6u532b

Watched on Friday May 30, 2025.

Watched on Tuesday May 13, 2025.

Watched on Friday May 9, 2025.

Watched on Friday May 2, 2025.

Watched on Saturday April 26, 2025.

Watched on Saturday April 26, 2025.

Watched on Friday April 25, 2025.

Watched on Wednesday April 23, 2025.

Watched on Wednesday April 23, 2025.

Watched on Sunday March 2, 2025.

Watched on Saturday March 1, 2025.

Watched on Friday February 14, 2025.

Watched on Tuesday January 21, 2025.

Watched on Monday January 20, 2025.

Watched on Saturday January 18, 2025.

Watched on Wednesday January 8, 2025.

Watched on Monday December 30, 2024.

Watched on Sunday December 29, 2024.

Watched on Thursday December 26, 2024.

Watched on Tuesday December 3, 2024.

Watched on Monday December 2, 2024.

Throne of Blood | Akira Kurosawa | 1957 | Asian Cinema Season - Film 200

"Without ambition, man is not man."

In Throne of Blood, Akira Kurosawa reimagines Shakespeare’s Macbeth as a stark and eerie tale of ambition, betrayal, and the struggle between fate and free will. Set in feudal Japan, this adaptation replaces Shakespeare’s poetic language with the haunting visuals of Kurosawa’s cinema and incorporates elements of Japanese Noh theater, creating a chilling and timeless exploration of human nature.

The story follows Taketoki Washizu, a loyal general who, along with his comrade Miki, encounters a forest spirit on his way back from battle. The spirit foretells that Washizu will rise to rule Spider’s Web Castle, while Miki’s lineage will inherit the throne. What begins as a strange prophecy soon becomes a consuming force in Washizu’s life, especially under the influence of his manipulative wife, Lady Asaji.

Kurosawa’s take on the tale dives deep into the tension between destiny and choice. Is Washizu a victim of fate, or does his ambition lead him to ruin? Washizu’s growing paranoia, fuelled by the prophecy and his wife’s cold encouragement, drives his choices and accelerates his descent.

Lady Asaji is a striking presence in the film. Her calm and calculated demeanour contrasts sharply with Washizu’s frantic energy, making her one of the most compelling characters. She embodies ruthless ambition, pushing Washizu forward while maintaining an icy composure. One scene, where she obsessively tries to scrub away imagined blood, perfectly captures the weight of guilt and the moral decay that ambition can bring.

Spider’s Web Forest, with its dense fog and twisted trees, serves as more than just a setting—it feels like a character itself. Its oppressive and disorienting atmosphere mirrors Washizu’s mental state, making his journey through it both physical and psychological. The forest symbolizes the uncertainty and danger that come with straying too far into the unknown, whether that’s ambition or the boundaries of fate.

Throne of Blood examines the cost of ambition. Kurosawa doesn’t criticize ambition outright but instead shows how it can spiral out of control when it becomes obsessive. Washizu begins as a noble figure, but his hunger for power leads him to betray his values and those closest to him. It’s a cautionary tale about the fine line between striving for greatness and losing oneself entirely.

The film also raises profound questions about fate and free will. Washizu’s downfall seems inevitable, yet every step is his choice. This tension makes the story resonate deeply, reminding us that while we can’t control everything in life, our decisions still shape our paths.

Throne of Blood is a visually stunning and thematically rich film. Its exploration of ambition, morality, and the human condition transcends its setting, making it as relevant today as it was in 1957. Kurosawa’s adaptation doesn’t just reframe Macbeth in a Japanese context—it amplifies its themes and turns it into a universal cautionary tale. Watching it, I was reminded of the importance of reflection, of staying mindful of how ambition can shape us, and of the consequences of choices made in pursuit of power.

This is not just a great adaptation of Shakespeare but a masterful work of cinema that stands entirely on its own.

Ran | Akira Kurosawa | 1985 | Asian Cinema Season - Film 199

"In a mad world only the mad are sane."

Akira Kurosawa’s Ran feels like a haunting meditation on power, betrayal, and the chaos people bring upon themselves. Loosely inspired by Shakespeare’s King Lear, it places these timeless themes into the context of feudal Japan, creating a story that’s as breath-taking as it is devastating. Watching it, I couldn’t help but feel swept up in its vast scope and emotional weight, even as its lessons hit uncomfortably close to home.

The story follows Lord Hidetora Ichimonji, an aging warlord who decides to divide his kingdom among his three sons. His youngest, Saburo, dares to challenge the wisdom of this decision, warning that it will lead to ruin. Hidetora, blinded by pride, banishes Saburo and entrusts his lands to his two older sons, Taro and Jiro. What follows is a spiralling tragedy of betrayal and violence. Hidetora, once a fearsome leader, is gradually stripped of his power, his sanity, and his sense of self as his sons turn on him and each other.

It’s a story about how the seeds we plant—through ambition, pride, or cruelty—inevitably come back to us. Hidetora’s suffering is deeply tied to the bloodshed he inflicted to build his kingdom, and the lessons of his life seem tragically lost on his sons, who repeat his mistakes in their own quests for dominance. Watching this cycle unfold, I found myself struck by how little has changed in the human condition; the desire for power continues to tear people and families apart, just as it always has.

"Such is the human condition."

One of the things that makes Ran so affecting is how inevitable everything feels. From the moment Hidetora banishes Saburo, the unravelling begins. Hidetora’s descent into madness is heart-wrenching, not just because of the suffering he endures, but because it’s clear he knows he brought it on himself. There’s a moment when he sits in the ruins of a burning castle, looking completely hollow, as if finally understanding the cost of his ambition. It’s an image that’s stayed with me, a stark reminder of how pride and power can hollow out even the most powerful among us.

Kurosawa also leaves us grappling with questions about faith and justice. At one point, a character cries out, asking why the gods allow such suffering, only to be told that humans, not gods, create the chaos they endure. It’s a sobering thought that resonates throughout the film, especially in the final moments, where a blind man, Tsurumaru, stumbles near the edge of a cliff, utterly alone. That last image left me with a hollow ache—it seemed to say that humanity is often its own worst enemy, stumbling forward without guidance or hope.

"Are you so bored up there you must crush us like ants?"

Watching Ran, I couldn’t help but think about the marks we leave on the world and the legacies we down. Hidetora’s tragedy is a reminder of how ambition and pride can blind us to the harm we cause, even to the people we love. But the film also offers glimmers of hope in characters like Saburo, whose loyalty and kindness show that even in a world filled with cruelty, goodness can still exist, even if it’s fleeting.

For me, Ran isn’t just a cinematic masterpiece—it’s a sobering reflection on the choices we make and the forces we unleash in the pursuit of power. It doesn’t offer easy answers or comforting conclusions, but instead lingers in the mind, asking us to confront the destruction we create and the humanity we hold onto in the face of it. It’s a film I will never forget.

Watched on Tuesday November 26, 2024.

Watched on Tuesday November 26, 2024.

Watched on Monday November 25, 2024.

Watched on Sunday November 24, 2024.

Watched on Saturday November 23, 2024.

Watched on Saturday November 23, 2024.

Watched on Friday November 22, 2024.

Watched on Thursday November 21, 2024.

Watched on Wednesday November 20, 2024.

Watched on Tuesday November 19, 2024.

Watched on Tuesday November 19, 2024.

Watched on Monday November 18, 2024.

Watched on Sunday November 17, 2024.

Watched on Saturday November 16, 2024.

Watched on Friday November 15, 2024.

Watched on Thursday November 14, 2024.

The Makanai: Cooking for the Maiko House | Hirokazu Kore-eda, Megumi Tsuno, Hiroshi Okuyama, Takuma Sato | 2023 | Asian Cinema Season - Film 198

"Every single one of us gets a choice of our own. We can either cook, or be the one who eats it. We can be the ones who up and go or stay. And none of those are better or worse than the other ones."

The Makanai: Cooking for the Maiko House is a quiet, tender embrace of a series, exploring themes of tradition, friendship, and the choices that define a life. Based on the manga Kiyo in Kyoto: From the Maiko House, the series offers a gentle yet meaningful exploration of a small community in Kyoto’s Gion district, where art, food, and human connection are at the centre of existence.

The series tells the story of two best friends, Kiyo and Sumire, who leave their rural hometown with dreams of becoming maiko, apprentice geiko (geisha). Sumire’s grace and poise quickly set her on a path to success, while Kiyo, with her clumsiness and irrepressible spirit, discovers her true calling as the makanai, the cook for the maiko house. Their friendship is the soul of the series—a relationship built on understanding, unwavering , and the shared pursuit of happiness, even when their paths diverge.

Kiyo’s cooking is not simply sustenance; it’s a language of love, a way of expressing care when words fall short. Each dish she prepares reflects her understanding of the people around her, whether it’s a comforting bowl of amazake for Sumire after a sleepless night or a stewed eggplant that moves a grown man to tears. The series reminds us that food can carry emotions, becoming a bridge between people, a gesture of comfort, or even a declaration of love. Watching Kiyo cook is a testament to the idea that seemingly small acts can hold immense meaning.

One of the series’ most profound themes is the exploration of choice and identity. The world of the maiko is steeped in tradition, its rules and rituals preserving an art form but also imposing restrictions. The characters are constantly faced with decisions: to stay or leave, to marry or dedicate themselves entirely to their craft, to honour tradition or forge a new path. Each choice carries its own weight, but the series resists judgment, celebrating the agency of its characters as they navigate their own journeys.

In one particularly moving moment, Sumire’s struggle with the discomfort of her new maiko hairstyle leads Kiyo to offer her amazake late at night. Without saying much, the scene captures the depth of their friendship—a bond where care is instinctive and needs are met without hesitation. It made me reflect on how rare and precious such connections are, where the smallest gestures can carry the greatest significance.

The series also delicately examines the concept of love, not just romantic love but love for one’s craft, community, and chosen family. For some characters, like the star geiko Momoko, love manifests in devotion to their art. For others, like Kiyo, love is found in the act of nurturing others through food. These different forms of love coexist and flourish, showing that fulfilment can come in many shapes, all equally valid.

What struck me most about The Makanai is its portrayal of tradition not as a rigid force but as something alive, shaped by the people who practice it. The maiko house is a space where the past meets the present, where young women learn ancient dances but also watch movies, laugh, and share their hopes for the future. This balance of preserving heritage while embracing change is deeply resonant, especially in a world where tradition often feels at odds with 'progress'.

By the end of the series, I found myself reflecting on the choices I’ve made and the paths I’ve followed. Like Kiyo, I’ve often found joy in creating something small but meaningful, in offering pieces of myself to the people I care about. The series reminded me that fulfilment doesn’t have to come from grand achievements; it can be found in the quiet moments, in the acts of love and care that sustain us and those around us.

By the end of the series, I found myself reflecting on the choices I’ve made and the paths I’ve followed. Like Kiyo, I’ve often found joy in the quiet moments that anchor us to what truly matters. The Makanai: Cooking for the Maiko House is a celebration of the bonds we form, the rituals we cherish, and the lives we build together.

Look Back | Kiyotaka Oshiyama | 2024 | Asian Cinema Season - Film 197

"Art never saved anyone."

Kiyotaka Oshiyama’s Look Back feels like a deeply personal exploration of the creative process, friendship, and the age of time. Adapted from Tatsuki Fujimoto’s one-shot manga, this 56-minute film distills a lifetime of emotions into a brief yet profoundly affecting experience. For anyone who has poured their soul into art, the film offers a mirror that reflects both the beauty and the cost of dedicating oneself to creation.

At its heart, Look Back explores the lives of two young artists, Ayumu Fujino and Kyomoto, whose paths cross in the most serendipitous way. Fujino, initially a confident and celebrated manga artist in her grade school, is rattled when Kyomoto’s intricate drawings are published alongside hers. What begins as rivalry evolves into a deep and transformative friendship, as the two inspire, challenge, and uplift each other through their shared ion for drawing. Their bond reminds us that art is rarely a solitary endeavour; it is enriched by the connections we forge with others.

"If I hadn’t gotten her out of her room…"

For anyone who has felt the call of the creative process, Look Back resonates with an almost unbearable truth: art demands everything, and sometimes it gives back in ways we never expect. The film captures the grind of artistic labour—the endless hours at the drawing desk, the frustration of imperfection, and the quiet triumph of getting it right. Yet, more importantly, it speaks to the moments of connection that art can create. Fujino and Kyomoto’s friendship becomes a sanctuary, a space where they can laugh, fail, and dream together. It is art that pulls Kyomoto out of her isolation and art that pushes Fujino to redefine her own boundaries.

The film also grapples with the fragility of life and the haunting question of whether art can justify its cost. Without spoiling the events, Look Back places its characters at the intersection of tragedy and purpose, forcing us to confront the fleeting nature of time and the question of what truly matters. Can art heal? Can it protect? The film doesn’t provide simple answers, but it does show that creation is as much about the process as the result. Art doesn’t save lives, but it can give life meaning, if only for a moment.

For someone who has spent countless nights at the desk, wondering if it was all worth it, Look Back felt like an old friend whispering reassurance. It reminded me that the hours lost in frustration are also the hours where I found myself, where fleeting inspiration became something tangible. The film captures that paradox beautifully—the joy and heartbreak of pouring everything into something ephemeral.

"I’m glad I came out of my room."

In its final moments, Look Back turns inward, reflecting on how art is both a personal act and a shared experience. It honours the sacrifices and triumphs of creating, while gently reminding us to cherish the connections that arise along the way. Oshiyama’s film may be brief, but its lessons linger: Art may not save anyone, but it helps us understand what it means to live.

The Iron Crown (Kanawa) | Kaneto Shindō | 1972 | Asian Cinema Season - Film 196

"I've dreamt about you."

Kaneto Shindō’s The Iron Crown (Kanawa) is a strikingly ambitious work that blends tradition, modernity, and myth to explore themes of jealousy, betrayal, and revenge. Drawing from a Noh play of the same name, the film unfolds across three interconnected timelines: the original Noh performance, a historical retelling of the Heian era, and a contemporary story of marital infidelity. The result is a richly layered narrative that explores the cyclical and enduring nature of human emotions through a blend of theatricality and modern storytelling.

At its core, the film adapts an ancient Noh play about a betrayed wife who seeks vengeance by transforming herself into a demon, symbolized by an iron crown adorned with burning candles. Shindō remains faithful to the Noh plot while enhancing it with two parallel narratives: a historical dramatization set in the Heian era and a modern story of marital infidelity. The transitions between these periods are frequent and often abrupt, deliberately blurring the lines between past and present, reality and myth. This approach serves to underscore the eternal nature of jealousy, pain, and vengeance, but it also contributes to a sense of narrative complexity that requires careful attention to fully appreciate.

Nobuko Otowa’s portrayal of the scorned wife is both haunting and deeply compelling. Her character shifts seamlessly from a woman consumed by quiet anguish in modern times to a vengeful spirit in the traditional Noh segments. In the Noh scenes, she seeks to transform herself into a demon, wearing an iron crown with burning candles—a powerful visual representation of her desire for vengeance. The juxtaposition of her modern counterpart, who becomes a ghostlike presence haunting her husband and his mistress through incessant phone calls, reinforces the idea that unresolved pain and betrayal linger, taking on different forms but never fully fading.

The husband, portrayed by Hideo Kanze, is depicted as weak and indecisive, a man driven by fleeting desires but unable to confront the fallout of his choices. His lover, carefree and seemingly indifferent to the pain caused, provides a stark contrast to the wife’s deep and consuming emotions. This dynamic underscores the complexity of relationships and the destructiveness of unchecked desires.

Shindō’s film doesn’t just linger on the pain of betrayal; it also delves into the ways that such pain can transform individuals and influence their behaviour. The scorned wife’s journey from a grieving figure to a vengeful spirit blurs the line between reality and myth, reminding viewers of the emotional toll of betrayal and the lengths to which people may go to seek closure or justice.

While I found The Iron Crown ambitious in its narrative complexity, I do not consider it Shindō’s best work. While having only seen Onibaba and Kuroneko up until now, this film felt somewhat constrained by its dual ambition to be both a pinku genre film and a sophisticated supernatural tale. The juxtaposition of explicit sexual elements with the haunting, ritualistic tone of the Noh-inspired narrative occasionally jars the overall experience, making it feel uneven at points. Despite this, it remains an intriguing exploration of human emotion and myth.

The Iron Crown is ultimately a reflection on the persistence of human emotions, particularly the darker ones like jealousy and revenge. By interweaving ancient myth with modern realities, Shindō crafts a narrative that feels both timeless and deeply resonant. While this is not my favourite among Shindō’s works, it is a thought-provoking and visually striking effort that explores the complexities of love, betrayal, and the human capacity for both hurt and healing.

The Ballad of Narayama | Keisuke Kinoshita | 1958 | Asian Cinema Season - Film 195

"Our ancestors have come here for hundreds of years... to go to the mountain. Hundreds of them, thousands... maybe more. In about 25 years... I'll come here, carried on Kesa's back. Then about 25 years after that, it will be Kesa's turn. I guess that's the way it goes. They say the god of the mountain waits for us up there, but I wonder if that's true. If he's really there, then let him make snow, just like in the song."

The Ballad of Narayama (1958), directed by Keisuke Kinoshita, tells the story of Orin, a 69-year-old woman preparing to follow the village's custom of ubasute—an ancient practice where the elderly are taken to a mountain to die once they reach a certain age. While rooted in folklore, this ritual serves as a powerful metaphor for the human struggle against societal expectations and the age of time.

Kinoshita presents the film in a visually striking style inspired by kabuki theatre, blending traditional Japanese stagecraft with cinematic techniques to create an immersive and haunting experience. The use of vibrant colours, elaborate sets, and dramatic lighting transitions gives the film a unique, almost otherworldly quality.

Orin, played with quiet strength and grace by Kinuyo Tanaka, embodies both the resilience and the burden of tradition. She accepts her fate not with fear but with determination, preparing herself and her family for her eventual departure. Her selflessness feels both irable and deeply tragic, revealing the complexity of a woman who willingly upholds a custom that will lead to her own death. Through Orin’s character, the film explores the painful sacrifices made for the sake of duty and the generational bonds that can both nurture and suffocate.

Her son, Tatsuhei, is torn between love for his mother and his duty to follow tradition. This inner conflict mirrors the struggle faced by many in the village, caught between their emotional attachments and the harsh demands of their reality. The film's depiction of this struggle feels deeply human and relatable, even as it unfolds within the context of a tradition that may seem alien or shocking to modern viewers.

Kinoshita’s film also touches on broader themes of aging and mortality. In a community where every resource must be carefully rationed, the elderly are seen not as wise keepers of tradition but as burdens whose continued existence could jeopardize the survival of others. This harsh reality forces difficult choices that reveal both the strength and fragility of the human spirit. The villagers' adherence to the custom of ubasute reflects a deeply ingrained belief that personal sacrifice is necessary for the greater good—a belief that, while rooted in practical necessity, carries a heavy moral cost.

The rituals and customs depicted in the film rightly raise questions about societal values and the ways in which traditions can become both a source of strength and a means of oppression. Orin’s journey to the mountain is portrayed not merely as an individual’s path to death but as part of a cycle that has shaped the lives of generations. This cyclical nature of life, death, and sacrifice underscores the inevitability of change and the weight of expectations placed upon each generation.

Kinoshita’s portrayal of the villagers is unflinching in its depiction of their humanity, both comionate and cruel. While Orin’s story centres on acceptance and dignity, others resist or even rebel against their fate. The tension between conformity and resistance highlights the complexities of communal life and the ways in which tradition can be both comforting and oppressive. The harshness of village life is punctuated by moments of kindness and connection, reminding us that even in the bleakest circumstances, human bonds can offer a measure of solace.

The Ballad of Narayama is ultimately a meditation on the nature of sacrifice and the burden of tradition. It challenges us to reflect on the ways in which societal expectations shape our lives and the difficult choices that individuals must make in the face of harsh realities. By focusing on the experiences of Orin and her family, Kinoshita crafts a story that is both deeply personal and universally resonant, inviting viewers to consider the sacrifices made in the name of duty and the ways in which tradition can shape—and sometimes break—the human spirit.

When the Wind Blows | Jimmy T. Murakami | 1986

"We must keep abreast of the international situation, Love. See, the decisions made by the powers-that-be will get to us in the end."

Spoiler Warning: This review discusses key plot points and events from the film.

When the Wind Blows is a powerful animated depiction of nuclear war’s devastating impact on an ordinary British couple, Jim and Hilda Bloggs. Directed by Jimmy T. Murakami and based on Raymond Briggs' graphic novel, the film employs a mix of hand-drawn and stop-motion animation to tell an intimate and unsettling story of survival, trust, and the harrowing aftermath of nuclear conflict.

The film begins by introducing Jim and Hilda as they go about their daily routines. They are a loving, retired couple who enjoy simple pleasures, like cups of tea and quiet chats about the news. But their calm, everyday life is overshadowed by growing tensions between the world's superpowers. Jim, who has a strong belief in government authority and wartime spirit, becomes anxious about the possibility of war. He diligently follows government-issued Protect and Survive pamphlets, convinced that their advice will protect him and Hilda from the worst. His preparations, like painting the windows white and building a "shelter" out of doors propped against a wall, are both touching and tragically inadequate.

Murakami's animation style blends hand-drawn characters with stop-motion sets, giving the film a unique and striking look that I both have never seen before and will likely never see again. This contrast between the warmth of Jim and Hilda's world and the stark, cold reality of nuclear war makes the story even more poignant. The animation captures their innocence and optimism but also emphasizes the devastating changes that come with the bomb's impact.

"Well, you can't expect things to be normal after the bomb. Difficulties will be experienced throughout the duration of the emergency period. Normality will only be assumed after the cessation of hostilities."

When the bomb drops, Jim and Hilda survive the initial blast, but their hope and faith in the government quickly become a painful reminder of how unprepared they—and the country—truly are for the aftermath. The couple clings to routines, waiting for help that will never come and believing everything will return to normal soon. Their optimism, which at first seems endearing, becomes heart-breaking as radiation sickness takes its toll on them. The film does not shy away from showing their slow decline, and the reality of their suffering is almost too difficult to watch.

When the Wind Blows is powerful because it focuses on two ordinary people who are tragically ill-equipped to face the consequences of nuclear war. Their story is both a scathing critique of official government guidance and a deeply human tale of love, resilience, and denial in the face of unimaginable horror. Jim and Hilda represent a generation that placed their trust in authority and the "Blitz spirit" of World War II, only to be met with the brutal, indifferent reality of modern warfare. The couple’s struggle to maintain their dignity and normalcy amid the chaos is deeply moving and serves as a stark warning about the true cost of nuclear conflict.

This is not just an animated film—it is a deeply important anti-war statement that remains painfully relevant today. When the Wind Blows forces us to confront the human cost of nuclear war and the devastating impact it has on ordinary lives. Jim and Hilda’s story is one of misplaced trust, love, and resilience in the face of overwhelming destruction. It is a reminder of the fragility of life and a powerful call to the consequences of humanity’s most destructive weapons.

The War Game | Peter Watkins | 1966

"Will the survivors envy the dead?"

Spoiler Warning: This review discusses key plot points and events from the film.

Having seen Threads and knowing that The War Game was banned by the BBC due to its intense content, I expected this film to be impactful. However, I was still unprepared for just how stark, unflinching, and powerful Peter Watkins' depiction of nuclear war and its aftermath would be. This is not just a film about destruction; it’s a deeply unsettling portrayal of human suffering, societal collapse, and the failures of government planning.

Watkins uses a documentary style to tell his story, which makes it feel terrifyingly real. The film unfolds as a hypothetical scenario in which rising global tensions lead to a nuclear strike on Britain. It uses a mix of interviews, street-level reporting, and cold narration to capture every grim detail. Unlike typical dramas or thrillers, there’s no melodrama here. The "reporters" present events as if they’re real news, which makes every moment more chilling.

The decision by the BBC to suppress the film upon its completion in 1965 was a significant and controversial one. The network deemed The War Game too distressing and politically sensitive for television audiences, arguing that its brutal realism would be too shocking for the public to handle. The BBC cited concerns over public panic and potential political backlash, given the film's harsh critique of government preparedness and civil defence policies. Despite Watkins’ intention to broadcast the film to warn and inform, it was shelved from TV broadcast for nearly two decades. Instead, it had a limited theatrical release and found recognition at international film festivals, even winning an Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature. It wasn’t until 1985 that the BBC finally aired the film as part of a special programming series marking the 40th anniversary of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings.

The film opens by showing how poorly prepared the government and the public are for such a catastrophe. We see people trying to follow civil defence advice, buying materials for makeshift bomb shelters with what little money they have. But it quickly becomes clear how inadequate these measures are. When the bomb strikes, the immediate effects are devastating: blinding flashes, fires, collapsing buildings. Watkins doesn’t show flashy explosions but focuses on the human cost—people blinded by the blast, burned victims, and families torn apart.

The aftermath is even harder to watch. There is no heroism here, just desperate survival. Society breaks down rapidly. There are not enough doctors or supplies, and food quickly runs out. Police and military forces struggle to maintain order, shooting looters and enforcing harsh measures. One of the most haunting moments shows children, their futures destroyed, saying they "don’t want to be nothing" when asked what they hope to become. The despair and hopelessness in their voices linger long after the film ends.

Watkins doesn’t hold back in showing the brutal reality of what nuclear war would mean for ordinary people. He juxtaposes scenes of human suffering with chilling statements from officials and experts who claim that nuclear weapons can be used "wisely" or that such a war can be survived. The absurdity and horror of these beliefs become painfully clear as we watch people die from radiation sickness, starvation, and violence.

The film’s style makes everything feel painfully real. Watkins uses handheld cameras, grainy footage, and realistic acting to make it seem like we’re watching an actual documentary. There are no special effects or grandiose moments—just raw, unfiltered scenes of what happens when society collapses. Even moments that could have felt staged, like flash blindness or people collapsing from exhaustion, are filmed with a starkness that makes them feel genuine and haunting.

By the end of The War Game, it’s impossible not to feel shaken. The film doesn’t offer hope or redemption. It’s a scathing critique of government incompetence, the horrifying realities of nuclear war, and the idea that anyone can be prepared for such a nightmare. Watkins' work remains relevant even today, as tensions around the world persist. His message is clear: this is what could happen, and it’s up to us to prevent it.

Watching The War Game was an intense experience—one that will stay with me for the rest of my life. It’s more than just a film; it’s a wake-up call, a grim reminder of what’s at stake in a nuclear world. Though not easy to watch, it’s essential viewing for anyone willing to confront the uncomfortable truths about nuclear conflict and its aftermath.

Culloden | Peter Watkins | 1964

"They've created a desert and have called it 'peace.'"

Watching Culloden was both an eye-opening and deeply unsettling experience for me. Before seeing this film, I knew very little about the 1746 Battle of Culloden, beyond vague references to Bonnie Prince Charlie and a failed rebellion. Peter Watkins’ powerful depiction of this event not only filled in those historical gaps but also shattered any romantic notions I might have had. Instead, he delivered a harsh, unsparing look at what really happened on that field near Inverness—and why it still matters.

Watkins’ approach is unique: he blends historical re-enactment with a documentary style that places the viewer right in the midst of events. The film employs the conceit of a modern news crew conducting interviews with soldiers, commanders, and local civilians moments before and during the battle. While unconventional, this method is remarkably effective. It humanises historical figures, revealing their motivations, fears, and flaws, and brings an immediacy to the story that is both engaging and unsettling.

The Jacobite forces, led by Bonnie Prince Charlie, are shown as a desperate, exhausted group, and it’s quickly clear they were outmatched. The prince, often mythologised as a heroic figure, is revealed here as indecisive and out of his depth. The film makes no effort to glorify him or romanticise the Jacobite cause. Instead, it focuses on the people caught up in the battle—ordinary men who had no real choice in the matter. Seeing these individuals, many of whom were conscripted or coerced into fighting, made the tragedy of Culloden hit home on a deeply personal level.

But the battle itself is only part of the story. Watkins doesn’t stop when the fighting ends; he shows the horrific aftermath. The British forces, led by the Duke of Cumberland, systematically hunted down and punished the Jacobite survivors. These scenes are brutal and unflinching, depicting acts of violence that were hard to watch. The film makes it clear that this wasn't just a military victory—it was an attempt to crush a culture and a way of life. Seeing this play out, I was struck by how relevant it still feels; the methods used to suppress and erase a people have echoes throughout history.

What made Culloden especially effective for me was its focus on individuals. The camera lingers on faces—tired, scared, resigned—and lets you hear their stories. There’s no glossing over the horror or trying to make it palatable. Watkins’ decision to cast non-professional actors, some of whom were descendants of people who fought at Culloden, adds another layer of authenticity. It felt less like I was watching a movie and more like I was being confronted with raw, painful history.

Going into this film, I hadn’t appreciated just how catastrophic this battle was for the Highland Scots. Culloden showed me that it wasn’t just a failed rebellion but the beginning of systematic repression that changed Scotland forever. It’s not an easy film to watch, but it’s a necessary one, especially if, like me, you want to understand how history shapes identity and power. Peter Watkins didn’t just make a film about a battle—he made a powerful statement on the human cost of war and the ways history can be manipulated or forgotten.

For anyone interested in history, Culloden is a must-see. It strips away myths and forces you to confront the harsh realities of the past. By doing so, it also makes you reflect on the present. It may be over half a century old, but its lessons are as relevant today as ever.

Occult | Koji Shiraishi | 2009 | 2024 Asian Cinema Season – Film 194

"It's your turn now, okay?"

Koji Shiraishi's Occult is an intriguing follow-up to his earlier found-footage triumph, Noroi: The Curse. While both films embrace a documentary-style approach to horror, Occult shifts its focus from the broad mythology and slow-burning dread of Noroi to a more streamlined and character-driven narrative. This film carries over many of Shiraishi’s signature elements—self-insertion into the story, unsettling supernatural phenomena, and a faux-documentary format—but it takes a distinct path, blending dark humour, existential horror, and a more predictable trajectory.

Occult begins with a shocking act of violence at a picturesque bridge, setting off a documentary investigation led by Shiraishi himself (playing a version of himself). His crew focuses on the lone survivor of the attack, Shohei Uno, a seemingly downtrodden man who claims to have received a “miraculous mission” from an ancient deity after surviving the incident. This set-up immediately draws the viewer in, promising a deep dive into supernatural madness and personal obsession. Unlike Noroi, which sprawled across multiple storylines and interwoven clues, Occult keeps a tighter lens on its characters and their evolving relationship with the unexplained.

Where Occult excels is in its narrative pacing. Compared to the methodical and sometimes overwhelming complexity of Noroi, this film offers a clearer and more coherent plotline, gradually building tension and complicity between Shiraishi and Uno. The documentary-style interviews, combined with daily recordings of Uno’s supposed “miracles,” create an eerie sense of inevitability. We’re shown glimpses of a disturbing plan unfolding, with Uno’s seemingly mundane life giving way to darker, more disturbing events. Shiraishi deftly balances moments of banality and horror, evoking a creeping dread as the viewer realizes how deep the conspiracy may go.

However, Occult is also derivative of Noroi in certain aspects, and its reliance on similar themes and stylistic choices can make it feel less fresh. The film’s use of mockumentary techniques and self-referential storytelling echoes Noroi’s approach but lacks the same level of mystery and atmospheric tension. This predictability is both its strength and weakness; while Occult is more accessible and streamlined, it doesn’t carry the same enigmatic allure that made Noroi so compelling. The narrative twists are laid out more clearly, and by the time we reach the climactic final act—a chilling blend of horror and apocalyptic prophecy—it feels more telegraphed than surprising.

That said, Occult remains engaging in its exploration of human desperation, belief, and manipulation. Uno’s transformation, driven by a sense of divine purpose, is both unsettling and strangely sympathetic, aided by Shiraishi’s ability to create a connection between his subjects and the audience. The film’s blend of horror and dark satire adds a layer of complexity that keeps it from feeling completely derivative.

Occult stands as a more focused but less impactful counterpart to Noroi. It trades the sprawling, mythological horror of its predecessor for a character-driven tale that is simultaneously chilling and familiar. While it may not reach the same heights of innovation, Occult demonstrates Shiraishi’s ability to tell compelling narratives within the found-footage framework. For those who enjoyed Noroi, this film offers a satisfying, if more predictable, descent into horror. It may not break new ground, but it is a testament to Shiraishi’s talent for crafting unsettling stories that blur the lines between reality and the unknown.

Noroi: The Curse | Koji Shiraishi | 2005 | 2024 Asian Cinema Season – Film 193

“No matter how terrifying, I want the truth.”

Noroi: The Curse is a distinct entry in the found-footage genre, offering a take that diverges from typical films of its kind. Rather than relying on frantic camera work or quick scares, director Koji Shiraishi leans into a documentary-style narrative led by paranormal investigator Masafumi Kobayashi. Kobayashi's investigation into a mysterious curse gradually connects seemingly unrelated events and incidents, creating a dense, interconnected narrative. This approach gives Noroi an air of authenticity and a gradual buildup of tension that is rare in similar films. While this dedication to a realistic presentation is commendable, it does sometimes challenge the viewer's patience.

The film unfolds through a blend of interviews, news segments, archival footage, and Kobayashi’s own recordings, weaving a complex story that feels rooted in a lived-in world. From bizarre deaths to disturbing supernatural occurrences, each thread hints at a darker, interconnected force. What makes Noroi effective is its subtlety; moments of horror are often glimpsed in the periphery—a shadow in a hallway or a fleeting image caught on camera—forcing the audience to pay attention and build their own dread. Shiraishi’s approach is refreshing, as he avoids many of the clichés associated with found-footage films, focusing instead on unease and mounting dread rather than simple shocks.

Yet, this deliberate pacing and layered storytelling come with drawbacks. At times, the narrative can feel dense, and certain plotlines appear underdeveloped or convoluted. The film's pacing occasionally drags, leaving some viewers wishing for a more streamlined focus. By the time the film reaches its climax, there is an unsettling conclusion, but it may not provide the sense of closure expected after such a lengthy buildup. This ambiguity might be intentional, leaving viewers to ponder what they’ve just experienced, but it can also feel somewhat unsatisfying.

The central mystery involves Junko Ishii, a deeply troubled woman tied to disturbing supernatural events, and a demonic entity known as Kagutaba. Kobayashi's dogged pursuit of the truth takes him through a labyrinth of occult lore, cursed villages, psychic phenomena, and unsettling rituals. Shiraishi’s use of real-life-inspired elements, such as traditional folklore and modern anxieties, lends a unique weight to the horror. The film integrates unrelated footage, from psychic television segments to interviews with supposed experts, which adds depth and a sense of realism. These elements combine to create an atmosphere where nothing feels entirely safe or predictable.

Despite its shortcomings, Noroi: The Curse is a strong example of what found-footage horror can achieve when it embraces creativity and authenticity. It may not offer the most entertaining experience, but it excels at building a pervasive atmosphere of dread that lingers. For those willing to immerse themselves in its intricate narrative, it’s a rewarding, unsettling journey. The film’s ambition and commitment to breaking genre norms make it stand out, even if its execution isn’t flawless.

Banned from Broadcast: The Movie - Saiko! The Large Family | Toshikazu Nagae | 2009 | 2024 Asian Cinema Season – Film 192

“Why did you want to become the father of such a troubled family like ours?”

At first glance, the Uras seem chaotic but functional. Sumio, the stepfather, struggles for acceptance in a household where he’s not entirely welcome, while Tsukasa, the mother, quietly oversees her brood of children with a steely calm. The older siblings are either hostile, detached, or harbouring dark secrets. Sumio, in particular, is a sympathetic figure who desperately wants to be a good father despite constant rejection and even abuse. His longing for connection and the children’s omnipresent resentment contributes to the tension of what initially seems like domestic squabbling. But the film’s genius lies in how it gradually exposes the fractures in this facade, leaving viewers to piece together a much darker story.

What really struck me about Saiko! was how it played with the concept of connection and disconnection within the family unit. Sumio’s attempts to bond are met with veiled hostility or outright aggression, and it becomes painfully clear that he’s an outsider in his own home. Meanwhile, Veronica’s shallow, often clueless observations about Japanese culture provide both comic relief and a sharp critique of the patronising way outsiders sometimes view complex societal issues. Her role is a reminder of how easily we can overlook the nuances of a situation when we reduce it to cultural stereotypes. While some moments with her are a bit heavy-handed, I found this element of satire to be effective and necessary.

The film teases supernatural explanations, hinting at curses and mysterious disappearances. There are moments when the camera catches unsettling glimpses—a whispering child here, a fleeting shadow there—that suggest something truly malevolent is at play. But what makes Saiko! compelling is that it doesn’t lean too heavily on these horror tropes. The real horror, as it turns out, is disturbingly human. Tsukasa’s fixation on health insurance, her obsession with a garden that may hide more than vegetables, and the unexplained accidents within the family all point to something more sinister than ghosts. It leaves you questioning: Is this a haunted house story, or are we simply witnessing the unravelling of a deeply dysfunctional family?

Yet, for all its positive elements, Saiko! The Large Family isn’t without flaws. The pacing can be uneven, and some plot threads feel underdeveloped. There are moments where it seems unsure of whether to fully embrace its mockumentary roots or delve into a straight horror narrative. Veronica’s role, while thematically purposeful, occasionally comes across as too on-the-nose, and the film’s reliance on subtlety may leave some viewers more frustrated than engaged. But despite its shortcomings, it’s a film that I believe will stay with me. It invites you to look closer, to question what you missed, and to wonder how much of the Ura family’s tragedy is rooted in reality versus fiction.

Banned from Broadcast: Saiko! The Large Family may not be perfect, but it’s an impressive blend of horror, satire, and human drama. It challenges viewers to confront the darkness lurking beneath seemingly normal family dynamics, while also poking fun at the way outsiders often view Japanese culture through a distorted lens. This film left me thinking long after the credits rolled, not just about the Ura family’s fate but about how easily we overlook what lies beneath the surface of everyday life. It’s flawed, it’s strange, and sometimes it’s frustrating—but it’s undeniably fascinating.

Suicide Club | Sion Sono | 2001 | 2024 Asian Cinema Season – Film 191

“Even if you were to die, your link to the world would remain. So why are you living?”

Suicide Club by Sion Sono begins with a chilling and unforgettable sequence: a large group of schoolgirls, hand-in-hand, leap in front of a moving train. The contrast between their cheerful demeanor and the horror of their collective action establishes the tone for a film that is as much about spectacle as it is about the darkness lurking beneath society's surface. This shocking start signals a descent into an exploration of alienation, identity, and the loss of self in a society consumed by consumer culture and media influence.

At its core, Suicide Club is about connection—or the lack thereof. Detective Kuroda, the film’s central character, attempts to make sense of a wave of suicides that seem to defy explanation. As he digs deeper, he’s faced with a recurring question about whether he, or any of us, is truly connected to ourselves. The film portrays a society in which people are increasingly detached from their own identities, influenced by pop culture and technology in ways that blur the lines between genuine connection and manufactured behaviour. Sono’s depiction of the mysterious pop group Dessert, whose catchy songs seem entwined with the suicides, highlights how easily media can shape and even warp individual lives.

The film doesn’t offer easy answers, and maybe that’s the point. The internet, with its cryptic websites predicting deaths, and the cult-like fervour surrounding the mass suicides are all symbols of a culture where connection has become fragmented and warped. Sono explores how people can lose themselves in collective identities, whether through the allure of pop idols, online communities, or other trends. In a particularly haunting image, rolls of human skin stitched together from different victims suggest how the loss of individuality can turn people into nothing more than fragments of a larger, impersonal whole.

“Do you understand? I understand our connection. I understand your connection to your wife. I understand your connection to your children. But as for your connection to yourself... If you die, will you lose the connection with yourself?”

Throughout Suicide Club, this question looms large. It’s an invitation to reflect on whether we’re truly in touch with who we are or if we’ve allowed ourselves to be defined by outside forces. For Detective Kuroda, the investigation becomes personal as he grapples with his own connections to his family and himself. His journey reflects a broader struggle to maintain one’s sense of self in a world that often feels overwhelming and disconnected.

What struck me most about Suicide Club was its ability to blend disturbing imagery with genuine existential weight. Sono’s critique isn’t limited to pop culture or technology but extends to the way society commodifies connection itself. Characters like Genesis, a chaotic rock musician who thrives on attention, illustrate how identity can be reduced to performance. The film’s refusal to tie everything neatly together is both its strength and its challenge; it leaves us unsettled, reflecting on how we navigate our own connections and what it means to truly be ourselves in a chaotic world.

Suicide Club is far from perfect, and its narrative detours can feel bewildering. But its willingness to tackle complex themes with raw, unfiltered intensity is what makes it resonate. By the end, Sono doesn’t provide a clear path forward. Instead, he challenges us to confront the ways in which we stay—or fail to stay—connected to ourselves. It’s a reminder that in a world constantly vying for our attention, the struggle to hold onto our own identity is more important than ever.

• Chameleon Street
• The Killing Fields
• The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith
• The Company of Strangers
• The Grey Fox
• The Friends of Eddie Coyle
• My Brilliant Career
• The Hit
• The Secret of Roan Inish
• The Daytrippers

...plus 208 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

Welcome to my 2024 Asian Cinema Season list! This collection features all the films I've watched and reviewed during this trip around the sun.

If you have any recommendations, please leave them in the comments!

• Dust in the Wind
• Daughter of the Nile
• Farewell My Concubine
• Suzhou River
• The Coachman
• A City of Sadness
• Postmen in the Mountains
• Bad Genius
• The Chaser
• The Yellow Sea

...plus 223 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

• Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World
• Chariots of Fire
• Reds
• Lone Star
• Dances with Wolves
• Sense and Sensibility
• Sounder
• The Lady from Shanghai
• Rope
• Mildred Pierce

...plus 19 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

• The Spirit of the Beehive
• El Sur
• Dream of Light
• Close Your Eyes
• Cria!
• Blood Wedding
• Carmen
• El amor brujo
• Extraordinary Stories
• La Flor

...plus 94 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.