46-okunen no koi

Beautiful and haunting art-house with a veneer of a prison movie: that is the best description of a movie that is so invested in its self referential imagery that the viewer is either swept away into it or completely alienated. The sets are often minimal, echoing some modern theater and also giving an extra emphasis to the characters as such. Golden light pervades the dreamy scenery of cramped cells, geometrically shaped insides and an odd pyramid and an equally surprising space rocket that can be seen from the roof of the prison.

At the surface the movie is a crime investigation in which two policemen try to unravel the events behind the murder of an inmate since the confession of the presumed killer does not seem to match reality. But that is an excuse for a lavishly artistic movie to structure itself around a plot that gives coherence to the surreal approach so that overall it does not veer into fantasy. Which is not to say that this is a linear movie because it most definitely is not. Flashbacks mingle with fantasy and the feeling of displaced narrative is inherent to the nihilism of the content.

Ryuhei Matsuda's performance adds much to the not quite overt sensuality of it all. Emotions are stifled, dialogues are left open ended, interpretations are left hanging in the air and ultimately unanswered. And that seems to be the heart of this movie: solving the crime does not advance a psychological answer to the problem of human interaction or lack thereof. Kazuki is something of a social outcast and Arioshi's obsession with him the only bridge to any kind of human contact. The sexual tension adds another level to the already pressing claustrophobia.

In the end, not even the re-visitation of some lines of dialogue that provide a context is able of truly answering anything. The viewer is left to make some sense of what happened and to fill in the gaps, an attempt that may very well be absolutely impossible. After all, the movie is fragmented in essence, deliberately so. A telling scene is when a shaft of sunlight pierces through Arioshi as an arrow and blood seeps out. Like the movie it is somewhat factual and yet full of meanings that need be projected unto it: a literal metaphor.

Takashi Miike (the director) has said that Big Bang Love, Juvenile A or 4.6 Billion Years of Love is best viewed when in a state of "absent-mindedness" and that is just as easily absorbed and taken in if you happen to be nodding off during its running time. And he may just be right. I have now watched this film three times and fell asleep halfway through on the last two. And I typically try not to do that. This is not because the film is boring but rather due to the lyrical and dreamlike quality the film possesses. It has the ability to lull and carry the viewer away into a meditative trance. So I'm going to go on record right now and say how hard it is difficult to write a review of the amazing film that Miike has crafted.

For those who have never heard of Takashi Miike or the creative, compelling and controversial features that he produces at an astonishing rate (up to 15 a year), this may not be the best place to start. Big Bang… stands out in Miike's canon/ oeuvre as one of his most experimental and eloquent, and that's saying something. This is a unique film. Most of us will have never seen anything like it. I have a feeling that it is not for everyone. Some will find it utterly incomprehensible, others will find it astonishingly beautiful, and still some will simply not know what to make of it.

The plot (what little there is) focuses on the budding relationship of two male inmates in a prison in the middle of a vast, empty nowhere. Both men are murderers who, though complete opposites, form a bond of love that transcends the physical realm, the sexual realm and even the realm of time. Which sounds totally pretentious, but trust me, it's not. It's… emotionally honest. And did I mention how gorgeous this thing is to look at? It somehow creates the impression of drawings being put into words. It's not driven by narrative; it is more a montage of images in steady succession to form an ethereal atmosphere. Something important always seems about to happen, but on its own unexpected terms. Miike, in the brilliant and flashy (but not the kind of flashy that distracts from the meaning of the movie, but enhances it) brushstrokes of a true auteur, attempts to paint the landscape of the human heart with strikingly vivid colours.

So, while I haven't really explained anything or gotten my true feelings about Big Bang Love, Juvenile A or 4.6 Billion Years of Love across, you now know about this film and it's director, and maybe you'll see, love and treasure this film or one of Miike's other greats (such as Audition, The Bird People of China, Visitor Q, Dead or Alive, Izo, or the much vaunted Ichi the Killer). Take a risk!

According to director Takashi Miike, the one in charge of Big Bang Love, Juvenile A among dozens of other films, this is a work that should be taken in almost when "absent-minded", and might even work if one is nodding off during the running time. I found that an intriguing remark as I did nearly nod off during the film, which maybe isn't so much a discredit to the film's work as much as my attention span on a late weekday night. But then this is no ordinary prison drama with a slight Rashomon spin - this is the work of someone so in touch with his craft and artistry with his crew that... you almost don't know what's going on half the time! An irony, perhaps, yet for Miike this is how he usually runs the show, and it's not something you can take your eyes easily off from. There is, as Miike also points out, a tranquility to the picture, almost in spite of its truly abhorrent elements of human nature.

How can I form a premise to tell you about? Most of the actors didn't even know (and, apparently, were comfortable with this after a short while): two inmates, Ariyoshi and Kazuki, are both brought in to prison on separate murder charges. Ariyoshi is more shy, wide-eyed, a little on the side that makes him out to seem like a 'fresh fish' behind the prison walls, while Kazuki won't have any BS as he beats the crap out of anyone who comes near him or makes him do anything. We see these two character brought out in what seems to be very logical means by the actors, even when they're not placed in any sort of reality. By the time we see the two characters truly connecting, they're out by some pyramid or other in the desert talking about where they'd 'rather be.' This is balanced by the actors, both superb in how they look as characters and how they internalize the parts, alongside the drama that unfolds, where a murder has taken place and an investigation follows of everyone in the prison.

But who *really* did it? Miike doesn't provide any easy answers, but then the questions are hard to figure, too. This isn't some Shawshank deal, but a tale told with mood and lighting, color, surrealistic moments, exposition in a stream of consciousness flow, and a sense of the tragic that comes with no way out. As with some of Miike's other films, I didn't even mind I couldn't sometimes follow where the story was going, or what path it would lean toward in its non-linear style (the first half hour appears to be straightforward, but it really wasn't, and isn't, for much of the rest of the show).

But what's most impressive is the use of metaphors and symbols in an intuitive presentation, at least in terms of the themes, whatever they may be, in the wrappings of a beautifully designed and shot and edited film. The colors come off as vibrantly as in Kurosawa, with purple and orange hues folding in, and then some quintessential horrific imagery (i.e. the dead woman curled up like some spider), the solace of the butterfly, and the harsh yellows and bright, over-head yellow lighting of the prison cells. No longer is this simply the cinema verite Miike but someone very comfortable, and Godardian in experimentation, in a studio environment.

While the subject matter isn't easy to take sometimes, and the violence is about to par with one expects from the director (not even so much showing people beaten, though there are, or people committing suicide, which there are, but the impact around it, what isn't shown), it's still a strong effort. Some will just right out hate it or be too bored to care, but for those who give in to its sorrowful corners and impressionist flights of fancy, Big Bang Love has the edge of artistic intent amplified like few others in the past several years.

When I began to think that Asian cinema reiterates itself and uses the same subjects in the same POV, I met "Big Bang Love, Juvenile A" in Berlinale 2006 and took a deep breath. However I'm one of the fans of Takeshi Miike, the most amazing director in the earth, he again shocked me with beautiful spectacles which reminds me temples of Maya's and interesting ideas about existence. Actually the story is very important in this Miike film. He creates a world from the fantasies of young criminals. Initation rites, fights for supremacy, acts of violence and some of the youths seem to be touched by the golden light of an idealized future (sentence adapted from Berlinale journal). For your consideration, in the beginning of the film there is an amazing dance scene in which a young men both acts and dances... If you're patient, you can solve the mystery of the pilot in the end and you'll feel great...

With Ryuhei Matsuda playing a featured role, I was constantly reminded of Oshima's Gohatto (Matsuda's debut film). In fact, I'm not so sure that this movie isn't a meditation on Gohatto, a sort of futuristic spiritual version. There are a lot of similarities, despite the completely different genres and storytelling techniques of the two films. Both take place in closed male societies, both have beautiful murderers, obsessive love, and mystery. And they both have Ryuhei Matsuda.

Gohatto is a more traditional film (compared to this one, anyway), and the symbolism is not so heavy-handed as it is here. There's no rocket ship or pyramid or all that those two things imply. There is an awful lot going on in this film, probably a little too much.

The mix of stage-play theatricality with cinematic realism is a little distracting, and it put me on guard against excessive artiness. And let's face it, there is excessive artiness. That's not to say the movie isn't beautiful to look at--it is.

And it's worth seeing. But if you haven't seen Gohatto, see it. Gohatto is to 46-Okunen No Koi as the velvet glove is to the sledgehammer.