BOOK REVIEW: Tokyoscope: The Japanese Cult Film Companion

Tokyoscope: The Japanese Cult Film Companion

Author: Patrick Macias

Publisher: Cadence Books/Viz Media

240 pages

ISBN: 1569316813

Published: 2001





Reviewed by Eric Evans

Fans of Japanese film, and Japanese genre film in particular, want to fill in gaps in their viewing experience. The steps toward doing so are well-worn: Find a region-free DVD player. Find reputable and affordable online shops catering to your needs (or if you’re lucky enough to live in a city with a sizeable Japanese community, a video rental shop). Learn enough conversational Japanese that you can squeak by while watching the many, many unsubtitled DVDs you’ll want to see. Perhaps most importantly, read books which will guide you through the rich history of Japanese film. Volumes like Donald Richie’s “Japanese Cinema” and “The Midnight Eye Guide to New Japanese Film” are ideal places to start in that both provide critical context and feature movies which are essential viewing across a broad span of styles and genres. These books are like a detailed world atlas, and will chart your larger journey through the wilds of filmic history. More thematically focused volumes like Jasper Sharp’s “Behind the Pink Curtain”, Mark Schilling’s “No Borders, No Limits”, and August Ragone’s “Eiji Tsuburaya: Master of Monsters” follow, and though quite different from one another, each is an exhaustive, exhilarating celebration of its chosen subject. These are the Time Out city guides of Japanese film, taking you deep into the sidestreets and alleyways of the specific genre with the authority and deft eye of the local. It’s between these two extremes that many other books fall, books which serve as a stepping stone from the former to the latter. Patrick Macias’ “Tokyoscope: The Japanese Cult Film Companion” is such a book. Sort of.

Tonally, it’s an unconventional book. There are chapters on a variety of subjects such as daikaiju, pinky violence, horror, etc., but though most chapters introduces a handful of notable films in the genre, any might also contain a 2-page manga, a list of top kills (points if you read that and immediately thought “Chiba!”), or an interview. And what interviews! For example, the “Shogun Assassin” chapter consists solely of a candid chat between Robert Houston (director, screenwriter) and David Weisman (producer/screenwriter), the two men responsible for the dynamic dubbed coagulation of the first two Lone Wolf and Cub films, and they dish dirt on the film's history with abandon. Macias offers practically no context for the interview and no formal coverage or summary of the films in the series, just jumps right in to the back and forth and leaves it at that. As a presumably big fan of Japanese cult film writing a book on the subject, he seemingly takes for granted that the reader will also be familiar with the grindhouse classic under discussion. This presumption is at the core of “Tokyoscope”, and is a source of both strength and weakness.

In theory, this is a strength in that the knowledgable reader is spared slogging through familiar summaries. The absence of such a summary or overview to that "Shogun Assassin" interview was notable. For example, Schilling (unnecessarily) apologizes to readers of his excellent Nikkatsu crime book “No Borders” for describing the plots of some films more than once, citing the necessity of doing so for the “majority of readers” who might dip in here and there to find a title of interest. Macias prefers the frank and conversational tone of the blogger (before there were norms for such a tone, notably) and the result is a book that functions very much like having a film freak friend sitting next to you on a sofa, revving you up for the next DVD he’s about to play. Which is not to say Macias isn’t an expert on these films, but rather that he prefers the personal tone to the scholarly. That translates into a particularly easy and engaging read, punctuated by a real-world practicality in the form of VHS/DVD release info at the bottom of each individual film review. And though some—many!—of those titles are long out of print, it’s enormously helpful for the type of reader who dog-ears pages and seeks out titles that sound intriguing. The book doesn’t attempt to be comprehensive, but rather give a loose overview of available titles (both good and bad) in each genre. There are notable omissions (where is Zatoichi?), and a decade of DVD releases in the wake of the book’s publishing underscores what it doesn’t cover, but it’s a fun and at times illuminating read. The lack of summaries and explanation is a weakness because much of the audience for this book would seem to be people curious about the world of Japanese genre film, and would surely benefit from the context and insight Macias could provide. There’s a wealth of good stuff in here, it just takes a bit of digging to know what to look for, then find it.

The book’s significant flaw is it’s appearance, which might be described as schizophrenically ugly—a perfect storm of bad decisions. It is profusely overdesigned by Izumi Evers and features spastic illustrations by Happy Ujihashi. Such things are a matter of taste, but visually, “Tokyoscope” is hideous: it’s one of those rare books that is hard to read due to the typographic and layout choices made, and the illustrations are on par with the sharpie-on-typing-paper doodles found in any high school. At a distance the technicolor soup of the cover is eye-catching and differentiates it from other volumes, but up close it’s sloppy—not art-sloppy in the manner of Stephen Sprouse or Gary Panter, just plain unattractive. Interior illustrations don’t accentuate the subject matter, but seem like an elaborate in-joke on the part of the creative team. The book’s layout is presumably meant to play off the unpredictable and in-your-face tone of many of the subject films, but comes across as a garbled mess. The 5-page table of contents is a pile of intentionally mismatched novelty fonts smattered with images here and there (practically unnavigable when its only job is to serve as navigation), and the main body is split between a clear, basic template for film reviews and extended chunks of white-on-black text with a typeface too slight to hold its own when printed against a wall of black on this paper stock, resulting in just enough bleed that entire pages of text are difficult to read. Every typographic choice is wrong. There are blown-up photos using a Ben-Day dot effect, illustrations, playful little blood-spatter factoids, text laid over text, odd margins, absurd text wrapping… Each of these choices would work well on its own, but smashed together it’s all just too much. The subject matter is already diverse and frenetic by nature, so trying to reflect that freneticism in the design is the worst kind of overkill.

Patrick Macias’ “Tokyoscope: The Japanese Cult Film Companion” is one of those volumes that fans of genre movies should seek out and devour. Inexplicably out of print since 2001, it shows up here and there at used bookshops and on eBay, and will reward your winning bid with insight and trivia you will not find elsewhere. Let’s just hope that if Cadence Books (a division of Viz Media) go into a 2nd, revised and expanded edition—and they should!—they retool the design top to bottom and produce a package which showcases, rather than torpedoes, the content.

BOOK REVIEW: The Yakuza Movie Book: A Guide to Japanese Gangster Films

The Yakuza Movie Book: A Guide to Japanese Gangster Films

Author: Mark Schilling

Publisher: Stone Bridge Press

335 pages

ISBN: 1880656760

Published: 2003



Reviewed by Eric Evans

If you love Japanese film you’re probably well acquainted with the writing of Mark Schilling (below left), film critic for The Japan Times. His weekly reviews and occasional interviews with filmmakers are a must read around these parts, owing to his reliably good taste and clear, smart, compelling writing. He has arguably the sweetest gig in all of J-film criticism, and he makes the most of it.

Given the volume of work he produces and his passion for the films themselves, it’s no surprise that he has books focusing on specific genres on the market. His “No Borders, No Limits: Nikkatsu Action Cinema” is an invaluable guide to the sharp, stylish films of Nikkatsu’s pre-pink prime. And though it covers a much broader topic, “The Yakuza Movie Book: A Guide to Japanese Gangster Films” manages to touch on the major players and films. Broken up into three main sections, the book profiles and interviews directors, then actors, then supplies many dozens of reviews of titles from the popular (“Fudoh”, “Battles Without Honor and Humanity”) to the virtually unknown outside of Japanese video stores (“Level”, “Minazuki”). If you’re unfamiliar with Schilling’s reviewing style, he’s fair to genre films in that he judges them by what they are and what they’re supposed to be. In many cases he supplies substantive story summaries, which is helpful with the more obscure titles. If you enjoy the genre, the book will send you off to hunt for many, many movies.

For me, the meat of the book is in the interviews. Schilling asks the questions a movie fan would, eschewing anything needlessly personal or gossipy and sticking to the work. He obviously knows how much he can push, and while he doesn’t seek to needle anyone he does put his subjects—the directors especially—in a position to open up. Teruo Ishii flatly stating that Takeshi Kitano’s films are “a sham” that “aren’t going to last” might be the sexy quote, but Takashi Miike’s interview is a real eye-opener. The usual self deprecation masking a clear distaste for Japanese film industry status quo may not be much of a surprise, but his recognition of the ephemeral quality of western interest in J-film was, as was his assertion that Japanese film producers should be doing much more to capitalize on that interest while it exists. I didn’t think of Miike as some head-in-the-clouds dreamer, but I found the degree of his savvy and self-awareness a bit of a shock. Perhaps that explains his affiliation with a production shingle as single-minded as Sushi Typhoon? As a going-away present, Schilling includes a number of back-of-the-book goodies such a buying guide to locate many of the films discussed in the book, a bibliography that has me planning weeks’ worth of microfiche scouring, even a glossary of terms commonly used in reviews and discussion of Yakuza culture.

“The Yakuza Movie Book” isn’t a scholarly work immersing its subjects in sociopolitical context and demanding frequent flipping to endnotes. If anything it errs on the populist side, assuming the reader might have an interest in the subject yet not an encyclopedic knowledge of it. It’s a smooth and smart read, and owing to its segmentation can be read all at once or in very short bursts, particularly good for bedside reading. Schilling has me excited to see new films and given me food for thought when revisiting classics of the genre, and there’s really no better recommendation for the book than that.

BOOK REVIEW: J-Horror: The Definitive Guide to The Ring, The Grudge and Beyond

J-Horror: The Definitive Guide to The Ring, The Grudge and Beyond

Author: David Kalat

Publisher: Vertical

320 pages

ISBN: 1932234084

Published: 2007




Reviewed by Eric Evans

Charting the evolution of the Japanese horror film from the early ‘90s to the today of the 2007 publication date, David Kalat’s “J-Horror: The Definitive Guide to The Ring, The Grudge and Beyond” is valuable as both a film guide and history lesson. It introduces lesser-known names and films that predate the pivotal “Ring”, and Kalat (below left) is at times laugh-out-loud frank in his evaluation of their peculiar charms.

Hideo Nakata’s 1998 breakout film “Ring” receives the bulk of the book’s first 50 pages as the cultural standard-bearer and visual reference point for much of the J-Horror boom—it’s the fulcrum for the entire book. Kalat works to establish the literary and direct-to-video work that led up to its success, and the proliferation of similar films that flooded the marketplace after. It’s a valuable thing, having that contextual anchor, because as he explains there were multiple precedents to the film with each contributing something to its development, and certainly scads of similarly themed films after. Kalat takes his time establishing that neither of J-Horror’s “two daddies”, original novelist Koji Suzuki and “Ring” director Nakata, considered themselves horror buffs or enthusiasts. This point, Kalat argues, was the key to them expanding the scope of what a horror story could be. Without a love of and respect for the conventions of horror, they were able to craft a tale that was free of the tired tropes fans might have otherwise expected. For example, Suzuki wrote “Ring” in part to prove that fathers were as caring a parent as mothers (his novel had a male protagonist). Further chapters document other well-known J-Horror film series, such as the “Ju-On” and “Tomie” films. (Tomie isn’t a ghost and doesn’t quite work in the same way as, say, “Ju-On or “Dark Water”, but the multiple films chronicling her being dismembered and not dying happened in large part owing to the boom created by “Ring”.)

I approach books like this with a fairly specific set of expectations. I want to learn about the the hows and whys of each film and the people behind the scenes—essentially a long-form, literary DVD extra of sorts—and I want the context to either point me toward films I haven’t yet seen, or compel me to rewatch films I have, with a fresh eye informed by the author’s insight. Kalat wins on both counts, and his blunt dismissal of some films might have saved me several hours of misery. Though he may not have thought much of “Phantom of the Toilet” I am sufficiently intrigued by chapter 3 to seek it out (no easy task if you need English subs), and “Don’t Look Up” is high on my “to watch” list.

Stylistically Kalat’s writing falls somewhere between August Ragone’s knowledge of and passion for his subject, and any internet crank’s opinionated rant. I often read books of this sort wishing they hadn’t been written in quite so high-minded and scholarly a way so that pages can be turned with greater ease, but here and there Kalat slips into prose which, though not quite purple, distracts form the point at hand. The Japanese film industry in 1991 was “limping along like a dying donkey”? Too cute, sir. Even where I agree with him, Kalat manages to lose me a bit with writing meant to be funny but skewing juvenile: “Film critics and other pointy-heads hold sequels in low regard as a general rule. This is because film critics and other pointy-heads want to reward artistry and vision instead of crass commercialism, and sequels wear their brazen mercenary nature to ostentatiously on their sleeves. That, and so many of them suck.” Critics respond very well to well-crafted sequels (“Sanjuro”, “Dark Knight”, “Aliens”, “Godfather II”, “Ip Man 2”, etc.) and the pointy-headed bit was funny once. It’s also somewhat obnoxious that, despite all the potential confusion between books, TV shows, direct-to-video, and features similarly named, that Kalat chooses to frame his distaste for the Romajinization of “Ring” to “Ringu” by pretending that title doesn’t exist. He essentially says “I don’t like it so I won’t use it” despite the fact that that’s the name on the DVD sleeve. It’s incumbent on a writer of film books to use the published titles given those films, not the names he or she might prefer. But these are small complaints: the book is quite readable for just about anyone, no advanced theory degree required.

David Kalat’s “J-Horror: The Definitive Guide to The Ring, The Grudge and Beyond” was nearly called “Dead Wet Girls” and it’s a shame it wasn’t, given how prevalent that imagery is in many of the films discussed. It covers a great many titles in an entertaining and easily digested way. Though I’m sorry he didn’t get around to some of the most effective “Ring”-influenced films (“The Eye 10” but no “Shutter”?) the book casts a wide net, and places Korean and Hong Kong films of the same vein into canon. The J-Horror boom may be over, but there are still gems to be enjoyed, and Kalat makes it far easier to find them and watch them in the context of the movement.

BOOK REVIEW: No Borders, No Limits: Nikkatsu Action Cinema

No Borders, No Limits: Nikkatsu Action Cinema

Author: Mark Schilling

Publisher: FAB Press

160 pages

ISBN: 1903254434

Published: 2007





Reviewed by Eric Evans

Hands up if you own Criterion's excellent "Nikkatsu Noir" box set. Well done! Now you owe it to yourself to pick up Mark Schilling's "No Borders, No Limits: Nikkatsu Action Cinema" as the supplement Criterion would have included had the release been through the main label and not the Eclipse imprint. Fab Press—prized publisher of such absolute necessities as Jasper Sharp's "Behind the Pink Curtain" and Robin Bougie's "Cinema Sewer" collections—has even sized the book just so; it will fit handsomely alongside the set on your DVD shelf.

For the few years in the late '50s through early '60s, Nikkatsu studios enabled its stable of directors and stars to do something weird and great and memorable: They made films which were distinctly of their time yet timeless, movies that brazenly projected their Japanese origins yet transcended such real-world limitations as genre and border. "No Borders, No Limits" functions as a highly readable yet appropriately scholarly gazetteer to these films, a combination of cultural overview, film history, and filmmaker guide.

It's true: As a big fan of Nikkatsu's, from the Stray Cat Rock series to "Red Quay" to anything with Joe Shishido, I am predisposed to enjoy a book that examines those films and filmmakers. But anyone with an interest in Japanese film should be curious about this particular period in J-film history. Japan was just coming into it's own after the post-war rebuilding years, TV was about to supplant cinema as the primary entertainment vehicle, and films were still shot in black and white based on budget. Nikkatsu's output during this period was fairly astonishing, and Schilling breaks it down film by film, key actor by key director. The book is invaluable as a tool to better understand how these films came to be made.

"No Borders, No Limits" also features some side-splittingly funny and insightful stuff. There's a candid gem of an interview with Shishido in which the actor is as charmingly blunt as any of his characters, sharing anecdotes about, among other things, a blind-drunk Toshiro Mifune shooting dogs by moonlight. I learned that leading man Hideaki Nitani was given the unfortunate nickname of 'Dump Guy', "for his supposed dump-truck-like power." There's more, including enough production stills and other photos to warrant the purchase on purely visual grounds. The book is a compelling read, and had me grabbing DVDs off the shelf and scrambling to find copies of films I didn't have. Schilling's enthusiasm for the material is infectious, yet never crosses over into fanboy adoration. He brings the levelheaded critical tone of his reviews to the book, and the result is an essential addition to your J-film library.

Mark Schilling is known to J-film aficionados as first among equals of the film reviewers at the best of the English-language Japanese news outlets, The Japan Times [ http://www.japantimes.co.jp/entertainment/film.html ]. His reviews can also be found on his homepage [ http://japanesemovies.homestead.com/ ], and his books can be purchased from most any reputable online or brick-and-mortar bookshop.

BOOK REVIEW: Eiji Tsuburaya: Master of Monsters

Eiji Tsuburaya: Master of Monsters

Author: August Ragone

Publisher:
Chronicle Books

208 pages

ISBN: 0811860787

Published: 2007




Reviewed by Eric Evans

I have a great respect for people who both love Japanese film and feel compelled to translate that love into something that can be shared with others. Blogs such as this one are an open invitation to the casual filmgoer to explore beyond their boundaries, and the old-fashioned 'zine will always have a place in my heart (konnichiwa, G-Fan mag!). But in terms of legitimizing an underappreciated genre of film, nothing beats a proper book, especially if it is well-researched, well-written, well-designed, and on shelves in bookstores and libraries. And while I'd stop just short of claiming August Ragone's "Eiji Tsuburaya: Master of Monsters: Defending the Earth with Ultraman, Godzilla, and Friends in the Golden Age of Japanese Science Fiction Film" (whew) was the kaiju equivalent of a book as essential as Jasper Sharp's "Behind the Pink Curtain", I would say that… Actually, that's exactly what I should be saying. Ragone doesn't have Sharp's eye for contextual political historicity beyond the usual 'Gojira-as-atomic-bomb' stuff, but in terms of passion for the subject, detail in production notes, and anecdotes from filmmakers and such, "Master of Monsters" is right there on the top shelf of J-film volumes. Ragone didn't write this for academics, but neither did he aim too low: This is a book for those of us who first met Godzilla at the drive-in or on Saturday-morning TV, and developed into adults with a love of sci-fi cinema. As a guileless friend put it, "This book is like all the best DVD extras you've ever seen crammed into 200 pages." Er, yeah—something like that!

The book follows the basic trajectory of the filmmaker's life, from a childhood fascination with aircraft and flying (as a boy, Tsuburaya won modelmaking contests; as a young man he became a pilot) to a chance meeting that steered him into the movie business (Tsuburaya, out drinking with friends, popped out to the loo just before a brawl broke out and impressed an onlooker with his "levelheadedness") to his work with Toho and the founding of his independent production company. Ragone manages to engross the reader in the early years to an uncanny degree. My fear before cracking the book was that I'd be hurriedly skimming everything just to get to the giant robots and extraterrestrial invaders, but no such selective reading was necessary. At least partial credit goes to the subject of the book here: Tsuburaya never abandoned his childlike love of building models, so everything builds upon that. The biographical info is relevant from page one.

Tsuburaya the man was no doubt adept at taking care of his business concerns, but Tsuburaya the SPX whiz saved his passion for projects that delighted the boy within. His greatest professional enthusiasm stemmed not from films that were commercially popular or huge moneymakers, but rather those that A) delighted children, or B) allowed him to build more elaborate models. Godzilla's transformation from atomic allegory to dancing, pro-wrestling defender of Japan may rankle J-film purists, but Tsuburaya seems to have been pleased that children enjoyed his work. And only an otaku-like passion for model-building can explain Tsuburaya's excitement over comparative dreck "Frankenstein Vs. Baragon". From the text, explaining Tsuburaya's excitement: "The monsters in the story were to be much smaller than usual, allowing [Tsuburaya's] team to build miniature sets and models at a much larger scale than for the Godzilla films, greatly increasing the detail of the miniatures and the illusion of reality." But of course!

STRIPE studio's Jon Sueda and Gail Swanlund designed "Master of Monsters" for San Francisco publisher Chronicle Books, and they've crafted something easily navigable and fun. Some of their choices skirt around the edge of designerly fuss—bright yellow pages with black text might differentiate those sidebar essays, but good lord!—but the subject matter demands a strong point of view, and the book has some small touches that are just wonderful. If anything, Ragone and STRIPE restrained themselves by not filling every square inch of space with photos and sketches of kaiju ephemera. There are many large images, but very few full-bleed pages owing to one aspect of the design: a red fore-edge with "EIJI TSUBURAYA" in white relief, making the book instantly identifiable even if the spine is facing away from you. It's purely decorative, but it's the kind of detailed work that can only come from a publisher that believes in the project. There's even a section at the back profiling an avid collector of Tsuburaya-related toys and figures, with several pages of photos.

August Ragone's "Eiji Tsuburaya: Master of Monsters" hits the sweet spot between fanboy exuberance and authoritative biography dead center. It's as fun as a book about Ultraman's creator needs to be, but without skimping on the research and detail that mark the book as the definitive volume on the subject. To Ragone's credit he shares the spotlight with a number of other writers who contribute essays on related subjects (Ishiro Honda, "Gappa the Triphibian Monster" and other "Gojira"-inspired tomfoolery, etc.), which rounds the book out into a history of all things rubber-suited. The book is chock full of photos, including the kinds of behind-the-scenes production pics that will cause nerdgasms in any kaiju aficionado. Simply put, there's no better English-language book for Godzilla or Ultraman fans, and no better personal history of the man who brought them both to life.

Note: Ragone's blog will keep you abreast of the author's many sponsored film events and personal appearances, as well as kaiju news in general. San Francisco-area readers should check out his co-presentation of the 'Kaiju Shakedown!' event "Tokyoscope: War of the Giant Monsters", a mini-film fest at the excellent Viz Cinema in early May.

BOOK REVIEW: Akira Kurosawa: Master of Cinema

Akira Kurosawa: Master of Cinema

Author: Peter Cowie

Publisher: Rizzoli

304 pages

ISBN: 0847833194

Published: 2010





Reviewed by Marc Saint-Cyr

When I’m in an Akira Kurosawa kind of mood, usually after having re-watched one or two of his films, my thoughts sometimes return to a dream project of mine: a book that would span the entirety of his career. In this ideal tome, I’d touch upon the things that draw me to his exhilarating, stimulating brand of cinema (which, lest we forget, has delivered such keystones as "Stray Dog", "Rashômon", "Ikiru", "Seven Samurai", "Throne of Blood", "The Hidden Fortress", "The Bad Sleep Well", "Yojimbo", "Sanjuro", "High and Low", "Red Beard", "Dodes’ka-den", "Dersu Uzala", "Kagemusha" and "Ran"); his recognizable themes and motifs; the fascinating variety and consistency of his films and career; the popular byproducts of his influence ("A Fistful of Dollars", "The Magnificent Seven", "Star Wars", etc.) and his command over the visual and aural elements of cinema. As much as I would have liked to produce something like that, it seems only fitting that in the year – and the month – of the great director’s centennial, there arrives a book that fulfills all of my expectations for such a project, and then some. As a huge fan and admirer of Kurosawa’s work, I don’t think I could have hoped for – let alone hoped to make – a better tribute to him than "Akira Kurosawa: Master of Cinema" by renowned film scholar Peter Cowie.

Befitting the Emperor’s one-hundredth birthday, Cowie has essentially put together the ideal overview of his career. Through his insightful and pleasant text, he examines Kurosawa’s work in chapters that address his early years, studies of postwar Japan, period films, literary adaptations and uses of style and form. In this way, Cowie doesn’t approach the films in chronological order, but instead logically organizes them according to their thematic qualities. Along the way, he provides a knowledgeable and informative analysis of each film and autobiographical facts about the director, his family and his work habits. Additionally, he recognizes Kurosawa’s place in world cinema by occasionally referring to such other influential figures as John Ford, Ingmar Bergman and Vittorio De Sica.

The opening pages of the book feature introductory notes from a few Kurosawa authorities. Martin Scorsese, who, along with being an admirer of Kurosawa’s work, also memorably appeared as Vincent van Gogh in "Dreams", talks about the lasting power of his storytelling skill and his understanding of both the various aspects of filmmaking and nuances of human nature his films explored. Donald Richie’s introduction provides more of a historical context, discussing the chilly reception and production difficulties Kurosawa faced in his home country as well as the cruelly ironic about-face pulled by the Japanese public after his death when they finally fully accepted him as a national treasure. Yet it is daughter Kazuko Kurosawa’s touching note that best sets the tone for the rest of the book, highlighting its status as an affectionate recognition of the man and his craft. As good as the book’s text is, its main draw is, fittingly for Kurosawa, its visual components, comprised of stills, on-set photographs, posters and photos of marked-up script pages, sketches and the director’s famous, stunning painted storyboards, all of which providing a comprehensive and inviting journey through his creative process.

A veritable treasure for newcomers and longtime devotees alike, "Akira Kurosawa: Master of Cinema" is an ideal companion piece to any Kurosawa retrospective. Put together with noticeable dedication, it illustrates the impact of Kurosawa’s films while providing plenty of tasty eye candy that will, without fail, remind you why he is the world’s most highly regarded Japanese filmmaker. Kudos to Peter Cowie and Rizzoli for celebrating the master’s 100th in just the right way.

BOOK REVIEW: Yokai Attack! The Japanese Monster Survival Guide

Yokai Attack! The Japanese Monster Survival Guide

Authors: Matt Alt and Hiroko Yoda

Publisher:
Kodansha International

191 pages

ISBN: 9784770030702

Published: 2008



Reviewed by Eric Evans

You're walking down a lovely side street in downtown Kyoto hoping to catch a glimpse of some Maiko shuffling along on errands when you see, hurtling toward you at a high rate of speed, a meter-long flaming wheel with a man's disembodied, bearded head at its center. How will you react? Should you bow, use a friendly greeting, or…? Too late. Your hesitation has cost you as you're torn limb from limb and left to die in the gutter.

It's too bad really, because you could have avoided this messy death at the hands--er, wheel--of the Wanyudo had you read Hiroko Yoda and Matt Alt's "Yokai Attack! The Japanese Monster Survival Guide." Together with manga illustrator Tatsuya Morino (of "Kibakichi" comic-book fame), they've supplied the intrepid traveler with a digest-sized full-color guidebook to the folkloric ghosts, beasts and creatures you'll likely encounter if you spend any time in Japan. Presented the same as any restaurant or city guide, the book divides the yokai in convenient groups (Ferocious Fiends, Gruesome Gourmets, Annoying Neighbors, The Sexy And Slimy, and The Wimps), lists the identifying characteristics of each one, and even includes a map so you'll have a better idea of which creatures haunt the night wherever you are. The individual entries are often peppered with bits of real-world trivia such as monuments or museums related to their subjects, and there are tips to URLs with animation and other goodies. A glossary of terms up front prepares you with the basics, and the resources section at the back lists other books and websites with which you might augment your Yokai knowledge.

The book is fun, falling into roughly the same category as Max Brooks' "Zombie Survival Guide" but without any serious literary pretensions. The authors seem to be enjoying themselves, and they've done their homework: The book looks like kid's stuff but it's probably the most authoritative mass-market book on Yokai out there. Morino-san's illustrations vary in style according to the needs of the monsters, and at first blush I assumed that multiple artists had worked on the book. (Any cartoonists and commercial illustrators reading this will recognize that as high praise.) My only beef with the book is the design, which is at times fussy and dense. Entries come complete with yellow highlighted portions like a used college textbook, and the courier-ish main body typeface doesn't do the reader any favors.

But there's nothing so wrong with the book that the casual reader, teenage monster-movie fan or Japanese culture enthusiast won't find a lot to like. In fact, if you're a fan of Yokai films, this book is a necessity. The story of the Kuchisake Onna (slit-mouthed woman) might be familiar to you owing to her starring roles in several recent films, but many of the Yokai seen in "Ge Ge Ge No Kitaro", the "100 Monsters" trilogy, "Kibakichi" 1 & 2, "Onmyogi", "Great Yokai War" or even the animated "Hellboy: Sword of Storms" may be completely baffling. For example, we've all seen the Kara-kasa – the one footed, one-eyed, tongue-wagging umbrella. But who knew that his weapon of choice is the Bronx cheer, and he's not interested in doing anything more than scaring you then hopping off to his next 'victim'? The book adds a dimension of enjoyment to those films by filling in all the who's, what's and why's of the various monsters. (A choice bit of trivia: the book's authors were extras in Takashi Miike's "Yokai War".)

In case you're still wondering, the opening of this review was a bit of a cheat: there is no correct way to greet the Wanyudo. Once you've seen him you're more or less doomed to be ripped to shreds, your soul forfeit to his rage. Sorry!

BOOK REVIEW: Starting Point, 1979-1996

Starting Point 1979-1996

Author: Hayao Miyazaki

Publisher:
Viz Media

500 pages

ISBN:1421505940

Published: 2009





Reviewed by Eric Evans

When I pre-ordered "Starting Point 1979-1996" I was foolish enough to think that Hayao Miyazaki, creator of such seminal anime films as "Spirited Away", "Princess Mononoke" and "My Neighbor Totoro", would take time away from his filmmaking work long enough to write a memoir. I'm both disappointed and relieved that isn't the case. Disappointed because there's no doubt Miyazaki has stories to tell, and relieved because the less time he spends writing, the more time he can spend working.

"Starting Point" is a collection of essays, notes, and interviews from various Japanese publications, translated and assembled according to loose themes such as "On Creating Animation" and "My Favorite Things". This ordering doesn't quite work, since the book jumps back and forth in its chronology trying to adhere to an artificial structure--why bother? The anecdotes are engrossing even when Miyazaki seems like he'd rather be doing anything than answering questions, which is about half the time.

Tonally the book is all over the map. Some of the interviews find Miyazaki-san testy and short, others gregarious and forthcoming. The testy ones are full of the usual platitudes: when asked what young animators can do to find success, there are lots of "do your best" and "work hard". But when Miyazaki feels like talking, he's full of beans.

On young people staking their claim: "[…] The opportunity to demonstrate what you can do only comes along once in a while, so unless you are extraordinarily lucky, you'll probably never make it."

On one of his female character's physical attributes: "Nausicaä's breasts are rather large, aren't they? […] Hee hee!"

On making an employee work 22 hours a day: "Frankly, this was in violation of the Labor Standards Law and the regulations against women working late at night. And it wasn't good for her health either. Part of me feels that no one should have to work that hard. But part of me also wants to have the energy and dedication she has for her work."

On his customers, children: "[…] I've stopped thinking that all children are cute. There are those I just don't get along with."

Readers unfamiliar with Miyazaki's films may be a bit lost since much of the book deals with their specifics. The section "Planning Notes; Directorial Memoranda" contains a treasure trove of behind-the-scenes ephemera: The original proposal for "Castle in the Sky", the project plan and character concepts used to create "My Neighbor Totoro", memos on prospective films and concepts, even a plan to acquire the film rights to Richard Corben's violent underground comic "Rowlf". For fans, it's compelling stuff. But the high points of the book come when the structure gets out of the way of the longer narratives. Anecdotes about filmmaking--long hours, off days spent drinking with friends, drunken cohorts getting sportscars hopelessly bogged down on muddy roads--reveal more about Miyazaki the man than I expected to learn. And the interviews that comprise the last third of the book are at times surprisingly contentious.

The book's strengths are also its weaknesses. So much of it is centered on the particulars of the films in question that a lack of knowledge about those films will render the book practically indecipherable. So if you're into the Ghibli movies and you're curious about the birth of Studio or the man behind the it, there's little question whether or not you should read "Starting Point". But if you're new to anime there's little here to recommend it.

BOOK REVIEW: The Bamboo Sword and Other Samurai Tales

The Bamboo Sword and Other Samurai Tales

Author:
Shuhei Fujisawa
(Gavin Frew trans.)

Publisher:
Kodansha International

253 pages

ISBN: 4770030053

Originally published: 2006


Reviewed by Eric Evans

If you don't recognize the name Shuhei Fujisawa, don't beat yourself up too badly. Until Kodansha International released his collection of short stories "The Bamboo Sword and Other Samurai Tales", his work had been unavailable in any kind of mass-market translation. If the name sounds vaguely familiar, you've probably seen it in the credits of Director Yôji Yamada's samurai trilogy. Fujisawa's (below left) the author of the source fiction from which Yamada made "Twilight Samurai", "The Hidden Blade" and "Love and Honor".

"The Bamboo Sword" is a short story collection with eight tales of Edo-period Japan. Each of the stories has a gentle but insistent momentum, and an earthy realness that fans of "Twilight Samurai" will recognize and appreciate. I don't mean to lessen Yamada's achievements with his samurai films, but for me what sets them apart from other chambara is their tone, and that's right here on the page. Yamada achieved something few can: He translated the writer's tone and intent from the written page to the screen.

None of Fujisawa's Samurai are simplistically invincible warriors. They're blue-collar working men who walk a fine line between maintaining their honor and taking whatever work they can get. This demystification of the samurai may not be a new concept--half of Toshiro Mifune's roles were men filthy and desperate to make a buck, even if they carried themselves with pride--but Fujisawa imbues his characters with a quiet dignity that underscores their various dilemmas with pathos. Not all the characters i these stories are samurai, but perhaps as you'd expect those that are resonate the strongest.

Elements of the titular story will be familiar. Tanjuro is an unemployed samurai--technically a ronin, but carrying a letter of recommendation and therefore hopeful of work--who arrives at the city gates with his wife and children in tow. He's traveled a great distance for a post which is no longer vacant, but the family's manners and bearing in the face of their poverty inspire pity, and he's given the opportunity to earn a livable income: He must kill another samurai in the lord's employ, a task which is both distasteful and emotionally difficult for him. Tanjuro has to weigh his family's hunger against his sense of honor, exactly the type of dilemma Yamada exploits so brilliantly onscreen.

Like the best short story writers, Fujisawa creates great depth in character with few words. His loyalties are clearly with the common man. Rarely does anyone in a position of wealth or power behave admirably; Even the thief in "A Passing Shower" has a sort of shabby nobility. "The Runaway Stallion" unfolds like a mystery written by vintage Martin Amis. Thematically the common thread throughout the stories is a sympathy for the underclasses; Stylistically it's an economy of language that is often striking. For example, the first three paragraphs of "Out of Luck" convey the mise en scène of a Tokugawa-era bar and it's owner, a once-great beauty, with such precision that I stopped and re-read them twice to marvel at the exactitude of the writing. It's easy to be florid and take all the room you need to make your point, but incredibly difficult, even poetic, to do the same with as few words as Fujisawa needs in these stories.

"The Bamboo Sword and Other Samurai Tales" is available in a mass-market hardcover for about $16 from Amazon and other vendors. Its eight stories span 253 pages, and each is richly cinematic in scope despite the obvious restraint in their execution. It's a good read, ideal for anyone interested in Yamada-esque samurai stories, Edo-period settings, or the craft of short-story writing.

Book Reviews: 'Beat' Takeshi Kitano/ Beat Takeshi Vs. Takeshi Kitano

"'Beat' Takeshi Kitano", Brian Jacobs (ed.), Publisher: Tadao Press, ISBN: 0952795116/ 104 pages, Published: 1999

"Beat Takeshi Vs. Takeshi Kitano", Casio Abe, Publisher: Kaya Press, ISBN: 1885030401/ 272 pages, Published: 2002

Reviewed by Eric Evans

Much to my mother's chagrin I was an Ultraman and Godzilla junkie from when I was old enough to change the channel, but it wasn't until I saw "Sonatine" that I developed a healthy adult interest in Japanese film. Oh sure, I'd seen the classics in college film courses, but for years I labored under the assumption that all Japanese film were chambara or deeply sober or both. Not that there's anything wrong with sobriety or period pieces, but the younger me wanted to see Scorsese-esque drama and realism played out in a contemporary setting. So you can imagine the effect Takeshi Kitano's directorial work had on me.

I'm also the type to immerse myself in whatever intrigues me, so once I tracked down all the available (and, um, commercially unavailable) Kitano DVDs I could, I went looking for books on the guy's films. My thought was that any artist with Kitano's output must have inspired a legion of critics and theologians whose many books would quench my desire to learn everything I could about him. However, it was slim pickings--especially in English.

The first volume I found was "'Beat' Takeshi Kitano", a magazine-sized catch-all volume covering Kitano's biographical information, reviews of his films, interviews with collaborators, festival coverage, and--most interestingly for this reader--a well-illustrated chapter on Kitano's paintings. Featuring multiple authors (including Tommy Udo, who provides most of the films reviews, and a few contributions from Casio Abe), the book struggles to find a consistent tone but is nevertheless a useful primer. At the time of purchase I recall thinking "this a treasure trove of information!" but there's little here that would prompt a re-read; I devoured the book in a sitting and never consulted it again. It's slight. For example, most of the film reviews run quite short: a page, two pages tops. "Scene At The Sea" merits one page, about 600 words. Further, there's something about the book that seems juvenile, as if it was published to appeal to a teen crowd. Certainly that's not the case, but it has the look and feel of one of those publish-it-quick-to cash-in biographies of teenage pop stars. Unfortunate.

The second Kitano book I discovered is "Beat Takeshi Vs. Takeshi Kitano", Casio Abe's scholarly examination of the two Takeshis: The TV star and comic who delights in scatology and pranks, and the director whose soulfulness and insight into worlds of crime and pain set the bar for Yakuza pictures. Casio's treatment is nuanced and his research is exhaustive; one cannot fault the book's depth or Casio's palpable respect for his subject. But while I recognize the appeal of the dueling Takeshis as a solid thematic hook on which to hang a book of essays and observations, I think the premise itself is flawed. Yes, Kitano is as comfortable with comedy as he is with drama--but does that mean he's at odds with himself, a Jeckyll and Hyde figure? It seems to me that many classic Hollywood actors and directors have done both comedy and drama to some acclaim, and the specialization (or is it typecasting?) of some directors as "dramatic" and others as "comedic" has less to do with artistic shortcomings and more to do with market forces and playing the odds with increasingly massive budgets.

In the Japanese film market, Takeshi Kitano exists in a Woody Allen role. OK, on the surface that's absurd, but stay with me: Allen started out in TV comedy, shifted to film comedy, then branched out into serious, and in some cases violent, drama. He was able to do so because his films are inexpensive enough that his investors recoup expenses and earn a bit of profit. In return for keeping the budgets low, Allen gets the creative freedom to make whatever films he wants. Sound familiar?

There is more of a demarkation between Kitano's TV and film work, but no one can argue that Kitano's best dramatic film work is humorless. "Sonatine" has highly effective pratfalls; "Hana~Bi" has darkly funny moments; "Kikujiro" is essentially a road movie with plenty of levity. As a result of these observations, I had a resistance to Casio's argument from page one. However, there's a degree of scholarship to this book that demands a fully engaged reader, and depending on where you're sitting, the work either transcends the "Takeshi Vs. Kitano" premise or proves quite persuasive. The essay chapters will inspire you to sit and re-watch the specific films, looking for things unseen or at very least subtle: nuances in shot construction, lighting composition and more. Casio is clearly passionate about Kitano's work to a degree unusual in a book like this. I've described it as scholarly several times, but that's not lexiconical laziness. This volume has much more in common with a college upperclassman's textbook than your standard film personality biography. If that sounds appealing to you, Mazel Tov!--the book will delight you. If the tone and density of serious film scholarship isn't your thing, you'll want to skip this.

Film by film, chapter by chapter, I didn't always agree with the conclusions Casio reaches. But the book challenges the reader to "read" each film on multiple levels--emotional, intellectual, technical--and compare results. I savored Casio's chapter essays over the span of several weeks, reading them and re-reading them after re-watching the DVDs of Kitano's films. It was great fun.

BOOK REVIEW: Outlet

コンセント (Konsento)

Author:
Randy Taguchi (Glynne Walley trans.)

Publisher:
Vertical Press

272 pages

ISBN: 1932234047

Originally published: 2000



Reviewed by Eric Evans

Randy Taguchi (below left) took a less-than-direct route to becoming an author. After a decade or so working in advertising, in 1996 she began writing online. Over time her blog attracted huge readership, due in no small part to her frank tone and outspoken opinions on societal issues. This built-in audience made her a safe bet to the publishing industry, so when she pitched a novel with a vaguely supernatural theme it was quickly accepted. The book sold well, and was optioned for a film adaptation. (That film, "Concent" [sic], was produced and released in 2002.)

"Outlet" is based on the suicide of Taguchi's real-life brother by "hikikomori": essentially, he stayed in his apartment nearly all the time and died of self-neglect. This serves as a galvanizing event in our protagonist Yuki's life. The absence of a suicide note strikes her as odd, so she looks for a clue, something her brother left behind to indicate why he would starve himself to death. She finds the end of a vacuum cleaner's power cord--an electrical plug, cleanly cut off--and pockets it, the start of the puzzle. It's also the start of a journey of self-discovery: Yuki starts to see a ghostly image of her dead brother, and can seemingly smell undiagnosed illnesses on people. Are these hallucinations, ghostly tricks, or the manifestation of a supernatural power she's had all along?

Taguchi's primary strength as a writer is her readability. Like other popular (or maybe I should say populist) authors--think Stephen King or Dan Brown--her work is page-turningly paced and stylistically understated. There's no syntax or structural experimentation that would scare off a young adult or working-class reader. It's ideal beach or airplane fodder in that it's quick and engaging, but it isn't vapid or shallow. As far as the subject matter goes, you could do worse than a detective story with supernatural overtones; think of a standard whodunit (or rather whytheydunit) mixed with "Ringu", with liberal doses of casual sex thrown into the mix. Taguchi's heroine unlocks aspects of the puzzle as she goes from lover to lover, and the result is a guaranteed page-turner.

The only place Taguchi's amateur status really becomes apparent is in the third act, which could charitably be called a mess. without giving too much away, she walks a tightrope between "Ringu"-style ghost story and conventional thriller reasonably well but because the story lives in both worlds it can't fully utilize the conventions of either one. As a result the book doesn't close with anything like a conventional, audience-pleasing climax. That said, such an ending would feel somewhat artificial given the unique flavor of the story, so credit to Taguchi for not taking the easy route.

"Outlet" should appeal to anyone who enjoys stories about contemporary Japan, supernatural subject matter, or well-paced fiction. If you go into it with few expectations you'll have a better time of it; If you're looking for a ghost story or a straight-ahead thriller you'll find much to like here, but the book doesn't quite satisfy if you're reading it solely for those elements.

"Concent", dir. Shun Nakahara, starring Miwako Ichikawa

There are two ways to adapt a book to the screen. One is to slavishly follow the original author's story, note for note; the other is to interpret the work and make whatever changes are deemed necessary by the filmmakers to create an engaging cinematic experience. Either can be done well (think Snyder's "Watchmen" and Cronenberg's "History of Violence") and either can be done poorly (any film made from Hemingway's books, and the Demi Moore disaster "Scarlet Letter"). Unfortunately the creative team behind "Concent" made all the wrong choices.

The film adaptation of Randy Taguchi's "Outlet" is surprisingly faithful to the source material--perhaps a bit too faithful, in that it's nearly literal. Casting "All About Lily Chou-Chou" and "Nightmare Detective 2" actress Miwako Ichikawa (above right) as Yuki is also problematic, since Yuki is a fiercely independent woman, a twentysomething freelance writer of finance stories for newspapers and magazines, and Ichikawa reads as a college freshman onscreen. She's cute as a button and not untalented, just too lightweight for a role that demands introspection, aggression, and other emotions beyond her range.

Despite following the narrative as closely as he does, Nakahara misses the boat stylistically by not aping the visual tropes of horror and suspense films at least a little. The film progresses is an even, direct way that recalls TV movies and other such hackwork, and this story in particular would have benefited from an infusion of style. As a result the film drags almost all the way through, always seeming a beat too slow. Most disastrously, the adaptation remains faithful to the book's third act difficulties, leading to a confusing and unsatisfying final 20 minutes. The film doesn't create any kind of ending, it just sort of stops.

Taguchi's book wasn't a classic, but it was a kernel of a film idea that would have blossomed under the eye of, say, the aforementioned David Cronenberg. The ability to sniff out cancer on someone's breath like a trained drug dog? That's right up his alley, and he would have conveyed it visually. Well, he would have conveyed the whole thing visually, but not before he'd crafted the story into one which worked as cinema. Nakahara and crew weren't up to the challenge.

Trivia note: The music for the film is by avant-garde jazz musician and noise-creator Otomo Yoshihide, who also scored Miwako Ichikawa's sister Mikako's first film, shojo-comic adaptation "Blue".

BOOK REVIEW: The Woman in the Dunes

砂の女 (Suna no onna)

Author:
Kobo Abe

Publisher:
Vintage International

256 pages

ISBN: 0679733787

Originally published: 1962




Reviewed by Eric Evans

Kobo Abé's "Woman In The Dunes" is a low-budget producer's dream--a story that takes place in essentially one room with two actors. The only major prop expense? Sand. Good thing Hiroshi Teshigahara got hold of the story (below left) before Roger Corman could. Imagine the professor from "Gilligan's Island" starring in an adaptation of this, opposite any of a dozen bland b-movie starlets?

Seriously, now.

Niki Junpei is a teacher in early middle age who cares for little other than his hobby, which is observing and cataloguing insects--primarily beetles. On a trip to the seashore to search for a new variety of sand beetle, Junpei misses the last bus back and is invited to stay overnight in the small, peculiar village embedded in the dunes. Delighted at the prospect of inexpensive hospitality he agrees, and climbs down a rope ladder into a sand pit to a small ramshackle house owned by a quiet widow. He is fed a simple supper of fish soup and falls asleep. In the morning, he finds the rope ladder gone, and his host--a woman of roughly his own age--laying on a tatami, nude but for the towel covering her face. What unfolds is a horror story of sorts: no bogeyman chases our protagonist, but the existential dread that creeps in like grains of sand through a loose-beamed roof is a fate just as cold and certain. Junpei learns that he must join the woman in her nightly duties of digging, sweeping, and shoveling away sand from her house, like it or not. He can't leave, for there is no escape up the sheer sand walls of the pit; he can't stop, or he'll be engulfed by the ever-advancing dunes. He must choose how best to cope with an untenable situation; initially nonplussed, and goes through a number of attempts to free himself, which comprise the bulk of the book. These efforts fall between heroic and pathetic.

I was initially struck by the book's similarities to the Hermann Hesse and Thomas Mann novels I read in college. Like Hesse, Abé (below right) creates a kind of myth or parable which invites interpretation. Unlike Hesse, Abe's work stands as a reasonably compelling narrative without any existential introspection. At its simplest, it's a less hobbling version of Stephen King's "Misery" (for which it seemingly must have been an inspiration), or perhaps a low-tech version of the island from "The Prisoner". If you choose to read "Woman In The Dunes" as a straightforward narrative you could, but you will find that none of the characters are sympathetic. They have motives you can understand, but there's no effort to connect you with any of their personalities. Much like Junpei observing insects, the reader sees these characters move and interact and such, but there is no more empathy between the reader and the characters than there could be between a human and a beetle. It's an almost unthinkable situation and one that's difficult to imagine oneself in, especially if it represents the futility of our everyday lives. Especially then.

So then, how to proceed? Abé's sand world could refer to Western capitalism (work your whole life just to maintain your current status, essentially treading water until you sink) or the endless, pointless struggle of life itself outside of any system (Sisyphus pushing his rock uphill just to see it roll back down again; subsistence farming that requires season after season of labor to produce enough food to survive, but only just). Regardless of the ideology you attach to it, the story is about the dehumanization of man in the face of industry. (Junpei even loses his physical identity in the form of his own reflection--no mirror could survive the harsh sandy conditions. There is no room for vanity or self in the world of futility Abé creates.) That Junpei can find some solace in the arms of his captor/co-prisoner is either poetic or cold comfort, depending on how full or empty your glass is.

The writing is elegant. I'm forced to assume that the translation by E. Dale Saunders reflects not only the content but also the style of the source work. I suspect it must, if only because the dialogue, stylistically, is so similar to so many other Japanese authors I've read in translation. From Seicho Matsumoto's "Inspector Imanishi Investigates" to Haruki Murakami's short stories, the dialog always seems clipped or sparse when compared to, say, French literature. Barring a strange courtroom dream sequence late in the book, characters speak directly to their points… when they speak at all. But the descriptions are vivid and the narrative is deliberate but never slow. If you seek out novels to transport you to another time or place, "Woman In The Dunes" will foot the bill, though the trip is nasty and the destination is unpleasant. Although I found it engrossing and well written, I can't say I enjoyed reading the book. I'm glad to have read it and I'd recommend it both as existential novel and as a piece of almost uniquely Japanese literature, but I ultimately found it depressing.

BOOK REVIEW: Behind the Pink Curtain

Behind the Pink Curtain: The Complete History of Japanese Sex Cinema

Author: Jasper Sharp

Publisher: FAB Press

384 pages

ISBN: 190325454X

Published: 2008




Reviewed by Eric Evans

I'm usually dubious of any book that claims to be the "complete history" of any subject, and Jasper Sharp's "Behind the Pink Curtain: The Complete History of Japanese Sex Cinema" is no exception. Having slogged through the Weissers' "Sex Films" encyclopedia as well as dreck like Nicholas Bornoff's "Pink Samurai: Love , Marriage and Sex in Contemporary Japan" hoping to get a better grasp of pink eiga, I had a justifiable fear that Sharp (below left) would feel it necessary to justify his title and discuss each and every pink film. Not to worry. Sharp qualifies his title's claim early on by verifying something every movie fan fears, that many pink films--particularly those made in the 1950s and '60s--are lost and therefore unviewable. However, the book provides something more valuable than film-by-film reviews: context. It's the historicity of the thing that makes it invaluable to any fan of Japanese cinema.

And what a difference that context makes. Sharp establishes a basis for his discussion of the movies by defining terms then dives in, isolating specific directors and placing their work into the appropriate milieu. He examines the major works in detail and at least touches upon minor yet interesting movies, noting thematic similarities and differences, and the cause and effect each had on the genre. That Sharp can do this with a degree of scholarly precision yet also keep it readable is high praise. Whenever I felt the lengthy discussion of the politics (both intentional and incidental) of Koji Wakamatsu and Masao Adachi got slightly bogged down in the specifics of the radical movement of the 1960s, Sharp would bring in another film and prove that the detail was not only necessary, but welcome. A good example is Wakamatsu's "Ecstasy of the Angels": In a typically British bit of understatement Sharp suggests that without proper context the film may make for "not very satisfactory viewing", a statement that elicited not only an immediate belly laugh but a nod of agreement. I can now re-watch the film with knowledge of the self-destructive activist terrorism of student governments, extreme left-wing groups, and red army factions that informed it and come away with more than a head sore from scratching.

Don't get me wrong. Pink films can be appreciated on a purely instinctual level; Many of the titles make up for their low budgets with every tool and trick at the filmmaker's disposal (see "The Embryo Hunts in Secret", which features two actors in a single room for the duration of it's run time). But many of the eroductions from the 1960s and early 70s take on special significance when viewed through the prism of social unrest. In many cases these were political films with sexual content, and viewing them as such changes the experience.

I'll admit to being on the pinky violence bandwagon. While I had seen a few pink films at revival houses here and there, it wasn't until companies like Panik House started reissuing the movies that I took more than a cursory interest. Sharp details how the radicalism of the '60s morphed into the pinky violence and torture films of the '70s and the misogyny of the '80s, and how some aspects of the auteurism that shaped the earlier films shifted into the house style at various studios, most notably Nikkatsu. In any art form, once something moves from the avant garde to the mainstream it must change. Actions on film that would spark lawsuits and condemnation then are relatively commonplace now. But that's not to say that pink films have lost their relevance or political edge completely--the international film festival success of 2004's "Glamorous Life of Sachiko Hanai" (below right) is proof of that.

Japanese film enthusiasts can't ignore pink any more than western film enthusiasts can ignore MTV. Like the music videos that launched the careers of David Fincher, Spike Jonze and Michel Gondry, pink films are a proving ground for young directors who go on to considerable mainstream success. This year's academy awards are ample proof of that: Director Yojiro Takita cut his teeth in the pink film industry, as have dozens of other well-regarded filmmakers. "Behind the Pink Curtain" explains how and why that's the case.

Sharp's humor is one of the book's charms. One vital thing separating "Behind the Pink Curtain" from other scholarly examinations of film movements is a turn of phrase like "A uniformed office lady on a crowded commuter train mews in ecstasy as a mustachioed creep fumbles beneath her skirt", or "The hot summer seaside setting is instead livened up with some kinky games involving pachinko balls and the queasy spectacle of an abalone squirming in Saki's boat during a bout of on-deck lovemaking". Now, I don't want to misrepresent the book as a laugh a minute or Sharp's writing as glib, but there are chuckles to be had.

The book is profusely illustrated, well designed, indexed and thoroughly annotated. My only real beef is with those notes: They're tucked away at the end of each chapter, requiring the reader flip back and forth, and it makes for an awkward read. Footnotes would have made a big difference! But as complaints go, that's as minor as they come. Highly recommended.