In the early morning of May 29th, Japan lost its oldest living director, and in my opinion one of the best. Kaneto Shindô lived to be 100 years old, as old as Nikkatsu Studios, who would later employ Shindô before he decided to quit the studio system altogether. Born on April 22, 1912 in Hiroshima prefecture, Shindô began working as an assistant director and screenwriter in 1934, collaborating with such cinematic luminaries as Kenji Mizoguchi, Keisuke Kinoshita, and Kōzaburō Yoshimura. Shindô's first film as a director was Story of a Beloved Wife in 1951. That film’s star, Nobuko Otowa, whom he had met while working on Kōzaburō Yoshimura's The Tale of Genji, immediately became his leading lady in life and in all his subsequent films. Although Kaneto Shindô had been successful working as a writer and director for various major studios throughout the 1950′s, by 1960 Shindô was starting to find his true voice as a director. He founded his own production company, Kindai Eiga Kaikyo (Modern Film Association), to independently finance what would be his first masterpiece, The Naked Island. He followed that with Human, an underrated, yet equally compelling little “love story” set on a boat lost at sea.
Naturally, without the help of the major studios to back him, Shindô had trouble exhibiting the film. At that same time, the fledgling independent cinema group, The Art Theatre Guild, was gaining influence with their single art-house cinema in Shinjuku. By that point, the ATG was primarily showing foreign films that the majors couldn’t care less about (Fellini, Godard, Bergman, and other no-name hacks), but Shindô’s Human was to be the first domestic title for ATG exhibition (along with Hiroshi Teshigahara’s Pitfall). It was the beginning of the most significant period in Japanese film history, and it helped kick start a movement that would completely change Japanese cinema. With the help of the ATG to finance Shindô's films, he was able to make the kind of films he wanted to make without restrictions. The result was one of the most impressive bodies of work from any director, in such a short amount of time. Coincidentally, when the ATG finally dissolved in 1992, it was Shindô’s film, The Strange Tale of Oyuki, that closed the curtain.
Based on Nogami Yaeko’s original novel, The Neptune, which was based on real-life events, Human follows four people stuck on a small fishing boat adrift at sea. After running out of fuel and losing their rudder in a storm, they find themselves lost with no way to navigate, and very little food. It’s also during Obon, a weeklong Japanese religious holiday, which means no one will be out looking for them during the festival. As they drift farther and farther out to sea, their provisions running out, they turn on each other. They immediately split into two groups, the Captain and his young nephew (Taiji Tonoyama and Kei Yamamoto, respectively), and headstrong Hachizo (Kei Satô) and Gorosuke (Nobuko Otowa), the woman who is corrupted by Hachizo as the film progresses. Everyone becomes increasingly desperate as they realize the inevitable conclusion of their situation.
It's unfortunate that it takes a director's death to make most people aware the director even existed. One of Shindô’s notable fans was actor Benicio Del Toro, who presented retrospectives of Shindo’s work both in Los Angeles and Puerto Rico to celebrate Shindo’s 100th birthday. But Criterion had always included Shindô in its catalogue, alongside the other masters of Japanese film. Criterion's release of Onibaba was my first introduction to his work, and provoked me to seek out as much as I could from Japan's first indie darling. Criterion may be gearing up to release more from Shindô, given the recent tragic news, and they certainly have many amazing films to choose from. Human would be a good addition if Criterion is looking for titles. It’s really a remarkably distilled and tightly edited film that never fails to engage me and make me hungry for more Kaneto Shindô (as well as food) whenever I watch it.
Robert Nishimura is a Japan-based filmmaker, artist, and freelance designer. His designs can be found at Primolandia Productions. You can follow him on Twitter here.
Filming in gorgeous black and white, Mario Bava was both the cinematographer and the director for Black Sunday, which has proven to be more than just a meaningless homage to the Universal visual standard. In the decades before Bava’s film, horror had become the subject of parody and pastiche. Classic monster figures suddenly had brides, reverted back to teenagers, and had mutated into radioactive amalgamations, thanks to a wave of low-budget science-y gimmicks. Bava's chiaroscuro masterpiece harkened back to a simpler time, when horror relied on tense atmospheric emotions, technical skills and claustrophobic mise-en-scene and blocking. Bava was able to accomplish this entirely on the Galatea backlot, utilizing the masters’ techniques with a distinctively innovative approach. Keeping his camera on a dolly at all times, the film moves with restless fluidity, creating an ambience unmatched in its time. When Kruvajan first arrives at Vajda Castle, the camera tracks through endless corridors and secret-passageways before leading him to Asa's tomb. It's sometimes hard to believe that Bava was able to create such a genuinely creepy atmosphere entirely on set, but his technical background elevated all the tired horror tropes to engaging new levels. Bava also found an excellent leading lady in Barbara Steele, who would later become the scream queen of Italian horror because of Black Sunday. Notoriously difficult to work with, Steele created problems for Bava in every regard. Costumes had to be changed or altered, false vampire teeth had to be remolded (then only to be removed from the film completely), and once Steele refused to come on set because she was convinced the Italians had developed a camera that could shoot through clothing. But even she remembered fondly Bava's ability as a director and as a cameraman. Somewhat shy about her status as a horror icon, she attributes her standing to Bava and what he was able to accomplish with Black Sunday.
The man responsible for selecting this year's class is Kitano (brilliantly cast with "Beat" Takeshi Kitano), who used to work at Shiroiwa Junior High School years before becoming the mouthpiece for the BR Committee. His calm demeanor is especially off putting as he describes the rules to the game, pausing occasionally to kill a student to set an example for the rest of the class. It's especially poignant to see Takeshi Kitano in this role since it would ultimately be Fukusaku's swan song. Fukusaku had a long established career as a genre filmmaker, responsible for some of the most energetic and innovative yakuza exploitation films. His crowning achievement could be the Battles Without Honor and Humanity series, known in the West as The Yakuza Papers. 
One notable assailant is played by Chiaki Kuriyama, who basically reprises the the same role in Quentin Tarantino's love letter to J-sploitation, Kill Bill. Fans of QT will recognize the tone that Fukusaku maintains throughout the film. Realistic violence pushed to the point of absurdity, sometimes even cartoonish. Shuya and Noriko witness all their friends (and enemies) unravel from fear and paranoia, either killing each other out of spite or suspicion. As the student body dwindles away, they form an alliance with Shogo, one of the "transfer students" who had played the game before. Together they devise a way to end the game and seek revenge on Kitano, who is surveilling them from the center of the island.
Criterion missed their chance to nab this title, and now that The Hunger Games have begun, another company has stepped up to finally bring Battle Royale to the US. It would appear that my Three Reasons video is already an empty gesture since Anchor Bay is set to release the long-awaited special edition of Battle Royale 1 & 2 on DVD and Bluray, three days before The Hunger Games hits theaters. It's loaded with features on Fukusaku's career and the impact Battle Royale had on cinema in Japan. We can certainly trace the line from Battle Royale to The Hunger Games without too much difficulty, even though the film was never released in the US until now. Its influence on Western cinema over the past decade has justified having our own kiddy-porn death-match. The level of violence in cinema has caught up to speed that we can now have our The Hunger Games, so it seems the US is finally ready for Battle Royale. For anyone who has not seen Battle Royale, it will not disappoint, but it may steal the "edge" that The Hunger Games is so desperately trying to project.
Among the films nominated for Best (Artistic) Picture at that first fabled ceremony was King Vidor's The Crowd. Considered by many to be his masterpiece and a timeless American classic, The Crowd shares many thematic elements to this years Best Picture winner, Michel Hazanavicus' The Artist. Although both film's protagonists have similar trajectories, The Crowd is the opposite of how The Artist presents itself. King Vidor's film was remarkably different for its time in portraying a very non-Hollywood representation of everyday life. While revealing the stylistic influence of his European predecessors, Vidor evoked a natural realism that had not been seen before on American screens. Casting a relatively unknown actor (James Murray) in the lead role of John Sims, he embodied the everyday struggle of a typically average American trying his best to make his mark in a massively foreboding big city. An ambitious, experimental, and socially relevant film, its no wonder why it had been nominated for Best Picture, or why it still resonates today.
The most important component that entices the cult film fan is the film's relative obscurity – the exclusivity that comes from finding a rare cinematic gem, being a part of the privileged few who know about it, obsess over it, and quote from it incessantly. Prime examples for cultist celebration are films that had a limited run or never saw a proper release. Usually this was due to poor initial reviews or controversy involving the production or subject matter. The most popular examples of the cult film are those which, by mainstream standards, are "bad" movies. The argument that "it's so bad, it's good" is one that allows fans to have an ironic distance from the films, and is the major pitfall in the cultist ethos. The pinnacle of this would be the riffing maestros who ran Mystery Science Theatre 3000, their constant comedic commentary even overshadowing a few "good" movies. Another unfortunate aspect of the cult film is that once a film is given that status, it rarely, if at all, is allowed to transcend that distinction. The kitsch label is impossible to shake.
Robert Blake gives an amazingly humane performance as John Wintergreen, an Arizona motorcycle cop whose moral code is so steadfast that it stands in opposition to both the left and the right. Wintergreen ritualizes his preparation for work, donning his uniform, determined to uphold the letter of the law in the protection of the innocent. Wintergreen only wants to get away from "the white elephant" they make him ride and become a detective, where he would be paid to think and not merely pass out speeding tickets. When he stumbles upon an apparent suicide in this sleepy little town, only Wintergreen can recognize it as a homicide, and is finally given an opportunity to show his skills as a detective. Under the inept tutelage of a senior detective, Wintergreen quickly realizes that corruption and ignorance is beset on both sides of the law. The opposing forces of the right and left leave Wintergreen little space to stand his own ground as a humanist.
Just as its politics were easily misconstrued, Electra Glide in Blue takes on various styles which makes it difficult to define. Rarely do we find a more confident directorial debut that runs the gamut from experimentalism to classic traditionalism. James William Guercio began his career as the producer of The Chicago Transit Authority (better known as just Chicago), and his roots in music production shine through. The film has elements of a concert film and frequent moments of musical montage. On the surface it seems like a typical murder mystery, but as in its Easy Rider counterpart, the plot has little consequence on how the story unfolds. Guercio was set to make a modern western parable and hired veteran cinematographer 
All of this happens within the first ten minutes of the film. Not a single word of dialogue has been spoken, aside from the few monosyllabic grunts here and there. Makoto practically melts into the background, a killer in plain sight, completely ignored by everyone around him. We then cut to a scene at the park, where two young schoolgirls watch some busking war veterans beg for change. One of the girls tells her friend of the dream she had the night before. In it she watches a pure white dove compete for breadcrumbs. As the bird struggles for each scrap of food, it begins to transform into a black crow, as the breadcrumbs become human remains. As the girls give the buskers some money, she explains that it was only natural for the dove to become a crow, for out of desperation to find happiness we all lose our innocence. These are some pretty profound words coming from the mouths of a couple of kids just shooting the shit in the park. But the film's director, Yoshihiko Matsui, has clearly defined where Makoto is coming from and where he will inevitably go. All the film's crows are that way out of necessity — still desperately searching for attention and love in a society that has abandoned them.
composed moments of horror and misery, as well as love and desire. Some viewers might avoid the film because of the described violence, or others may have high expectations to see some crazy J-style weirdness. The Noisy Requiem stands apart from most genre classifications, and certainly should not be lumped together with other v-cinema cyberpunk films of that period. The violence is disturbing, but it is never graphic or fetishized. It is a deeply personal film, made with compassion for it's subject matter and an understanding of what innovative cinema can be. Like many of his mentors from the ATG, Matsui was able to evoke the spirit of his generation while maintaining his own unique vision. Having a film like The Noisy Requiem in the Criterion Collection would give Matsui the recognition he deserves, and would allow the Western world to see one of the most important independent films to come out of Japan since the fall of the Art Theatre Guild.
and as significant as the invention of drama or the novel,” Mead said of the PBS series, “…a new way in which people can learn to look at life, by seeing the real life of others interpreted by the camera.” But although Brooks engages the PBS series head-on, he soon moves past it, into outrageous, prescient comedy. The hairstyles, clothes, technology and architecture are dated, but in every other way, Real Life feels like it came out last week.
In Real Life, an ambitious young filmmaker (Brooks, playing "himself") goes to Phoenix and dogs the middle-class Yeager family (headed by 
The biting script — which was co-written by 
The Devils was partly based on 
A quick search will reveal just what exactly had to be removed, and there's little point in including those scenes here (or in the video) because it has become irrelevant. Like censoring a porno to exclude the money shot, Russell's worldview is loud and clear; we just don't get the satisfaction at the end. Cross-dressing kings shooting Protestants dressed like birds, a nunnery home for wayward nymphomaniacs, barbaric 17th-century medical practices, torture, rape and religious genocide – just some of the family-friendly fun actually deemed "good enough" to make the cut. Maybe if critics had viewed the film as satire, or at least (charred-) black comedy, the scenes they singled out would be unnecessary to excise. Russell so willingly made the cuts because his overall message had remained intact and, luckily, overlooked by the censors.
What makes the film so compelling is 
Press Play Video Blog 