Tokyo Sonata (2008)
The second contemporary release in Eureka’s Masters of Cinema line, Tokyo Sonata, from noted Japanese filmmaker Kiyoshi Kurosawa proved to be yet another wonderful surprise from the noted company. In fact, I would even go as far as to claim that this year the MoC line has far outclassed its American counterparts The Criterion Collection, with every single release proving a treat (although I still haven’t gotten around to viewing my copy of Antonioni’s Il Grido yet…). I have to admit to being very apprehensive when MoC first announced that they were to move into the world of modern cinema, especially as the first two releases, Johnny To’s Mad Detective and Tokyo Sonata were Asian-fare, which as we all know is not my forte. Alas, my woes indeed were in vain, as both films have proved incredibly enjoyable. Their next contemporary release, Soul Power comes from American filmmaker Jeffrey Levy-Hinte, and is set in Zaire, so variation does seem to be on the cards. Alas, before I begin to drift off point any further, lets have a look at Tokyo Sonata.
Tokyo Sonata tells the story of the Sasaki family. Ryûhei (Teruyuki Kagawa) is the father of the unit, and the breadwinner. Upon losing his job, an anonymous office position that becomes the casualty of globalism, Ryûhei hides his predicament from the rest of his family and spends his days hanging around the local soup kitchen, in an endless queue for petty work and with an old school-friend Kurosu (Kanji Tsuda), a man in a similar position. Meanwhile Ryûhei’s youngest son Kenji (Inowaka Kai), a boy with severe issues at school, falls in love with the local piano teacher, which proves a welcome antidote to his growing attitude problem at school and home. Kenji’s older brother, and indication as towards Kenji’s potential fate Takashi (Yu Koyonagi) decides to join the U.S military in an attempt to remove himself from the hopeless situation he is currently. The mother of the family unit Megumi (Kyoko Koizumi), while initially apparently rather complacent slowly exposes her true feelings as she gradually reveals her husbands deception. The film details the family’s disintegration and redemption, all the while taking on many a quirky and unusual detour. Megumi is kidnapped and almost forms one half of a Thelma & Louise-esque pairing, Kenji proves to be a musical prodigy, Ryûhei finds a large sum of money and Takashi’s fate is left unrevealed, although a ghostly apparition that haunts Megumi speaks for itself. In the end the family are brought back together, seemingly in reaction to the concept of “The Nuclear Family”.
As the film opens we are given a glimpse into the future. At the time of said “glimpse” we do not realise it’s true meaning though, and are unaware as to what it actual does mean until the kidnap twist 80 minutes into the film. In a way this scene is indicative of the nature of many of the early scenes, such as the initial one set in the grounds of the soup kitchen and the introduction to the queue for work. And while these locales are introduced through revelation through repetition, much in the same way as the routine of the family is, the opening scene is all but forgotten about by the time the fate of the scene arises. It is the replaying of this sequence, which once felt mystical, and even reminiscent of the work of Ozu, that it’s full impact is felt, and our presumptions are completely thrown. It’s effective filmmaking, especially as this scene is the axis point by where the film flips into a different tone altogether.
Deception is the key theme of the film. The whole narrative is based upon Ryûhei’s secret dismissal, and the thematic implications are overtly evident. From the moment Ryûhei subtly leaves his generic office, borrowing a colleague’s glamorous gift bag to remove his possessions, the dishonesty flows, be it in the way that Kenji secretly goes to piano lessons after his father dismisses it as a “whim”, or Takashi’s involvement with the military. These deceptions are far more firmly rooted than that of the father’s influence though, with both of the sons displaying dishonesty outside of the family unit (Kenji with his teacher and Takashi with his flyering job).
I found myself questioning the very existence of the character of Kurosa at times. The character, seemingly an expert body at the situation that has befallen
Ryûhei, the way in which his narrative arc flows, and indeed his ultimate is as a warning towards Ryûhei, and could be interpreted as a figment of Ryûhei’s imagination. Likewise, so could the petty thief that breaks into the Sasaki household and takes Megumi hostage. The thief frees her from the stronghold of conformity and, again, custom, yet when his effect is fully felt he simply disappears. Kenji’s “guardian angel”, in the shape of the piano teacher that sees the value in him that no one else does could also fall into this interpretation. No one other than the appropriate character interacts with these secondary characters; they each exist in the world of their protagonist.
The theme of deception is complimented by an appropriately restrictive mise-en-scene. At several points, especially in the earlier half of the film, key characters find themselves almost drown out of the image on screen, hidden by incidental props and furniture. The most prominent of these moments comes during the several “meal” scenes, whereby our protagonist thus far in the shape of family patriarch Ryûhei is hidden behind specifically placed shelving units and staircases. That these moments fall during scenes revolving round food, a fairly customary scenario, is important. The film deconstructs many different forms of custom and order, with the notion of the Japanese work ethic being the most formally assimilated. The collision of the old and new is prominent too, with the traditional styling of the house marred by the inclusion of a flat screen television in the middle of the living room, and the modern ferris wheel that lies in the shadows of the broken down old police station being two key examples of this subtle comment. Consumerism is approached in a similar manner too, with the beautifully shot escalators of the shopping mall being the focus of attention as opposed to the attendants that stride around the building with military-like precision.
Visually Tokyo Sonata is a treat. The largely lifeless camera resorts to movement only when necessary, and as such is as much a part of the narrative as any of the characters on screen. The way in which the camera “hides” certain things from the viewer, be it the facial expressions of specific characters, Ryûhei’s fate as he steps in front of a car or any number of things, proves not only very effective, but also ultimately completely appropriate for the story at hand. There is a hint of Stanley Kubrick-esque patterns within each of the individual frames, which in turns reinforces the importance of repetition within the film. The directors horror credentials are fully on display in scenes such as the one wherein Kenji falls down the stairs, and Ryûhei’s “rise from the grave” is very of the horror genre. It’s very easy to forget that Tokyo Sonata comes from a filmmaker renown for his films of a very different ilk to that of this.
Family roles are the key focus of characterisation. Ryûhei’s inability to secure work is the key plot point of the film, shedding emphasis on his role as the father of the family, but I found Megumi’s questioning of her role as mother to be far more interesting. “Who else will play mother in the family?” she asks at one point, which opens up the heart of the film explicitly. This moment is followed by the shot of her walking towards the camera, only for the lighting to become excruciatingly bright, and in turn creates an incredibly visceral and empowered character, which works equally as well as a reaction to her own outpouring as it does a reading of the immediate scenario. It is no coincidence that both children spend much of the running time addressing their own concerns as to their own roles within not only the family unit, but also society and even the world at large. Paranoia and confusion is rife within this unit, with the ultimate answer being that there isn’t one.
The use of sound in Tokyo Sonata is of great interest. An incidental score harbors over specific moments, with a contemporary electronic score jarring heavily with the expectations suggested with the premise of a film that effectively revolves around the piano. The irony of the use of an electronic organ is great, and ties into the point above about the combination of old and new. In fact, we don’t actually hear the piano played until the final scene of the film, in which Kenji plays in an attempt to pass an entrance examination for a prestigious school. As such, the expectation hinted at throughout builds to this moment, and we are given an incredibly moving and triumphant rendition of Debussy’s Claire de Lune. The one shot take, whereby the mass diegetic audience of the frame focuses fully en masse upon Kenji for the first time in the entire picture, parental unit included. It truly is the perfect ending to the most dysfunctional of films, a tale which is inadvertently quirkier than a thousand Juno’s, Little Miss Sunshine’s or Napoleon Dynamite’s.
