, yes, I will help you switch identity and use my car-repair store as a hideout in order to help you marry into a family so that you can expose an evil corporation. 

The most contentious aspect of The Bad Sleep Well, however, is that of Nishi’s death. His murder occurs off-screen and is described to the viewer by Itakura, in a reverse of the classic “show, don’t tell rule” of storytelling. I am off two minds on this aspect of the story. On the one hand, it comes as a big shock to be told Nishi has suddenly been killed, and like the characters hiding out in the bombed-out factory, you can feel their palpable sense of anger and disappointment. On the other hand, for a movie which in many ways was very over the top with its jumping-into-volcanoes levels of shenanigans, it does feel quite anti-climactic. Yet, in a way, this anti-climax feels somewhat appropriate. After all, this is a story in which the bad guys win. The Public Corporation Vice President, Iwabuchi is a perfect representation of the banality of evil. While he has a human side when he is seen being a homely, domestic figure as he cooks dinner at home for his children, he is the head of a corporation which literally Jeffery Epsteins anyone how could speak out of turn with their Clinton-style body count and can shut down stories in the media, Hunter Biden laptop style (it’s hard to watch The Bad Sleep Well and not find analogies through the lens of 2020’s online political discourse). Iwabuchi speaks of his plans to run for political office, so it’s your best guess at what happens next. 

Good does not always triumph. Sometimes, the dark side overcomes what Lincoln called the better angels of our nature.

Supermarket Woman [スーパーの女/ Sūpā no onna] (1996)

Can I Speak To The Manger?

Juzo Itami’s penultimate film Supermarket Woman has all the hallmarks of a movie intentionally trying to position itself for cult classic adoration from its quirky premise to the film’s comic book-like aesthetic in terms of both its visuals as well as the comiclly clear-cut distinction of good-guys and bad-guys. Above all, Supermarket Woman feels like a film in which its visual motifs were created with the intention of selling real-world merchandise. I’d happily buy t-shirts with the logos of fictional supermarket rivals Honest Mart and Discount Demon.

The noble but failing Honest Mart is struggling against its absurdly evil rival Discount Demon, a supermarket run like a militaristic operation out of Imperial Japan (with their business meetings emitting strong Yakuza vibes). Discount Demon is the Chum Bucket to the Krusty Krab or Mondo Burger to Good Burger, thus it takes the ever-fabulous Nobuko Miyamoto as Hanako Inoue to use her womanly, housewife intuition to reinvigorate Honest Mart. Miyamoto’s impeccable comic timing both physical and verbal has a real sense of contagious enthusiasm. Much of the sheer fun within Supermarket Woman comes from the screwball comedy-like antics of Hanako and her co-workers as they try to please customers and right various wrongs, from gathering hoards of shopping carts left in the parking lot to dealing with frustrated Karens on the verge of asking for the manager. Equally as memorable is Miyamoto’s wardrobe of bright, contrasting colours. Even when she wears an informal blazer it is accompanied alongside tartan trousers and sneakers, in keeping with a character who never takes herself too seriously.

Just how accurate a reflection is Supermarket Woman of Japanese commerce in the post-bubble 1990s? It is unique to observe a wholly independent supermarket that doesn’t trade under a franchise name (something which I’ve never even seen in my own country). This is emblematic of the world Supermarket Woman inhabits, one which presents Japanese supermarkets like the Wild West with the absence of any legal regulations or government oversight. Discount Demon is determined to eliminate the competition so they can raise prices, while both outlets engage in actions such as repacking food with a new expiry date, mixing meats and passing them off as more expensive cuts and even falsely advertising imported meat as being home-breed Japanese.

The exterior and interior of Honest Mart is a world of unbridled, Americana-inspired artifice with its frequent use of checkered patterns and bright colours (in particular the film’s prominent use of pink and red) as well as a general warm and fuzzy atmosphere. To accompany this is the film’s soundtrack to consumer capitalism – stereotypically, catchy department store music by composer Toshiyuki Honda. Can any lost media sleuths track down an isolated version of the score? As far as weirdly specific film accolades go, Supermarket Woman is the 2nd best Supermarket-themed film I’ve ever seen. The top spot goes to oddly enough, another Japanese film, Mikio Naruse’s Yearning (1964). Recommend for a slightly more unorthodox double-feature experience.

The Garden Of Women [女の園/Onna no sono] (1954)

Am I So Out Of Touch? No, It’s The Students Who Are Wrong

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

The Garden of Women could have come straight out of Berkeley, California in the 1960s, but no, this is Japan circa 1954 in the fictional Shorin Women’s College, Kyoto. The exact nature of the higher educational establishment in the film is unclear. It has the hallmarks of a boarding school and requires students to wear a uniform but it is not an institution for minors. On the other hand, it would appear the college may be a finishing school however the term is never used in the film. Regardless, following the film’s opening scene of students rallying together following the death of an unspecified character, the film presents a prologue stating; “The students demand academic freedom and human rights. The school wants to maintain its tradition of refinement and personal betterment. But must there be friction between the two?”. So you’re probably wondering how we got into this situation, well for that, we have to go way back…

While it would be fun to declare that Shorin Women’s College is a based and red-pilled intuition that did nuffin wrong, I will offer up the less sexy partial defense of the college against its rebelling students;

-Firstly, the students are attending the college at their own will. The institution itself is not forcing anyone to attend (as evident by a student declaring at one point “Why did I choose such a college?”).

-Secondly, it is established the college is 47 years old. It is a very arrogant attitude to join an institution and then proclaim you will change it from the inside out.

-Thirdly, the college is very front facing about its conservative morals and anti-communist stance, therefore the students should have had expectations of what they were getting into and that an establishment like this is not going to look too favourably upon books on dialectical materialism. To quote Robert Conquest; “any organization not explicitly right-wing sooner or later becomes left-wing”.

-Lastly, there is a genuine lack of stoicism among many of the students, as much of the instigation for the student’s rebellion comes from the petty rule-breaking of student Tomiko Takioka (Keiko Kishi), failing to wear proper uniform and breaking curfew.

So where does fault lie with Shorin Women’s College and in what ways do the students hold legitimate grievances? Well, the college is overly parental with its students who are legally adults, lecturing them on sex, pastimes and their social lives. Especially the college’s matron (Mieko Takamine) whom it can be argued is too involved in the lives of her students. Secondly, the college goes through the mail of the students which is highly unethical and should not be tolerated in a free society. However, the biggest issue with the college in my book is the vicious circle the institution finds itself in from receiving financial support from the family of one of its students by the name of Akiko Hayahiro (Yoshiko Kuga).

Akiko Hayahiro is the most interesting character in the picture and Kuga steals the show with her performance which becomes increasingly sinister as the movie progresses. Akiko openly claims she is a communist however other characters in the story remain doubtful of her claims and see her as a larper. Regardless this champagne socialist comes from a wealthy and connected family who spend summers at a swanky beach. A communist who comes from a privileged background? Why, I am shocked, shocked I tell you! Even the character of Toshika is dismayed at this and can’t wrap her head around it. Due to her family’s connections to the college, Akiko receives establishment protection, as, despite the college’s purported values, she is allowed to do as pleases and receives no pushback from the faculty. As a result, the uprising she helps launch in the film’s third act, the college largely has itself to blame.

Moreover, in contrast to Akkio is Yoshie Izushi. Hideko Takamine should be too old at age 30 to portray an early twenty-something student but actually plays the part convincingly. As Yoshie, Takamine portrays a character who exudes such levels of sadness and despair as she holds Silvia Sydney’s beer. She struggles with her studies, in part from her overbearing father who doesn’t want her to marry the man she loves, but also because she had to work for 3 years after high school in her father’s Kimono shop, has forgotten almost everything and is denied the request to live and study off-campus. Such a request is denied to her by the college’s matron Mayumi Gojō (Mieko Takamine, no relation to the other Takamine), aka The Shrew. The Matron does strike the balance between being strict but friendly with the sense that she does have the student’s best interest at heart. Near the film’s conclusion, it is revealed the matron has a tortured past of her own as she once had a marriage banned by her parents and a child taken away from her. However, I would argue this reveal wasn’t necessary as Mieko Takamine’s performance already gives the character many layers, this added reveal doesn’t contribute to any additional characterization.

I do love a film set in a higher education setting from the crass to the more sophisticated (with any film of this nature, I can’t help but have The Kingsmen’s cover of Louie Louie play in my head.) The filming location for the fictional Shorin College however remains a mystery (unless anyone had info I’m not privy to). That said, the film’s sets have that lived-in quality, reminiscent of a classic English boarding school with various Japanese touches (ground furniture, paper doors etc). These sets are beautifully showcased with the film’s high-contrast cinematography as well as many lengthy, intricate, Mizoguchi-style camera pans (the film even features several striking deep focus shots of Himeji Castle in the city of the same name). One of the most memorable scenes in The Garden Of Women, for both its content and aesthetic beauty, is that of Yoshie and her boyfriend walking and talking about the present as well as their uncertain futures, with the sunlight reflected in the lake behind them as the camera pans really add to the romantic nature of the scene. Yoshie also gives one of the insightful comments in the film in which she describes the two types of women who attend the college. Those who really want to study to begin a career alongside men, and those who want a diploma as part of their dowry, of whom are the majority. 

Eventually, the pressure on Yoshie becomes too much and she takes her own life, causing the already brewing student rebellion to go into overdrive as we return the events from the film’s prologue. The students blame the college for Yoshie’s suicide, even though her problems existed before she attended the college. Their use of her as a martyr in their cause is highly dubious as the students themselves alienated Yoshie and drove her to tears at one point when all she wanted to do was study. The Garden Of Women does not end in a pretty manner with everyone blaming each other for Yoshie’s death and the central conflict between students and the college remaining unresolved. 

A film which could be tighter in areas, The Garden Of Women is a lengthy but rewarding affair. The middle portion of the film which takes place outside the college during the winter break and deals with a number of ancillary characters could have been left on the cutting room floor, which would have improved the film’s flow. Regardless, The Garden Of Women is a thought-provoking piece of work and not a film of two-dimensional bad guys as brief descriptions of the film might indicate. It is much more nuanced than that and doesn’t frame a narrative portraying one side as villains or clearly in the wrong. 1954 is arguably the apex year of Japanese cinema, seeing the release of Seven Samurai, Godzilla, Sansho The Bailiff, as well as director Keisuke Kinoshita’s other academia-based movie of 1954, Twenty-Four Eyes. The Garden of Women is an underrated gem within a single year’s amazing output.