Author: keshav

This Saturday I attended the Center for Japanese Studies’ screening of Nippon: Furuyashiki Village, a film by director Shinsuke Ogawa. This film is a part of the Center for Japanese Studies’ series of film screenings, which take place at the Natural Science Auditorium Fridays at 7pm. The Natural Science Auditorium is an excellent venue for film viewing, with its large seating section and a screen large enough to give a theater a run for its money. (A schedule of CJS’ film screenings can be found here)

Nippon is a long documentary film about rice farmers in a small Japanese village. The three and a half hour documentary is an ambitious attempt to characterize not only the Furuyashiki Village, but also to capture Japan’s evolution from the dawn of modernity to the 80’s, during a period of severe economic recession. Ogawa’s goal is to the transformational influence of modernity on Japan’s national identity.

Furuyashiki Village is a compelling choice for the documentary. A small town isolated from urban Japan, a traditional and cultural reservoir—the metaphorical heartland of Japan. Although Ogawa focuses on a single location for his film, his documentary uses a variety technical and aesthetic approaches.

As I learned prior to the screening, coincidentally, during the production of this documentary, harsh weather conditions created extreme crop, and consequently, economic damage to the village. Ogawa begins with a methodical survey of the land, interviewing specialists who explain the agricultural and economic impacts of weathering on Furuyashiki. The conflict between the farmers and the weather serves as a framing metaphor for the film as a whole—Japan’s struggle to maintain a coherent identity and culture in the face of powers beyond human control.

The struggling farmers are not only preserving their livelihoods, they are fighting to maintain a lifestyle. This parallel develops through an intimate interviews with the townsfolk. These interviews have a personal element gained only through familiarity—it is evident Ogawa and his crew spent a great deal of time understanding the city and its inhabitants. Farmers interviewed talk about their daily routines at first, but eventually delve into family history and their most valued traditions.

Ogawa’s familiarity with the town is also evident in the aesthetic of the film. The shots of Furuyashiki are destinations a local resident would show to a visiting friend—the inner nooks of the city. The meticulous dedication necessary to create this personal aesthetic. The sense of intimacy created by Ogawa’s film touched me personally. Furuyashiki puts a face on the Japanese identity. I became increasingly invested in the farmers’ struggles, the challenges associated with adapting to an ever-changing world, even if this adaptation threatens decades of familial legacies.

Nippon is not a carefree film you can sit down and watch to pass the time. It’s meant to be watched on a philosophical mood. Or just have the movie on in the background, the shots of scenery are fantastic.

A thought experiment: imagine a government run by kids, kids advised by Danny Glover. This would probably be a pretty successful government, although Morgan Freeman would have been my first choice as a political advisor. Bissau-Guinean director Flora Gomes asks audiences to share this fantasy of his for the duration of his film Republica De Mininus (The Children’s Republic).

So how and why did I go about watching a Portuguese film from an obscure country whose name I cannot pronounce?

To answer the how, check out the Romance Languages Department’s page about the Lusophone Film Festival, a film festival devoted to screening contemporary Portuguese films by emerging directors from Portuguese-speaking countries. Screenings are at the Michigan Theater or the UMMA Stern Auditorium on periodic Thursdays at 7:30pm (schedule here).

To answer the why, all I can say is maybe I have a peculiar sense of what constitutes fun. I value the opportunity to see these films because they are not distributed widely, and therefore viewing them is a rare opportunity I may not have again. Moreover, considering Hollywood has owned the global entertainment market for the past 25 odd years, it is becoming increasingly difficult to watch movies from a cultural perspective different than our own.

Republica De Mininus responds to ongoing civil strife within Africa. In the opening minutes, the adult population of a city ravaged by war flees, leaving behind their kids, and earning the group title of worst parents of the century. Absent any adult presence save one old government advisor (Glover), the children must survive and govern on their own, despite their understandable lack of experience running a community. The film asks whether domestic conflict could be solved in a guileless world, run by children without ulterior motives.

The film’s vision is optimistic–depicting a community able to overcome chaos and gratuitous violence through cooperation. There is a catch, however. As long as the children remain in their idyllic city, they are physically unable to grow up. In order to pass through the threshold of adulthood, they must leave the home they have created.

This twist reinforces Gomes’ idea that only pure hearts can live without violence. Although the message is optimistic, Gomes’ optimism falls short of boundlessness. Perhaps as adults, we are doomed to live through violent conflicts. But maybe the idea is that there will always be a new generation of children who haven’t been exposed to manipulation or hatred, who are innocent and earnest enough to reverse the mistakes their parents have made.

Check out a trailer for this movie below. If interested, try looking around on youtube, or contact the Romance Languages department and they may be able to help you find a copy.

The Children\’s Republic Trailer

This past week, the SAC department held a series of panel discussions on queer theory and film, drawing professors from across the country to participate in a discussion of film’s potential to challenge and redefine an audience’s understanding of sexuality. In the spirit of this discussion, the department screened Philippe Vallois’ 1976 film Johan, a film which exemplifies the controversy surrounding the boundary-pushing potential of the entertainment industry.

Johan is a mockumentary, or fake documentary, following a director who’s lead actor and lover has been arrested. Grief stricken at this separation and frustrated by the loss of his film’s star, the director surveys France for a new male actor comfortable with filming scenes containing explicit homosexual content.

A little background—although released in 1976, Johan did not make it into public discourse until decades later due to censorship and controversy. The film is daring and explicit, featuring multiple scenes involving sexual intercourse, between man and woman and man and man. Censors found the material far too offensive to be screened in theaters, and for years, Johan remained an unseen work. Years later, distribution mechanisms such as VHS, DVD, and re-screenings helped gain this film an audience.

The controversy surrounding Johan today involves more than the graphic portrayal of homosexuality. Some viewers highly appreciate the innovative style and bold subject matter of the film, while many others believe the film lacks an engaging plot. They believe Johan’s success is due entirely to controversy—a film that is style over substance, a film which generates controversy for publicity.

Had I seen the film without attending the lecture events, I would have fallen into the latter category of Johan viewers, appreciative of the film’s unique style (one of the first instances of mockumentary, the fake documentary style. A blend of color footage and black and white) but unhappy with the lack of an engaging plot and dramatic resolution. After considering film’s potential to influence public thought, I see Johan as a far more impressive work of art. Contextually, the film is a subversive attempt to redefine sexuality and ethics.

To understand Johan in an historical context, consider what the act of watching a film in the theater. For approximately two hours, a group of people walk into a dark room and stare at a series of moving images, contrived by a director to deliver not only entertainment, but also ideas about what the world is and what it ought to be. According to this idea, watching a film is like participating in a dream, seeing a new vision for the world.

Johan is a radical re-envisioning of social norms. Drawing on explicit sex scenes and portrayals of homosexuality, the film forces audiences to face a reality repressed—the fact that homosexuality and heterosexuality are both basic libidinal impulses. This is Vallois’ dream, and the affect of mockumentary helps not only to comment on society, but on the relationship between media and social norms. The director’s anguish and struggle to find the right actor demonstrates the conservative, repressed society that was 1976 Europe. In direct contrast to the portrayal of contemporary society is Vallois’ dream—a society where all forms of sexuality can be expressed freely. Films like Johan are powerful tools to redefine socially accepted behavior. There can be no change without a radical idea.

This Sunday I attended a rendition of the play The Violet Hour, written by Richard Greenberg, directed and performed by students at the University of Michigan school of Theater, Music, and Dance. The play is highly reflexive in nature, not only about itself, but also about the act of artistic creation itself, particularly in an increasingly technologically sophisticated world. Given the highly relevant and nuanced themes of the play, I imagine expressing these ideas through an authentic, relatable performance is a daring and difficult attempt. That being said, I was highly impressed by the performance, which has left me reflecting upon my own role as an artist ever since. I believe my highly personal reaction to the play is a testament to the strength not only in its writing, but in its live performance.

The Violet Hour is set in 1919, in the wake of a world forever changed by leaps forward in technology, in a country scarred by a world war of destructive proportions beyond any previous war in human history. Although technology is absent on stage, the play alludes to the grim specter of technological change which haunts modernity. The sound design on set perpetually reminds the audience of the marriage between human life and modernization—meaning the integration of machinery to enhance productivity. The clicking and whirring of this invisible, nameless machine resonates serves to comment on contemporary society just as much as it does on 1920’s America—I cannot think of a single day since returning to school during which I have not been surrounded by a background layer of mechanized sounds, be it the churning factories near the medical center, the buzzing of my laptop, or static from my television set. The events depicted in Violet Hour are not intended to portray an isolated incident, but rather an historical moment of societal evolution—the nondescript publishing room in the play can represent the very backdrop of any publishing room. As with all other aspects of life, creativity too has been integrated with technological production.

Violet Hour also delves into questions of artistic creativity and in particular, the question of originality. When independent publisher John Seavering, a man in the position to publish a single book, debates between publishing his college friend’s work and his artistic mistress’ book, he must determine what makes a work original, authentic, and resonant to its audience. The debates between Seavering and his prospective clients center around notions of timelessness and “classic”. This dilemma descends into a fundamental question every artist faces early on in their careers—how can they produce something original when they write about the same moral quandaries that have faced humanity since the beginning of civilization?

In the wake of this on-stage dilemma, the acting is particularly poignant. Seavering’s self-doubt and conflicted mind, his college friend McCleary’s self-confident drive for success, and his mistress Jessie’s assured sense of originality are striking embodiments of archetypal artistic sensibilities. Seavering represents the self-doubt which holds an artist from creating as they struggle to distinguish themselves from the hallowed greats enough to one day stand amongst them. McCleary’s tone is more cynical and practical, less interested in crafting a masterpiece than in utilizing art as a means to an end—to pay the bills and lead a materially fulfilling life. Jessie is the classic artist, ambitious, convinced she contains within herself a narrative so authentic it will forever change the literary landscape of America. So does this play about the timeless question of originality bring a unique perspective on the question?

I believe it does. The Violet Hour resonates with me because of the interaction between both themes. As the play progresses and the publishing dilemma escalates to a heated debate, the off-stage machine whirrs violently and spews out pages of literature—classic, modern, and current. Seavering is heavily discouraged, asking why anyone would ever read anything new when technology can already provide us with a lifetime of great reads and then some. This sobering thought resonates with current society even more than the setting of the play—why make anything when the ubiquitous internet provides us with millions of films, paintings, and songs with a click of a button? What can any artist today make which distinguishes itself from a staggering multitude of multi-faceted, easily accessible art across time and culture? Well, they could write a play about this very challenge.