Purgatoire eroïca

This is a movie that was made in the late '60s, early '70s period of Japan when Japan influenced by the Hippie culture was experimenting with their own brand of Avant Garde culture that was sometimes called "Angura". This is shortened Japanese pronunciation for "Underground". As the word suggests, these were experimental non-mainstream production that explored much about free sex, and anti establishment view of the world. Rengoku Eroica was made during the period of such social movement. The director of this movie, Yoshishige Yoshida (Sometimes pronounced Kijyu Yoshida) always had Avant Garde taste to his movies. He was one of the directors that were part of movement called Nuberu bagu ( from the French nouvelle vague) or Japanese New Wave. This can be seen in movie such as Amai Yoru No Hate (1961) starring Masahiko Tsugawa. So this movie was a perfect match for the director. The movie also stars his wife Mariko Okada as the mother of the young rebellious daughter.

The core story of this movie is bit like cheap science fiction. There's would be rocket scientist, guerrillas trying to kidnap an ambassador, wife, daughter that plays disjointed story segments that takes sudden detours in topics that keeps things away from from reality.

It was escapism that had intellectual pride at its core. Youth then were running away from responsibility, but were justifying it in many philosophical smoke and mirror. If you watch this movie, you can see this clearly, as you can't pin down who's responsible for what, and everything is just a play without any reality.

This type of movie rapidly lost favor with the public after the late '60s, and Yoshida himself had to move away from making movies to making TV documentaries. What a drastic swing from non-reality to pure reality. Other directors who were part of Japanese New Wave such as Nagisa Ooshima had to go to France to continue his movie making.

Experimental, and artsy, but the movie has no substance. It's interesting to watch, but don't expect to get anything deep from this movie.

"Heroic Purgatory" (1970) was my first Yoshida, and I'll certainly try to see more than the three films released by Arrow in the "Love + Anarchism" set.

It's definitely avant-garde in the classic sense of the term, marching in the vanguard of utilizing fluid experimental dream language. I know I'll eventually revisit Godard and the French New Wave in the future, whose work at this writing I'd consider dull and uninteresting, but this is the exact opposite of dull: not only is it visually masterful, the story, no matter how evasive and at times elliptical like an afterthought, is actually interesting.

I definitely see, based on this one film, how Yoshida might have influenced Wong, or even Malick's "modern style" from "The Tree of Life" (2011) onwards. And if not, having seen this one really does add to the aforementioned directors' films.

I'm not sure whether the experience would lend itself for a repeat viewing anytime soon, since because of the elliptical nature of the film, despite the complete mastery of the visuals, and Yoshida is clearly a master at work, the film is purposefully obscure. But if one approaches it like a dream, it's a wonderful audiovisual journey through some very unusual ways to see the world.

It's fun to know really nothing at all about Yoshida, other than him starting out under Kinoshita's tutelage. It strongly resembles the Ozu-Imamura relationship, where the "old", strict formalism (or what would certainly seem as such by the new generation of filmmakers) in its part has influenced the radical swerves of the apprentices. I'd really like to know what he thought of Teshigahara.

An engineer's wife returns home with a lost teenager. A man posing as her dad tries to get her back, causing the engineer to recall his youth as a revolutionary, obscured by dreamlike disruptions of time and space, fantasy and reality.

Although I did not care for "Eros" the way some people do, I actually liked this one a bit more. Yes, the picture is washed out and I wish it was not. But the clever angles and framing made me enjoy the film from the opening shots. It has a very science fiction feeling to it at times, and I wish it had more of that.

As part of the "radicalism trilogy", I would say this is my favorite of the three. I am not crazy about Yoshishige Yoshida, but this film at least struck a bit of a cord with me.

Yoshida's films are luminous, ethereal creations, languid love affairs blown into abstract shape by memory and time. In the period when he studied/essayed the great Antonioni, he gave us films of simple, perhaps ponderous beauty. But with Eros+Massacre he finally unraveled. This is a companion piece to that labyrinth.

I can't imagine what it must've been to see this back in 1970 with fresh eyes, what possibilities of cinema it may have opened. Thirty years later I can see that some of the things Yoshida foresaw panned out, others didn't. But this film is a maddening enigma that stands the test of that time passed, meaning it's not simply a cultural artifact of New Wave and the time when the revolutionary spirit was believed to be a force of change, but an entire evolutionary phase of cinema, New Wave before and after.

If the movie works then as more than bold experiment, it's because these particular ephemeral struggles are abstracted, the lifetime they in turn inspire and disappoint is fragmented, past and future spinning out of original frameworks. What we get from this rearrangement is a snapshot of human beings caught into disparate planes of existence, wishing to see or connect or recognize meaning in what they do.

In a brilliant scene that takes place in the 80's, one of many flash forwards into future or imaginary time, the cast of characters is assembled in an open space to hold court. Unable to properly remember a key event, they turn to a figure perched in a high chair holding a film camera to arbitrate. This surrogate filmmaker allows them back in time.

We see how the two lovers met, we see where that love brought them. We get here a beautiful realization, that the man's greatest aspiration, who is a famous scientist, is to be a good husband to his wife. The camera looks back at Mariko Okada, standing a little back from her husband being interviewed, and we see her gracefully, stoically looking out a window. Yoshida's gentle tribute to the love of his life, his wife in real life.

We see an entire life, shared by these two people, be trapped in moral dilemmas and modern anxieties, thought to be important at the time, lifechanging, with hindsight though nothing but trivial. We see them struggle to remember or forget. Yoshida gives us here a bitter last goodbye to the spirit of '68, showing us how the romance with the social struggle grew sour. These ideas having led nowhere, our only chance for happiness is with our other half that completes us. The one romance that matters.

The film is the final moments of consciousness, memory looking back upon itself.

'Heroic Purgatory' has suffered most of from the obscurity into which Yoshida's trilogy of radicalism has been cast. At least an hour shorter than its predecessor, 'Eros Plus Massacre', it takes that film's tendency to narrative compression and ellipses to an extreme, and a first viewing may render elements virtually incomprehensible, as Yoshida's characteristically bleached-out, askew framing renders public, exterior space a bleached-out, ghostly horizon, glimpsed in the distance as if in perpetual mist or blinding sunlight, and domestic, and interior space an endless series of corridors or bedrooms, of secret spaces, in which characters endlessly circle the space and each other.

The film opens as Nanako (Mariko Okada) witnesses what appears to be the attempted suicide of a young woman, Ayu (Kazumi Tsutsui), who then follows her to the apartment she shares with her husband, engineer Rikiya (Kaizo Kamoda), the three becoming a kind of strange family unit of 'adopted' children, absent parents and power triangulations. (It's never made clear in Ayu in fact exists or is a kind of mutual projection of the childless couple). Ayu, who, at least initially, speaks only rarely, claims to be 'lost' and disowns the 'father' who comes to the couple's flat to claim her, and who may or may not be either a police spy, a member of the revolutionary cell in which Rikiya was formerly involved, or a genuine father who has lost both his wife and daughter. As the film unfolds, Rikiya recalls his past within that cell during the signing of the 1952 San Francisco treaty--a de facto ceding of colonial power to the occupying American forces, beyond the period of ostensible occupation--as a planned attempt to either kidnap or assassinate an ambassador collapses due to the possible intervention of a spy within the group. This moment is played out again and again, shifting in time and location from 1952 to 1960 (the signing of another treaty of compromise), 1970 (when the film was made) and 1980, ten years in the future: actors play multiple roles, as the original members of the 1952 cell appear to take up roles in 'official society' and their successors among the new waves of radical movements turn against them.

'Eros' memorably presented three alternate versions of the attempted murder that forms the film's climax. Here, virtually every incident appears to be replayed in numerous ways: most notably, the act of potential betrayal and the subsequent trial and possible execution of the supposed 'spy'. A puzzle film like 'Out 1' or 'Inland Empire', 'Heroic Purgatory' is nonetheless more a political than a philosophical reflection. The film ends at the train station at which much of the action has taken place, as Nanako and her 'daughter' board an empty train, only to exit once more and walk back along the platform in front of a sign which reads 'dead end'. They exchange brief dialogue. 'It's over. Nothing left'. 'There's still things to do.' 'Depart to a distant place?' 'I will get rid of what I thought my God was'. As the two women walk towards the camera (back to the city, back to society), the camera focuses on the 'Dead End' sign, previously only a blurred smudge of white in the background, before blurring it out once more. It's a perfect in-joke: the traditional signing off of a film, the boundary re-established between life and cinema, the mechanism of narrative closure that rounds off in a neat summary, with the English language signage reflecting the enforced dominance of American culture and its representational strategies. The Dead End would also seem to refer to the attempt to change society through underground political action, in which, for Yoshida, the same mistakes repeat: the hierarchy, repetition of trauma and, in particular, the patriarchal violence and sadism--which at once condemns sexuality as counter-revolutionary distraction and sublimate it into gendered cruelty. The inability to break a cycle of various kinds of repetition, even in the most radical, vanguard, progressive or advanced of movements--whether official technocracies or revolutionary organisations--is the film's purgatorial territory. It's perfectly possible to view the as presenting a jaded perspective of liberal cynicism. Yet such a view more easily, more comfortably, more cynically fits into narratives of power, defeat and resistance than the film itself offers. Struggles for power may repeat themselves, first as tragedy, then as farce: yet this also means that resistance never ends. Viewed half a century on, Yoshida's projections of the present into both past and future suggest that, for all the moments of suppression, the revolution will continue to be fought.