I dedicate this review to a friend of mine who would rather see passion at every street corner than having to cope with the banality of everyday life. Being a person of many unfocused desires, a person who yearns for freedom during every minute of every day, it would seem that this friend of mine has chosen a life unfulfilled, and ultimately unsatisfying considering how many barriers have been erected to keep our bodies quarantined in the passionless cubicles of conformity. This proves particularly true in terms amorous, where his pain and unruly passion always seem to give a bitter edge to his bittersweet love stories. After talking to this friend on the phone and receiving some mild complaints about my lack of assiduity in updating the present blog, I felt I had to do a very special review for him. Then I thought of the perfect film to reflect his state of mind. It is a film I saw a while back without being quite able to fully grasp its iconography. But now that I think about my friend, and wish to throw him a thorny life preserver, I start to make sense of all the jumbled celluloid used in making this film. I start to see it almost exactly as I had first wished to see it, as a radical exercise in couple’s therapy. After all, passion will make a couple equally happy and unhappy. Passion is a very fickle thing, and one to create outbursts of affection and outbursts of anger. And while couple life is the focus of countless films, it is usually grounded in dramatic verbose ill-suiting the actual experience of love as a passionate expression of the self. With this film, passion is circumvented in truly filmic terms, and it operates from the very violence at the core of the emotion itself, making it one of the rawest love stories out there. I'm talking of course about Shinya Tsukamoto's Tokyo Fist.
Love hurts: Tsuda and Hizuru remedy their qualms
with a rageous boxing exchange (edited with fierceness
by director Tsukamoto himself)
with a rageous boxing exchange (edited with fierceness
by director Tsukamoto himself)
Love hurts
The film stars somewhat of an impotent everyman called Tsuda, a man whose hold on fiancee Hizuru is actually stronger than he suspects. The two of them met in a bakery, where thoughts of sweets seemed to have encouraged sweet thoughts. They are living together in a diminutive Tokyo apartment when Tsuda makes the mistake of inviting school chum, and semi-professional boxer Kojima to share a drink. The latter immediately becomes infatuated with Hizuru, whom he tries to kiss in a sudden burst of passion (while Tsuda is still at work, earning money for his wife). But she coldly refuses his advance, staying 100% faithful to Tsuda. Right after that, a simple misunderstanding propels the narrative toward the unseen depths of the protagonists' psyche, right into the core of their emotions, into the passionate violence that animates them. When Kojima confesses to Tsuda that his fiancee was "very soft", the everyman starts losing his mind, convinced that his impotence has pushed Hizuru to adultery. And while nothing can be farther from the truth, emotional logic makes it so that Tsuda tries to violently reclaim his "lost" wife, trying to prove his masculinity in the process. Eventually, he ends up alienating her, and sending her over to Kojima, who proves to be equally weak-willed and subservient to an increasingly moody Hizuru. Tsuda then starts training to become a boxer in order to match what he considers to be an over-phallic rival and reclaim his prize by force. But Hizuru won't be taken back by force. Actually, she evolves much more than her male counterparts over the course of the narrative, becoming quite a boxer in the process... In the end, a lot of blood was shed, but only to expose humanity to its intrinsic nature, as an uneven congregation of flesh and raw emotions.
It might not come as a surprise to film buffs, but boxing films are rarely about boxing. The Rocky films for instance, are so excessive in their depiction of fights as to completely, and willingly eschew realism. Fists fly and they land almost every time. The pugilists sustain a murderous amount of blows and come out with cosmetic bruises and cuts. The reason for this is obvious: boxing here is not used as a reality in itself, but as a symbol of the protagonist's resilience and, by extension, the fighting spirit of America. As Sly so eloquently put it in the final chapter of the series (reviewed here): "It ain't about how hard ya hit. It's about how hard you can get it and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done!". In Tokyo Fist, boxing is used as emotional catharsis. It is a way for the characters to externalize the heated feelings derived from the frustrated love triangle in which they are involved. Coupled with the violence of the editing, the violence of the sport itself becomes a surprisingly raw expression of our basest humanity. That said, the fist thus becomes an unbridled externalization of the emotional self whereas Rocky's bruised midsection served merely as canvas on which to showcase the pain involved in the quest for self-improvement and the showcase of determination.
Tsukamoto as a romantic
While Shinya Tsukamoto’s Tokyo Fist seems to stray away from the cyberpunk roots laid down in Tetsuo: The Iron Man, it merely drops the "cyber" in cyberpunk (read on for details). It is thus an equally fitting addition to his oeuvre insofar as it proves to be yet another materialization of romantic madness. There is no doubt that Tsukamoto is a true romantic at heart, using love as the major driving force behind his hyperkinetic accounts of desperation and hope. And while one might argue that the use of the labyrinthine city, or "metallic" city, is the central leitmotif of his work, I would say that it is merely subservient to the filmic expression of amorous emotions. Thus, both love and the city end up entrapping his characters like so many puppets. And if the city always appear to clamp down on his protagonists, it is their unruly emotions that provide the rhythm at the heart of his narratives. In Tokyo Fist, the oppressive city is relegated to the background (or the foreground, as exemplified by a beautiful shot in which the reflection of a building over the window of his cab entraps the protagonist, effectively entrapping him twice within the frame). And thus the raw emotions of the protagonists take center stage. Well center stage and the backstage as they literally animate the film (through editing).
Tsukamoto's films proceed from a powerful form of "emotional realism", opposite of which is the "dramatic realism" of American films. Such a storytelling technique is reminiscent of the Soviet tradition, wherein editing is used not only to create meaning between shots, but to create meaning through rhythm. Here, we have truly a pulse-pounding film in the sense that its rhythm is that of a heartbeat, beating at a normal pace when everything is calm, but alarmingly fast once rage sets in. The addition of loud industrial music only adds power to the depiction of the raw emotions displayed by the characters. The result is a series of aggressive sequences, including several hyperkinetic fights, meant to absorb the viewer right into the film, and make him partake directly into the protagonists' actions, putting him squarely at the center of their resolve. By attacking the senses with an impressionistic flurry of shots, Tokyo Fist will not leave the viewer unscathed. And in the end, he will feel all the bruises and cuts experienced by the protagonists as if they were his own, wondering if the boiling blood in his veins is about to burst out and rain down on the walls.
Non-cyber punk
Now is time to ask a question which I think is pertinent to our analysis of Tokyo Fist as a gutsy, visceral film. That question is the following: what happens to cyberpunk when it is deprived of its cybernetic element? The answer is quite simple: there remains punk. But what is punk? For the sake of argument, let us posit a working definition centered on the pursuit of authenticity. After all, "punk ain't no religious cult. Punk means thinking for yourself". But authenticity runs much deeper than ideas. It runs right down to the unsightly guts and gut feelings which we try so desperately to hide. In so many words, punk is the unbridled expression of the primordial humanity which we restrain through social mores. This unbridled expression of the visceral self is perhaps best exemplified by the infamous incident involving the Sex Pistols boarding a Holland-bound plane at the Heathrow Airport. Some observers referred to this as the “spitting incident at Heathrow”, as members of the band reportedly spat on passengers and airport officials. According to the The Guardian, dated January 7th 1977, one of them is even said to have vomited (on whom or what is not specified). Just like the raw words that came out of the Sex Pistols’ mouths and which tremendously offended the uptight British society, their unsightly spit (and vomit) were also instruments of their radical art, or aspects of the “raw” humanity that lurked behind the layer of civility which we entertain as our true “human” face. But humanity knows better than to be shackled by good mores as it is always ready to burst out and obliterate face with bowelfuls of repulsive, semi-liquid expressions of itself. That said, if spit and vomit exist as the necessary underside of human existence, so too does violence exist as the necessary underside of romance, seeing how our deepest emotions are entangled with our basest "flesh" components. Evidently, flowers and gift-wrapped diamonds might seem like the only true expression of love to those who think they can transcend the flesh, but in the end, everybody knows that they aren’t. Love is a powerful emotion, and as such, it cannot elude the utter violence of its rawest expression. Jealousy, pain, uncertainty, but also tearful joy, exhilaration and sexual bliss: these are the things that love is truly about. Love is both crap and the rose that's blooming out of that crap insofar as it causes pain, but not without offering a way to transcend that pain. Love is equally enslaving as it is liberating. And Tokyo Fist perfectly captures that equivalence by entrapping his characters in a endless waltz of violence that eventually liberates them through the understanding of one's self as a being of passion that will experience equally low lows as high highs insofar as one embraces the dictates of that passion. By further equating bloodletting with the expression of raw emotions, Tsukamoto makes it a point to convey the expression of humanity in true punk fashion.
During the credits, just before the title appears, one can notice a distinctly animated layer of flesh rippling away from the center toward the edges of the frame. Symbolically, the film thus emerges out of the director's guts in a direct transfer to the screen. His starring in the film is not a coincidence either as we understand that the present enterprise comes straight from the heart, becoming in the process of its elaboration a cathartic release for the author. And if his sweat is involved in making the film per se, so his is lifeblood, which we see gushing out of his body on several occasions in a bid to reveal what the narrative is really about, namely the raw expression of humanity. The bruised face of Kojima after the final boxing match is yet another reminder of what lies beneath sport as an orderly activity. The blood that spurts out abundantly from his face marks the intensity of his new resolve, born out of the violence inherent to his confrontation with Tsuda and Hizuru. It represents the epitome of self-achievement in the sense that it allows Kojima to get a tangible sense of his own self, the limits thereof and the passion that erupts from every of his pores (as represented by the blood itself). Yet, Kojima and Tsuda are not the only ones to get acquainted with the possibilities of their inner self. Hizuru also gets a sense of self through self-mutilation. Her adorning intrusive jewelry embroidered directly into her flesh is itself an experience in recognizing one's own corporeality (read corpo-reality). Hence, the puncturing of one's flesh, the bleeding, the pain, all those things against which we try to protect ourselves are but the inner side of our rawest emotions, which we also strive to hide under the masks (and suits) of civility. After all, very few people opt for passion in their daily life, judging that it is too powerful an emotion to master. And so too do people try to keep their bodily fluids inside, save for that one act during which humans become akin to beasts and indulge in their most primary function. Passion can bleed you dry, but it can also make you closer to your true self than anything else. And it is almost impossible to strike a balance between the empowering aspects of passion and its darker aspects. Fortunately, the film addresses this issue head-on, without fussing over silly dramatic details.
Tokyo Fist is a constant clash, a clash between the city and the individual, a clash between outward civility and inner chaos, between rage and restraint, between sights and sounds, between man and woman. And from that clash emerges two invaluable things: the raw expressive power of cinema used as catharsis for the author, and the crucial realization of our hidden humanity. Truly, Tsukamoto's film is a powerhouse of unrestrained emotions and one of the most accurate depiction of a true love story out there. A considerable achievement for one of the best contemporary Japanese filmmakers.
4/5 A masterpiece of expressive art that reaches deep into the heart of humanity to salvage our most powerful emotions. A love story as violent and unforgiving as any you will experience under the sign of passion.
Although it dwarfs the protagonist, the metallic
city remains in the background
city remains in the background
Tsukamoto's films proceed from a powerful form of "emotional realism", opposite of which is the "dramatic realism" of American films. Such a storytelling technique is reminiscent of the Soviet tradition, wherein editing is used not only to create meaning between shots, but to create meaning through rhythm. Here, we have truly a pulse-pounding film in the sense that its rhythm is that of a heartbeat, beating at a normal pace when everything is calm, but alarmingly fast once rage sets in. The addition of loud industrial music only adds power to the depiction of the raw emotions displayed by the characters. The result is a series of aggressive sequences, including several hyperkinetic fights, meant to absorb the viewer right into the film, and make him partake directly into the protagonists' actions, putting him squarely at the center of their resolve. By attacking the senses with an impressionistic flurry of shots, Tokyo Fist will not leave the viewer unscathed. And in the end, he will feel all the bruises and cuts experienced by the protagonists as if they were his own, wondering if the boiling blood in his veins is about to burst out and rain down on the walls.
Non-cyber punk
Now is time to ask a question which I think is pertinent to our analysis of Tokyo Fist as a gutsy, visceral film. That question is the following: what happens to cyberpunk when it is deprived of its cybernetic element? The answer is quite simple: there remains punk. But what is punk? For the sake of argument, let us posit a working definition centered on the pursuit of authenticity. After all, "punk ain't no religious cult. Punk means thinking for yourself". But authenticity runs much deeper than ideas. It runs right down to the unsightly guts and gut feelings which we try so desperately to hide. In so many words, punk is the unbridled expression of the primordial humanity which we restrain through social mores. This unbridled expression of the visceral self is perhaps best exemplified by the infamous incident involving the Sex Pistols boarding a Holland-bound plane at the Heathrow Airport. Some observers referred to this as the “spitting incident at Heathrow”, as members of the band reportedly spat on passengers and airport officials. According to the The Guardian, dated January 7th 1977, one of them is even said to have vomited (on whom or what is not specified). Just like the raw words that came out of the Sex Pistols’ mouths and which tremendously offended the uptight British society, their unsightly spit (and vomit) were also instruments of their radical art, or aspects of the “raw” humanity that lurked behind the layer of civility which we entertain as our true “human” face. But humanity knows better than to be shackled by good mores as it is always ready to burst out and obliterate face with bowelfuls of repulsive, semi-liquid expressions of itself. That said, if spit and vomit exist as the necessary underside of human existence, so too does violence exist as the necessary underside of romance, seeing how our deepest emotions are entangled with our basest "flesh" components. Evidently, flowers and gift-wrapped diamonds might seem like the only true expression of love to those who think they can transcend the flesh, but in the end, everybody knows that they aren’t. Love is a powerful emotion, and as such, it cannot elude the utter violence of its rawest expression. Jealousy, pain, uncertainty, but also tearful joy, exhilaration and sexual bliss: these are the things that love is truly about. Love is both crap and the rose that's blooming out of that crap insofar as it causes pain, but not without offering a way to transcend that pain. Love is equally enslaving as it is liberating. And Tokyo Fist perfectly captures that equivalence by entrapping his characters in a endless waltz of violence that eventually liberates them through the understanding of one's self as a being of passion that will experience equally low lows as high highs insofar as one embraces the dictates of that passion. By further equating bloodletting with the expression of raw emotions, Tsukamoto makes it a point to convey the expression of humanity in true punk fashion.
Unrestrained humanity gushing out of the passionate man:
director Tsukamoto is crying blood in Tokyo Fist
director Tsukamoto is crying blood in Tokyo Fist
During the credits, just before the title appears, one can notice a distinctly animated layer of flesh rippling away from the center toward the edges of the frame. Symbolically, the film thus emerges out of the director's guts in a direct transfer to the screen. His starring in the film is not a coincidence either as we understand that the present enterprise comes straight from the heart, becoming in the process of its elaboration a cathartic release for the author. And if his sweat is involved in making the film per se, so his is lifeblood, which we see gushing out of his body on several occasions in a bid to reveal what the narrative is really about, namely the raw expression of humanity. The bruised face of Kojima after the final boxing match is yet another reminder of what lies beneath sport as an orderly activity. The blood that spurts out abundantly from his face marks the intensity of his new resolve, born out of the violence inherent to his confrontation with Tsuda and Hizuru. It represents the epitome of self-achievement in the sense that it allows Kojima to get a tangible sense of his own self, the limits thereof and the passion that erupts from every of his pores (as represented by the blood itself). Yet, Kojima and Tsuda are not the only ones to get acquainted with the possibilities of their inner self. Hizuru also gets a sense of self through self-mutilation. Her adorning intrusive jewelry embroidered directly into her flesh is itself an experience in recognizing one's own corporeality (read corpo-reality). Hence, the puncturing of one's flesh, the bleeding, the pain, all those things against which we try to protect ourselves are but the inner side of our rawest emotions, which we also strive to hide under the masks (and suits) of civility. After all, very few people opt for passion in their daily life, judging that it is too powerful an emotion to master. And so too do people try to keep their bodily fluids inside, save for that one act during which humans become akin to beasts and indulge in their most primary function. Passion can bleed you dry, but it can also make you closer to your true self than anything else. And it is almost impossible to strike a balance between the empowering aspects of passion and its darker aspects. Fortunately, the film addresses this issue head-on, without fussing over silly dramatic details.
Tokyo Fist is a constant clash, a clash between the city and the individual, a clash between outward civility and inner chaos, between rage and restraint, between sights and sounds, between man and woman. And from that clash emerges two invaluable things: the raw expressive power of cinema used as catharsis for the author, and the crucial realization of our hidden humanity. Truly, Tsukamoto's film is a powerhouse of unrestrained emotions and one of the most accurate depiction of a true love story out there. A considerable achievement for one of the best contemporary Japanese filmmakers.
4/5 A masterpiece of expressive art that reaches deep into the heart of humanity to salvage our most powerful emotions. A love story as violent and unforgiving as any you will experience under the sign of passion.
