Media watch: Mayor of town on front line of possible Taiwan dispute demands constitutional revision

Location of Yonaguni Island

On May 3, which is Constitution Day in Japan, prominent right wing pundit Yoshiko Sakurai held a symposium in Tokyo on the Constitution, which she wants to amend in order to establish the Self-Defense Forces (SDF) as a full-fledged national military body and remove any restrictions regarding belligerence. One of the speakers was Kenichi Itokazu, mayor of Yonaguni, the westernmost island of Japan, located 509 kilometers from the main island of Okinawa and fairly close to Taiwan. Itokazu has spent most of the last 30 years lobbying the government to build an SDF post on Yonaguni, which would be the closest municipality in Japan to any action that would arise if China decides to use force in bringing Taiwan under its direct control. In fact, Yonaguni is so close to Taiwan that it falls within the island’s air defense zone. 

In his speech, which was summarized in the May 7 edition of the Sankei Shimbun, Itokazu says he found it “humiliating” 30 years ago that his town had no national defense capabilities. More to the point, there were no military facilities, either Japanese or American, on any of the islands that stretched between Yonaguni and Okinawa. Then in 2016, a Ground Self-Defense Force post was established on Yonaguni, and 3 years later posts were built on Miyakojima and Amami Oshima. Last year, one was set up on Ishigaki Island, thus demonstrating the government’s will to “resolutely protect the Sakishima archipelago.” 

But Itokazu feels it isn’t enough, because “when we consider the situation surrounding the Senkaku islands,” which are claimed by Japan, China, and Taiwan, “and the Taiwan situation,” there’s always the problem of Japan’s Constitution, which forbids Japan from going to war with another country. He mentions how the American GHQ under General Douglas MacArthur “thoroughly crushed” Japan when it forced the present Constitution on the nation during the postwar occupation because it feared the “courage” that the “people of Yamato” demonstrated during the Pacific War. The resulting document denies Japan the right to engage in military action, which, as mayor of Yonaguni, Itokazu finds unbelievable since Japan has a responsibility to defend Taiwan, a former Japanese colony, from China if China decides to annex the island. In that case “the Taiwan Strait issue becomes a Yonaguni Strait issue.” 

Consequently, the Constitution must be revised so as to change the laws that apply to the SDF and include a “state of emergency” clause. In other words, it must “recognize” Japan’s right to engage in war. Otherwise, Japan cannot respond adequately and quickly to states of emergency that could arise with regard to Taiwan and the Senkakus, not to mention natural disasters such as earthquakes, tsunamis, and typhoons. Japanese lawmakers must move to change the Constitution in order to “throw off the yoke of self-restriction” that has been imposed by the current Constitution, and they must act now so that Japan can defend Taiwan and their shared values of freedom and democracy. Japan’s very existence is at stake. 

In Dec. 2022, Asahi Shimbun ran an interview with Itokazu where he said pretty much the same thing but without centering his views on the Constitution. The interviewer does ask him about the possibility of using diplomacy to ease tensions in the region, since the present Constitution implies with its refusal to recognize Japan’s right to wage war that diplomacy is the only legal means Japan has to solve security problems, and the mayor agrees that such efforts should be made, though he also says that Japan is “very weak when it comes to diplomacy and intelligence gathering,” so if diplomacy fails Japan could be the object of Chinese aggression. 

Both the interview and the speech suggest that Itokazu is mainly advocating for deterrence. As the interviewer points out, if Japan fights with the U.S. to defend Taiwan from China, any place in Japan with an SDF presence will become a target, but Itokazu says that if there is an SDF presence on Yonaguni then “we can feel safe,” which sounds overly optimistic for someone living on the front lines of what could turn out to be a shooting war.

But that’s the possibility that the Japanese government doesn’t like to talk about in its drive to increase its military capabilities, because if a shooting war does start between China and Taiwan, and the U.S. joins in with Japan by its side, Japan will suffer greatly regardless of the amount of hardware it’s bought and the number of troops at its command. The U.S. isn’t going to worry about an attack on its homeland because it’s too far away, but any Japanese forces will become targets in a war with China, which means the Japanese homeland itself will become a target. Nobody in the government or in the mainstream media talks about that reality except in theoretical terms (we need more missiles). Other than Sankei, the only daily newspapers who covered Itokazu’s speech were the Okinawa Times, since Okinawa, being the prefecture nearest to any presumed conflict, knows it would be in harm’s way; and the Asahi Shimbun, which limited coverage to one paragraph. If the government really wants to develop a full-fledged military capability to defend neighbors from outside aggression, it has to tell all the people of Japan what that would entail in a worst case scenario. 

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Review: Anyone But You

In its own super-contrived way, the plot dynamics of Will Gluck’s rom-com, Anyone But You, should offer assurances to those of us who have always appreciated the genre for the way it’s challenged good screenwriters to come up with witty sexual banter. Essentially, it’s about two beautiful people who spend a sexless night together completely misunderstanding each other and then embarking on a fake romance in order to achieve dubious goals that only prove to the audience how insecure they are without knowing it. Unfortunately, the mechanics of the actual scheme have little in common with anything that resembles reality, which wouldn’t normally be a problems, but even among the upper middle class types that populate Hollywood rom-coms these days the action on display is baffling. More to the point, Gluck cast two able comic actors whose roles and lines take scant advantage of their talents, thus forcing them to fall back on charms that are, let’s say, less cerebral. For Glen Powell, it’s his abs; for Sydney Sweeney, her cleavage. 

After their one-night misadventure, Ben (Powell) and Bea (Sweeney) end up attending the wedding of Bea’s sister Halle (Hadley Robinson) to Ben’s friend, Claudia (Alexandra Shipp), in Australia, where one of the brides is from. Bea pretends to be with Ben in order to stave off ex-fiancee Jonathan (Darren Barnet), whom her parents want her to get back with, while Ben plays along to make his own ex, Margaret (Charlee Fraser), who is also attending the wedding, jealous and drop her Australian bimbo BF (Joe Davidson). For the most part, Powell and Sweeney stir up believable chemistry through their playacting as moony lovers, but the situations dreamed up by Gluck and his co-scenarist Ilana Wolpert can’t quite split the difference between crazy and cringe—even when cringe is the obvious goal, as when Bea and Ben attempt “full Titanic” to distract and end up falling into Sydney harbor. The only really funny aspect of the script is that most of the people at the wedding see straight through the subterfuge, but Gluck doesn’t know what to do with this idea and lets it run out of gas before allowing the movie to sputter to a bland, predictable climax. 

Even the exceptionally large and recognizable supporting cast feels superfluous in that they trade in tired stereotypes (the dads get high together; Margaret’s BF is a pillow-headed surfer dude) without being given the opportunity to make sufficient fun of those stereotypes. And the token dramatic moment—Bea has to confess to her parents that she’s not going to become a lawyer, as they wished—totally fails to make its point, which is to reveal the self-doubt she’s been toiling under her whole, privileged life. In the end, as you wonder whether you’ve seen this rom-com before, you realize that you don’t really care. 

Now playing in Tokyo at Toho Cinemas Nihonbashi (050-6868-5060), Toho Cinemas Hibiya (050-6868-5068), Toho Cinemas Shinjuku (050-6868-5063), Toho Cinemas Roppongi Hills (050-6868-5024).

Anyone But You home page in Japanese

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Review: The Lost Weekend: A Love Story

In 1973 and 1974, John Lennon lived apart from Yoko Ono during a licentious interlude that Lennon himself dubbed his “lost weekend.” His companion was May Pang, a Chinese-American woman who had become Lennon and Ono’s personal assistant sometime before the breakup. It’s fairly well known that Ono, in fact, engineered the affair as a means of keeping tabs on her husband, who had already strayed quite far sexually. In the years since Lennon’s death, Pang has exploited the affair by writing two books about it, and this documentary feels as if it’s her idea, since the story is told exclusively from her point of view, even if the narration’s jaunty, carefree tone feels highly mediated. And while she reveals things about both Lennon and Ono that make them look like future members of co-dependents anonymous, there’s also many factoids about the Lennons’ business arrangements and how John’s separation from Yoko spurred flights of creativity. Granted, one’s opinion of the fruits of that creativity may not be as enthusiastic as Pang’s, who boldly pats herself on the back for cultivating it, but you can hardly blame her for believing that that was the case.

It’s not surprising, then, that Ono comes across as the manipulating witch that some people have tried to portray her as. The narrative arc bends toward the disclosure that Lennon may, in fact, have been secretly in touch with his wife during the entire Pang affair without the latter’s knowing it, and when he finally returned to Ono, Pang describes his actions as that of an abused puppy. Though she took it as a betrayal at the time, in hindsight she felt it was inevitable because that’s the kind of people they were. Lennon was notoriously insecure, and Pang is frank about his violence, especially toward women. She takes credit for not only reuniting John with his first son, Julian, who provides plenty of on-screen character testimony to Pang’s positive effect on his father’s temperament, but also single-handedly elevates first wife Cynthia as an unfairly wronged woman. She also lends rare insight into several famous anecdotes, such as the infamous drunken tampon incident at a club in Los Angeles with the so-called Hollywood Vampires (which included Alice Cooper, Micky Dolenz, and Harry Nilsson) and the way Phil Spector ruined Lennon’s rock’n roll covers album. 

The press, perhaps at Ono’s orchestration, have mostly portrayed the lost weekend as a time when Lennon was out of control, but Pang claims, without a hint of irony, that Lennon was “the most himself” during her time with him. My initial reaction to this intelligence was doubt mixed with a certain degree of awe, because with Yoko now well into her tenth decade on the planet, Pang could end up getting in the last word on the matter. 

Opens May 10 in Tokyo at Kadokawa Cinema Yurakucho (03-6268-0015), Cine Quinto Shibuya (03-3477-5905), Cinema Qualite Shinjuku (03-3352-5645).

The Lost Weekend home page in Japanese

photo (c) 2021 Lost Weekend, LLC

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Review: Honey Sweet

Yoo Hae-jin is one of those movie stars who would seem to flourish as a character actor but somehow is flourishing as a leading man; though, granted, the people he plays are not what you would normally think of as leading man material. And yet he might be the most versatile male actor in Korean cinema. This goofy romantic comedy seems almost custom made for his peculiar skills. Yoon plays Cha Chi-ho, a dedicated food chemist for a snack company whose diet consists of nothing more than the chips he develops through trial-and-error, McDonald’s takeout, and the occasional fried chicken delivery. His large collection of alarm clocks speaks to his OCD predilections, which chart out every second of the day in his mind. As a corollary, he’s not just socially dysfunctional, but also interpersonally illiterate. When his good-for-nothing brother, Seok-ho (Cha In-pyo), comes to his apartment after being released from prison, Chi-ho is welcoming and totally oblivious to Seok-ho’s gambling addiction and scofflaw temperament. He doesn’t even know that he’s the guarantor for a bank loan his brother took out until a loan officer calls him to say that payments are way overdue.

The loan officer is single mother Il-yeong (Kim Hee-sun), who is pretty much the opposite of Chi-ho: brash, uninhibited, with a quick temper and a potty mouth. When she sees Chi-ho waiting his turn at the bank and making funny faces at a small child, something clicks in her. It’s not love at first sight, but more like, “This guy’s weird in a funny way. What makes him tick?” She soon learns that he’s weird in a weird way, but is attracted to him anyway, mainly because he’s completely different from her ex, who knocked her up and then took off. Her now college-age daughter, in fact, became a championship marksman so that if he ever returned (which, of course, he does, eventually) she could shoot him. 

Though hardly a deep movie or, for that matter, an uproariously funny one, Honey Sweet keeps dropping pleasant surprises as it makes its leisurely, detour-strewn way toward a qualified happy ending. Director Lee Han and scriptwriter Lee Byeong-heon mostly lead with their gut, and while the jokes are hit-and-miss, the tone is so good-natured about Chi-ho’s sexual awkwardness that you want to show it to any Hollywood filmmaker thinking of adding a romcom to their resume. It’s like The 40-Year-Old Virgin but with a more realistic idea of why someone is a virgin at the age of 40. That said, most of the situations, which invariably involve food, are patently ludicrous. Nobody could be this naive and remain breathing at the threshold of middle age. 

In Korean. Now playing in Tokyo at Marunouchi Piccadilly (050-6875-0075), Shinjuku Piccadilly (050-6861-3011).

Honey Sweet home page in Japanese

photo (c) Mindmark Inc. & Movierock

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Review: Green Border

As up-to-the-minute filmmaking goes, Agneiszka Holland’s take on the migrant crisis in northern Europe exudes a professionalism that tends to overwhelm its harrowing themes. Though the moral and humanitarian stakes are never in question, it’s easy to fall into the action-flick rhythms that Holland and her crack multinational team of activist-artists create with seeming ease. Time was obviously of the essence, since, reportedly, Holland wanted to commit to film as quickly as possible the tragedy engendered by Belarussian President Alexander Lukashenko’s cynical 2021 invitation to refugees to come to his country as a stepping off point for easy entry into the EU as represented by the “green border” between Belarus and Poland, whose government didn’t want them but couldn’t admit it openly due to its EU commitments. Holland succeeded in that she began shooting the film in March 2023 and finished it before festival season. It’s crisis cinema made to order. 

Filmed in black-and-white presumably to add an extra measure of bleakness to the proceedings, the movie imparts an irresistible forward momentum that mirrors the desperation of its migrant protagonists, who are escaping repression and war in the Middle East and Africa. The sense of calm felt by the central extended middle class family from Syria as they fly to Belarus after paying good money to a broker is palpable, and you know as soon as they arrive at the airport and wait for their ride to the border that things will not go well. Holland and her co-screenwriters, Maciej Pisuk and Gabriela Łazarkiewicz-Sieczko, telegraph the problems that will ensue by including a middle-aged female English teacher from Afghanistan escaping the Taliban who announces that she knew Poles through her brother back home and they were “decent people.” And sure enough, as soon as they get to the border, shots ring out and Belarussian soldiers force them through an opening in the razor-wire fence. They are now on their own and get shoved back and forth over the border by soldiers or guards on either side who have orders to make sure they don’t remain in their respective countries. Holland’s strategy is to show all the players in this game—the hapless, victimized migrants; the Polish border patrol guards who are just following orders; the Polish activists who do their best to keep the migrants alive long enough in the exclusion zone to get them actually into the country proper so they can claim asylum; and a widowed psychiatrist who acts as the overriding conscience of the film. 

The presentation is effective in showing how the outward humanitarian stance toward the migrants masks a virulent racism rooted in the population, especially at the end when Holland compares their cruel treatment to the initial Polish reaction to the invasion of white Ukraine. Holland’s strongest point in this regard is balancing the bureaucratic niceties of the Polish policy with how it plays out in reality, which often leads to death. The resulting set pieces, however, can suffer from a dramatic imperative that feels stagey, even when the tragedy is torn from actual stories. It’s easy to sit through the cliches about ineffectual, hypocritical liberals, but even the stuff about bone-headed working class stiffs getting played by the authorities is rife with short-cut stereotypes, because that’s what often happens when you’re pressed for time. 

In Polish, English, Arabic and French. Opens May 3 in Tokyo at Toho Cinemas Chanter Hibiya (050-6868-5001), Kino Cinema Shinjuku (03-5315-0978).

Green Border home page in Japanese

photo (c) 2023 Metro Lato Sp. z o.o., Blick Productions SAS, Marlene Film Production s.r.o., Beluga Tree SA, Canal+ Polska S.A., dFlights Sp. z o.o., Ceska televize, Mazovia Institute of Culture

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Review: System Crasher

With her debut film, German director Nora Fingscheidt demonstrates unequivocally that she isn’t fooling around. The title is a kind of inside joke among social workers in Germany, as it refers to a case that basically breaks the carefully wrought procedures that have been put in place to address public welfare situations as fairly and compassionately as possible. The case that crashes this system is Benni (Helena Zengel), a blonde 9-year-old girl, constantly dressed in shocking pink, who is prone to explosive fits of rage. Even as the movie starts, the public servants charged with her case are at the end of their ropes because they have run out of foster care facilities that will accept Benni, since she’s already been kicked out of most of them. The ostensible reason for Benni’s distemper is her being separated from her single mother, Bianca (Lisa Hagmeister), who, based on the few times we see her in action, seems constitutionally incapable of handling Benni’s mood swings, as she’s got two other younger children (from different fathers than Benni’s) to care for and a bad dose of low self-esteem that scans as borderline suicidal. Benni is at that age when she may be starting to realize that her mother can’t handle her, but in any event it doesn’t impinge on her virulent sense of abandonment, which always manifests as physical violence.

Mood swings imply that there are high moments, as well, and the film makes it clear that Benni has a native intelligence her case workers can’t quite exploit to their—and her—advantage. One of these workers, Micha (Albrecht Schuch), thinks he has a solution, and brings Benni on a tough love weekend to an isolated cabin where he often works with troubled adolescent boys. At first, Benni objects to the lack of creature comforts—no TV, no Wifi, no electricity, in fact—but she eventually responds positively to Micha’s attention, which is focused completely on her. The problem, of course, is that Micha thinks this form of therapy will somehow change Benni, but once she understands that Micha has his own family to return to and that he is only “doing his job,” she reverts to her core resentments. Micha is thus castigated by his colleagues for violating a signal code of his calling: Always maintain a professional distance. Micha has been indulging in what is called “a rescue fantasy,” and once Benni catches on she pulls back into her sense of being used by adults. 

The question viewers will ask themselves as they endure this punishing movie is, What can be done that hasn’t already been tried? Benni spends several sequences in a psychiatric facility drugged into catatonia, and it’s the only time the film calms down. Having run out of resources and answers, her main case worker, an astoundingly patient woman referred to as Frau Bafane (Gabriela Maria Schmeide), sees no alternative but to send her overseas to a special school where she will be a prisoner, though, truthfully, most of the foster homes we see in the movie practice their own forms of incarceration. The ultimate injury comes when Bianca, after breaking up with her latest boyfriend, agrees to take Benni back and the child is overjoyed, but then Bianca comes to her senses when she realizes her youngest son will somehow take after Benni, as if what Benni suffers from is contagious. (She does have a point, since the boy seems to idolize his half-sister.) System Crasher is unrelenting in its insistence that some people are not made for society, and while the onus falls on the failures of individuals, like Bianca, Fingscheidt does not try to blame the system. She gives these hard-working, well-intentioned people the benefit of the doubt. She just wants them, and us, to try harder. 

In German. Now playing in Tokyo at Theater Image Forum Aoyama (03-5766-0114).

System Crasher home page in Japanese

photo (c) 2019 kineo Filmproduktion Peter Harwig, Weydemann Bros. GmbH, Oma Inge Film UG (haftungsbeschränkt), ZDF

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Review: Evil Does Not Exist

Almost deceptively, Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s latest film initially comes across as a conventional story about a big, bad corporation invading a rustic village for profit. The simplicity of the premise is what works for me, since I love stories that explain in detail situations involving labor and commerce. Here we have a Tokyo talent agency exploiting COVID-related government subsidies to set up a rental campsite for rich Tokyoites in the mountains of Yamanashi, where the locals live in relative harmony with the land. As part of the subsidy deal the company has to gain the trust of these locals, who don’t go for the plan at all. For the most part, the plot development is unexceptional though punctuated by several dialogue-driven set pieces that prove Hamaguchi’s genius in creating tension through character interaction. Compared to Hamaguchi’s previous work, it’s forthrightly entertaining—that is, until the very end, when it goes bonkers in a way that would be impossible to describe even if I wanted to.

The “evil” referred to in the title does not exist in nature, whose relationship to humankind has no Manichean dimension. It just is, and whatever trouble humans cause for nature or vice versa is relative and, for what it’s worth, “natural.” The village handyman, Takumi (Hitoshi Omika), understands this relationship, and you can intuit his unvoiced resentment of the company’s two representatives, the veteran factotum, Takahashi (Ryuji Kosaka), and the conflicted novice, Mayuzumi (Ayaka Shibutani), in the way he rejects their offer of employment in the glamping enterprise. But just because Takumi identifies strongly with the natural world doesn’t mean he doesn’t harbor destructive impulses. One of the mysteries that Hamaguchi plays up in the film is the absence of Takumi’s wife, since he is raising his 8-year-old daughter, Hana (Ryo Nishikawa), by himself, teaching her how to address nature, which he sees as being red in tooth and claw. In contrast, the scenes in Tokyo at the talent agency virtually drip with mercenary bad faith, a kind of sickness that Takahashi and Mayuzumi sense after incurring the wrath of the villagers during their presentation and then, unwittingly, bringing that sickness back to the village on a subsequent revisit to secure the locals’ permission at their boss’s patronizing insistence. They choose Takumi as their means of delivery without realizing that their good intentions are anything but. 

Hamaguchi’s purposes are aided considerably by Eiko Ishibashi’s haunting score, which tends to be used only in those dream-like scenes that take place in the woods, whereas the scenes set in so-called civilization move to a kind of dull utilitarian rhythm. It’s a contrast that Hamaguchi works up in a subliminal way, so that the turn of events is even more of a shock. It would be petty to accuse the director of trying to manipulate the viewer’s feelings, but after seeing it twice—the second time paying close attention to any clues that plumb Takumi’s personality—I still find it weird and scary. Don’t go into the forest unless you’re prepared for something you would never expect.

In Japanese. Now playing in Tokyo at Bunkamura Le Cinema Shibuya Miyashita (050-6875-5280).

Evil Does Not Exist home page in Japanese

photo (c) 2023 NEOPA/Fictive

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Review: 20 Days in Mariupol

While many people have opinions about director Jonathan Glazer’s allusion to the current state of affairs in Israel/Gaza at the recent Oscars ceremony, fewer have remarked on Mstyslav Chernov’s equally powerful remarks when he accepted the Best Feature Documenary award for 20 Days in Mariupol. Glazer, who received the best international feature Oscar for Zone of Interest, was conflating the attitude that birthed the Holocaust to the way the world is now tacitly accepting the wholesale killing of civilians in Gaza, a view that is divisive. Chernov, whose movie is about Russia’s indiscriminate killing of civilians in the Ukrainian port city of Mariupol at the start of Putin’s invasion last year, is not a filmmaker with a certain vistion, but rather a journalist, and so he is only interested in getting the truth out to the world, which is essentially what the movie is about. Right now, especially in the U.S., there is a difference of opinion as to whether Ukraine deserves to defeat its Russian invaders, but in any case Chernov’s footage shows that the atrocities are indisputable, and so those whose agenda is to somehow discredit Ukraine for whatever reason have nothing to say about the movie or Chernov’s chilling comment that he wished he had never had to make his film.

But he did have to make it, because that is his job. As a reporter for AP, Chernov and his video crew were in Mariupol when the invasion was launched, and he captures as closely as possible the violence visited on the residents of the city without really trying to determine their political stance, because all that matters during the 20 days recorded is survival, which is mostly a matter of luck. It’s clear that Russian planes and artillery are targeting civilian homes and public buildings, including hospitals (a preview of Gaza, as it were). This means Chernov and his crew are in as much danger as the people they are covering, and a good portion of the film is given over to the effort to just find a working signal to connect to the internet so that Chernov can send his footage to the outside world. Often he confronts people on the street who are fleeing from a bombed home or business. Sometimes they curse at him and call him a “whore,” but others understand: He has to show this to the world, so they talk to him and explain in horrifying detail the death or maiming of a loved one. Chernov shows the dead and mutilated bodies, which he doesn’t bother to edit—that will be done by the outside news media. “We keep filming,” he says during his typically hushed English narration, “and it just stays the same.” The carnage is especially distressing at a maternity hospital, where women are waiting to give birth. Many, along with their babies, die while doctors desperately try to save them. 

As Chernov explains at one point, Russian media tried to dismiss the footage by saying it was somehow staged, and you have to laugh at this ridiculous attempt at subversion of the truth. By its very nature, 20 Days in Mariupol defies critical analysis because it simply reveals what is happening without trying to uncomplicate the chaotic circumstances behind its creation. By that token, it is exhausting to watch, visceral in the most direct way, despite Chernov’s efforts to make it all coherent as a linear record of a historical event in the making. He also tries to contextualize what we are seeing, but if, like me, you find it hard to concentrate on the logistical and political ramifications of the attack because you’re despairing over the images, it only means you are watching it the way it was intended to be watched. You should be horrified and outraged. No other responses are valid. 

In English, Ukrainian and Russian. Opens April 26 in Tokyo at Toho Cinemas Nihonbashi (050-6868-5060), Toho Cinemas Hibiya (050-6868-5068), Toho Cinemas Shinjuku (050-6868-5063).

20 Days in Mariupol home page in Japanese

photo (c) 2023 The Associated Press and WGBH Educational Foundation

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Review: Kidnapped

Given his prodigious output over a career that started in 1965, it should be surprising that director Marco Bellocchio doesn’t have more of an international following, but it may have something to do with the parochial nature of his work, which is not just thematically handcuffed to his native Italy but also appeals to a narrow sensibility that non-Italians may fail to appreciate. In recent years, however, he’s made attempts to explore Italian history more broadly, and while his storytelling tools still deliver overly large sentiments at the expense of narrative subtlety, for those of us who don’t know much about Italy as a national entity the films are quite educational.

With Kidnapped, Bellocchio explores an incident that marked a turning point in Italy’s development as a nation while also igniting the world’s scorn. In 1852, a son was born to a Jewish couple in Bologna, which at the time was under the direct rule of Pope Pius IX. The household maid, believing he was ill and might die, clandestinely baptized the boy, named Edgardo, so that his soul would not be banished to limbo. But the child did not die and the maid was subsequently fired for a different misdemeanor. When Edgardo was 6 a magistrate for the church arrived at the couple’s house and said that he was taking the boy to Rome to be raised as a Christian. His parents, Salomone (Fausto Russo Alesi) and Marianna (Barbara Ronchi), knew nothing about the maid’s subterfuge and, of course, objected mightily. The scene where Edgardo is taken away wailing while his parents put up a fight is the kind of thing Bellocchio was born to stage, with operatic music pounding away on the soundtrack and the camera following every outsized emotional gesture. Over the next hour or so, we see how Edgardo is indoctrinated into the Church while his parents try everything to secure his return, including writing letters to Israelite associations in foreign countries to help them gain public support. The matter becomes an international scandal, much to the chagrin of the Rome Jewish Council, since they have to deal with Pius (Paolo Pierobon) directly for their own needs, and the pressure from outside forces, including the global press, just makes the old megalomaniac more perverse in his determination to keep the boy at all costs. During this part of the movie Bellocchio plays the viewer’s emotions like a well-tuned violin, periodically suggesting the possibility of some kind of moral triumph before quashing it with another melodramatic set piece. Boo! Hiss!

Historically, much of the script sacrifices truth for dramatic convenience (at least according to Wikipedia), though the details—like, for instance, the Church’s sizable financial obligations to the Rothschilds, which constantly works to stir up the pope’s antisemitic rants—are endlessly fascinating. And I got lost at the end when the forces for Italian unity took over Bologna, since it wasn’t clear just what the Papal States lost except their regional political autonomy. Obviously, Italians already know about this, but Bellocchio doesn’t bother spelling it out for the rest of us. I guess I need to brush up on my 19th century European history.

In Italian, Latin and Hebrew. Opens April 26 in Tokyo at Human Trust Cinema Yurakucho (03-6259-8608), Shinjuku Cinema Qualite (03-3352-5645), Yebisu Garden Cinema (0570-783-715).

Kidnapped home page in Japanese

photo (c) IBC Movie/Kavac Film/AD Vitam Production/Match Factory Productions (2023)

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Media watch: Five years in, how does Naruhito stack up to his father?

On March 22, Emperor Naruhito and Empress Masako visited victims of the New Year’s Day earthquake that struck the Noto Peninsula on the Japan Sea coast. It was the couple’s second visit to a disaster area since Naruhito ascended to the throne in 2019, but this time there was chatter online about why the royal couple had waited so long. Officially, they said they had held off the visit due to fears that their presence could complicate matters for locals, and they did donate funds to help those affected, but even in the Emperor’s birthday message to the nation, he did not specifically mention the victims, which some people felt was unusual.

This feeling was likely prompted by how differently Naruhito had approached the matter compared to his father, Akihito, who retired so that his son could take over. Akihito would have likely been more proactive in his response to the Noto quake. In 1991, for instance, one month after the Unzen volcano erupted, he visited the disaster site. He was in Kobe two weeks after the Hanshin Earthquake of 1995. He sent a special video message to the victims of the Great East Japan Earthquake in 2011 five days after it struck, and thereafter visited the affected area with his wife, MIchiko, 7 weeks in a row. Naruhito, on the other hand, didn’t even record a message to the Japanese people during the COVID pandemic. 

According to Takeshi Hara, a political scientist who has written numerous books about the Emperor and the so-called Emperor System, the “Reiwa style” of Naruhito is shaping up to be very different from the “Heisei style” of his father. Hara sat for a lengthy interview with Asahi Shimbun that was published March 13—before Naruhito and Masako made their first visit to Noto—and he tried to summarize the contrast between the two emperors, but five years in Naruhito has not really established any kind of “style,” which is notable considering how hands-on his father was as a monarch.

Of course, activism is not part of the postwar Emperor’s job description. The Constitution defines his role as a “symbol” of the country, but doesn’t explain what that entails. Hara refers to Akihito’s 2016 message to the people where he implied his intention to step down. In the message, he mentioned the “challenges” of the two pillars of his symbolic role, which are “praying for the happiness of his subjects” and “standing beside them” as a figure of empathy. Hara interpreted this statement to mean that, in addition to the court rituals that the Emperor is required to carry out, Akihito felt it was his duty to comfort the people when troubles arose, as well as acknowledge the troubles of the past. This was something his father, Hirohito, the Showa Emperor, did not do, especially with regard to remembering the Pacific War for which many people hold him responsible. Akihito did remember the war, and made a point of visiting places closely associated with it. 

That empathy, says Hara, is the key to the Heisei style. In comparison, the Showa style after the war was vague and ambiguous. It’s why Akihito felt he had to step down. He was becoming too old to effectively carry out what he considered his duties as the Emperor, even though there is no provision in the law to allow him to leave the throne before he dies. Akihito, as well as Michiko, felt that “fortifying” the symbolism of the imperial household required “hard work.” By that standard, Naruhito’s status is as unclear as his grandfather’s was, and Hara finds it strange that the present Emperor’s “stance” has not been criticized, which would seem to indicate that “the Japanese people are just losing interest in the Emperor.” The former Emperor was always a vivid presence, and, in fact, remains a more engaging figure in retirement than his son is while actually occupying the throne. Even the crown prince, Akishinomiya, attracts more attention than Naruhito due to his son, the only younger male heir in the royal family.

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