For the sake of brevity, a tight selection had to be made for this second part of our foray into Japan’s cinematic history. Truth be told, the wholly defining moments of the Japanese silver screen mostly belong between the late Fifties and the late Eighties, as the rest of Asia rises and takes centre stage.

In the sunset of Akira Kurosawa’s career, Hong Kong and South Korea were budding stars—not to mention India, Taiwan, and even mainland China. Rest assured, however, that what we’re about to delve into is a melange of Japanese cinema’s most precious and pivotal moments, the twists and turns that redefined an entire industry and perfected the craft whilst dabbling in concepts of surrealism and minimalism.

‘Sansho the Bailiff’, 1954

A mother’s sorrowful call echoes across time and space in Kenji Mizoguchi’s mid-century masterpiece, a scene that is ultimately enhanced by the director’s use of a near-infinite expanse. ‘Sansho the Bailiff’ is a burning drama centred on a family torn apart by medieval brutality. Two children were kidnapped and sold into slavery on the Japanese mainland. They’re now grown, and we only learn that their mother is still alive when we see her atop a hill, gazing out into the distance and toward the mainland, as she calls out their names. ‘Anzu… Zushio…’

The men have taken other names, in the meantime, which further adds to this moment’s poignancy. Mizoguchi’s decision to accentuate the sound of the children’s names—the extension of the vowels, in particular, seems to evoke the vast space and years that separate these three characters. The affecting transience suggested here of individual lives in the face of history ends up resonating with what is arguably one of the most emotionally wrenching sound snippets in Asian cinema.

‘SANSHO THE BAILIFF’ (1954), ©DAIEI STUDIOS

‘I Live in Fear (aka Record of a Living Being)’, 1955

Dr Harada must judge the mental competence of Nakajima, a foundry owner who is desperate to leave Japan before what he considers an inevitable nuclear holocaust. It’s a moral dilemma for the judge, really, as he represents the typical bourgeoisie of that era. He fails to understand that this particular problem cannot be resolved in clinical terms of ‘sanity’ or ‘insanity’. On the opposite side of the ideological spectrum in Akira Kurosawa’s ethically and morally loaded drama is Nakajima, who is best described as ‘designed to simply take everything too far’.

In the final shot, Kurosawa demonstrates his ability to condense the overall theme of the film into standalone images of extraordinary resonance. On the left of the screen, we’ve got Harada walking down a staircase. He’s leaving the asylum where Nakajima has been committed. On the right, Nakajima’s mistress walks along a corridor, though she is framed as if moving toward the top of the screen. An unchangeable, descending old man is juxtaposed yet separated from a woman ascending—the latter gives Nakajima money and makes it clear that she has no interest in having him acknowledge that he’s the father of her child. This entire moment is an overlap of pieces that boil down to one hard truth. Asako, the mistress, is the truly ‘Living Being’, not Nakajima, for she is motivated by something other than self-interest.

‘I LIVE IN FEAR’ (1955), ©TOHO COMPANY

‘When a Woman Ascends the Stairs’, 1960

Mikio Naruse’s film is artistically defined by the narrow confines of space in which its leading lady is forced to dwell—and by confines, I mean not only physical tight spots but also social and emotional. As Keiko feels the world turn in a moment of incredible expressive power in what I’m comfortable defining as the climax of ‘When a Woman Ascends the Stairs’, the character, the plot, the setting, and the camera movement merge and become one.

The staircase itself is as narrow as a coffin and dimly lit. It’s an integral part of her tiny world at Ginza, where Keiko begins to realize that she is no longer young yet still a prisoner, still stuck in cramped spaces, unable to… ascend. She’s got debts to pay, a family to support. Her only choice is to keep smiling while she tries to find her way out. When she is finally out in the open, climbing a hill in the Tokyo suburbs, we’re briefly fooled into thinking that this is it. Keiko’s true freedom is right at the top of the mound. Alas, here, she learns that her supposed escape route has been foiled. The camera doesn’t stop, moving with Keiko and studying the panoramic views that have been missing from the movie until now. For the first time, the CinemaScope frame is bursting with a landscape, yet Keiko looks out at the endless possibilities—of which none are nor ever will be hers.

‘WHEN A WOMAN ASCENDS THE STAIRS’ (1960), ©TOHO COMPANY

‘The Mad Fox’, 1962

Because he’d taken to using an extremely diverse range of styles, Tomu Uchida had yet to make his mark on the West. His films were remarkable pieces of cinema, of course, but Americans and Europeans had yet to adjust to his multitude of narrative and audio-visual elements. Nevertheless, ‘The Mad Fox’ propelled him to international fame because of its surprisingly singular style. It’s a widescreen period piece about love and betrayal, heightening artificiality with stunning results.

We’re mesmerized by the Van Gogh yellow fields and papier-mâché décor, charmed by the fairy tale vixens and even animated flames. The hero of the story surrenders unto madness, delving into a finale that is downright theatrical. Realizing that his dreams of love and happiness were nothing more than illusions, his whole world falls apart—quite literally, as the stage-scenery-house in which he lived them collapses in on itself. In this singular fusion of film and theatre, Mr Uchida offers an eye-popping, hysterically colourful fantasy that delves into the protagonist’s mind before he tops it off with a literal and astonishing breakdown.

‘THE MAD FOX’ (1962), ©TOEI KYOTO

‘Tokyo Drifter’, 1966

Seijun Suzuki was better known for his struggle between genre and art. In contrast, this film symbolizes his career shift and foreshadows the following year’s ‘Branded to Kill’, which was deemed ‘incomprehensible’ by Nikkatsu boss Kyusaku Hori and led to the director’s ousting. However, the fan protests resulting from his dismissal became representative of a period’s end in Japanese cinema—the death of the studio era, to be specific. ‘Tokyo Drifter’ was pretty much the catalyst, and one scene from it stands as the most memorable.

In this gangster masterpiece, Tetsu walks down an exceptionally narrow corridor before the final battle. Geometric, emblematic spaces define the film, courtesy of art director Takeo Kimura, in direct opposition to Tetsu’s own nature. He only has one chance to get this right. He counts out the steps he must run along the rail line before firing the fatal shot. In the climax, Tetsu desperately needs room to move, and so emerging from that corridor to finish the job is the right choice—much like Seijun’s own career choices were risky but ultimately led to greater successes.

‘TOKYO DRIFTER’ (1966), ©NIKKATSU

‘A Man Vanishes’, 1967

The moment we realize that we’re no longer watching a documentary is a key point in the evolution of Japanese cinema, made possible by Shohei Imamura’s unyielding filmmaking vision. Orson Welles pulled off something relatively similar later in 1973 with ‘F Is for Fake’, where he promised to tell only the truth for precisely an hour, then swiftly slipping back into magic and lies. Yet Imamura’s shape-shifting of reality is even more enticing, since the film begins as a documentary. A promise of factual truths has already been made, and it doesn’t have an expiration date.

But as Yoshie the faithful wife persists in a rigorous search of her missing husband, taking us to a tea house toward the end of the movie, we learn that the man may have last been seen with another woman. A moment later, Imamura can be seen in the shot. Someone tells him something. ‘OK, strike the set’, he replies, and we cut directly to a scene where stage hands knock down hardboard walls. We’re on a set! Somewhere along the investigative thread of ‘A Man Vanishes’, Yoshie lost interest in finding her husband and became enamoured with Imamura.

‘A MAN VANISHES’ (1967), ©IMAMURA PRODUCTIONS

‘Minamata: The Victims and Their World’, 1972

Noriaki Tsuchimoto was a law-school graduate and student activist before discovering his passion for filmmaking, which he approached with a clear socio-political vision of the role that cinema and the media might have. Mr Tsuchimoto was one of the first who recognized the soft power that this medium held, if wielded properly. He’s best known for his work documenting the mercury poisoning effects on Minamata, a fishing community on Kyushu’s west coast, where he made over fifteen films across decades.

‘Minamata: The Victims and Their World’ is deeply troubling and extremely important to its genre, as the director is intent on documenting the daily lives of those devastated by exposure to such poisonous industrial waste. He refuses to gloss over the banality and tranquillity of their lives while also underlining their gradual radicalization. In one scene, the villagers confront the corporation responsible—a startling and painful event to watch. The victims desperately plead for any kind of reaction to their situation, while Chisso’s representatives carry through their shareholder meeting without responding, publicly and shamelessly choosing to ignore the death and disfiguration that their company directly caused. Sadness and indignation can’t not move us at this point.

‘MINAMATA: THE VICTIMS AND THEIR WORLD’ (1972), ©HIGASHI PRODUCTIONS

‘In the Realm of the Senses’, 1975

One of the few truly hardcore art films came out of Japan, boldly signed by Nagisa Oshima. ‘My hatred for Japanese cinema includes absolutely all of it’, the director once said. In his mind, it was nothing more than a wasteland of samurai epics, bleak parlour dramas, and the occasional monster. His movies thus determined to be packed with all the vim, passion, and petty cruelties of a less mellow culture. They became cult icons of Asia and beyond. Oshima’s work gleefully coincided with the relaxation of censorship laws against pornography in the mid-Seventies, and he did not hesitate to take a chance and finally treat sex on screen with the unrestricted realism that it deserved.

Enter ‘In the Realm of the Senses’, an adaptation of the true story of a prostitute named Sada Abe, who was arrested in 1936 whilst wandering down the street with her lover’s severed genitals tucked in her kimono. Naturally, the end result was a hardcore allegory about obsession, sadomasochism, and the inherent splendour of death and bloodshed. But the film never aimed to just thrill its viewers. It was also one massive middle finger dedicated to the mainstream’s cultural taboos on certain aspects of eroticism.

‘IN THE REALM OF THE SENSES’ (1976), ©OSHIMA PRODUCTIONS

‘The Man Who Stole the Sun’, 1979

Kazuhiko Hasegawa is famous for two thoroughly underrated gems of Japanese cinema in the Seventies. One of them is ‘The Man Who Stole the Sun’. Masquerading as a dazzling and provocative action epic, this particular work manages to impress through its handling of nuclear fear. The anti-hero learns to quit worrying and embrace the bomb. It utilizes its action thriller template in a way I’ve not seen before, delivering a troubling combination of comedy and suspense slightly akin to John Frankenheimer’s ‘The Manchurian Candidate’ (1962). However, that daring weirdness is precisely where the similarities end.

The story follows a high-school science teacher who manages to build an atomic bomb and demands… well, it turns out he’s not sure what he wants! A cat-and-mouse game with a police inspector ensues—played brilliantly by action icon Bunta Sugawara, quickly evolving into a counter-culture satire that whacks us with its merciless punchline. Our anti-hero is stumped and ends up asking for a cancelled Rolling Stones concert to take place. My favourite and, at the same time, deeply troubling part is watching the teacher as he knowingly cuddles up with his nuclear ball for a bit of shut-eye.

‘THE MAN WHO STOLE THE SUN’ (1979), ©TRISTONE ENTERTAINMENT INC.

‘Director Yasujiro Ozu’ by Shigehiko Hasumi Is Published, 1983

This was easily the book that singlehandedly influenced modern Japanese cinema, yet it is exceptionally rare for a critical study of a film director to have such an impact on not only how movies are discussed, but also how they are made. Mr Hasumi, a scholar of French literature at the University of Tokyo, accomplished just that.

His most notable achievement is countering conceptions of the legendary Yasujiro Ozu as either a minimalist or the ‘most Japanese’ of directors. To do that, Mr Hasumi dug deep into the director’s basis in cinema and argued plainly that anything Japanese was less a reflection of Japan than a product of film and Ozu’s unique manipulation of visual and narrative motifs. Ultimately, the book forever altered future filmmakers’ impression of Yasujiro Ozu. The likes of Masayuki Suo and Naoto Takenaka chose to emulate Hasumi’s version of Ozu, as opposed to the real one. Many post-Eighties directors who studied under Hasumi followed a similar path, and his influence can be easily spotted in their films.

LEOS CARAX AND SHIGEHIKO HASUMI, ©MICHIKO YOSHITAKE

But what I perceived as simply the greatest shift of all was the emergence of ‘Akira’ (1988). From that moment on, it became clear that Japan’s most valuable export would soon become the animation—the beloved anime, specifically, that went on to birth entire cultures online and across the globe. It started with a bang, quite literally, in ‘Akira’, and it hasn’t stopped since.

In the end, Japan has had nothing but good and wonderful things to give us, in its own definitive and impossible-to-confuse style. From its black-and-white minimalism to its thespian explosions of colour and its often incredibly ambitious themes, it’s plain to see how Japan made its indelible mark on the silver screen. Film is but a medium, and the Japanese proved that it is how you use it that makes it a triumph.

While I have thoroughly enjoyed going back in time and studying some of the most memorable films and events that have shaped the industry as part of our ‘Cinematic History’ series, there were just too many of them to fit within the central thread of this topic. This is why we’ve decided to take a look at some of the countries whose contributions to the world of film are simply inestimable yet didn’t fully make it into previous discussions.

We begin with a two-article trip down memory lane in Japan. After the celebrated arrival of that train in La Ciotat station, film made its way to Asia in 1896. The first public film exhibition in Asia took place on 7^th July at Watson’s Hotel in Bombay, India. Its arrival helped shape the identity and culture of people in the region. The art of cinema didn’t take long to reach Japan after that in 1897, initially through Thomas Edison’s kinetoscope, followed by the Vitascope and the Lumière Brothers’ Cinematograph—with the help of local businessmen such as Inabata Katsutaro.

‘NIHONBASHI, TOKYO’ (1897), ONE OF THE FIRST FILMS OF JAPAN. FROM THE LUMIÈRE COLLECTION.

Not long afterwards, the Japanese began exploring the wondrous potential of the silver screen. Ghost films were among the first to emerge—’Jizo the Spook’ and ‘Resurrection of a Corpse’ by Shirō Asano worth noting here, as well as the first documentary, ‘Geisha No Teodori’, which came out in June 1899.

Theatres hired benshi to sit next to their screens and narrate the silent films on display. These performers were basically descendants of the kōdan storytellers and other practitioners of oral storytelling in Japanese history. The benshi amplified the cinematic experiences of the early 20^th century, and it helped develop the new art medium into a financial powerhouse. In 1907, Shōzō Makino made his debut with ‘Honnōji Gassen’, etching himself into the annals of history as the pioneer of Japanese cinema.

The first film production studio was opened in Tokyo in 1909, named Yoshizawa Shōten. Critics were quick to emerge, as well, publishing movie analyses in publications such as ‘Katsudō Shashinkai’. The industry’s growth was unstoppable, quickly demanding reform by the Roaring ‘20s. More studios were established—Shochiku and Taikatsu among them, marking the rise of luminaries such as Kenji Mizoguchi, Masao Inoue, and Thomas Kurihara. Needless to say, the Japanese were on a roll.

KENJI MIZOGUCHI

‘A Page of Madness’, 1926

I’m not the only one who thinks that the opening sequence from Teinosuke Kinguasa’s film deserves its spotlight as a defining moment in Japanese cinema. Sure, it shows us a car arriving under a heavy torrential rain and a figure getting out. Nothing exceptional here, at first sight, since we never learn who that person is. But it is the technique that is noteworthy, particularly for the silent film era. The rhythmic montage of rain, tires, stairs, a telephone pole, lightning, and windows are all combined through cuts and double exposure and upside-down imaging. Its partial motivation is that this is a mental hospital, as the film begins, and the next hundred shots serve to draw the viewer into the delusions of a dancing inmate.

It combines the wild body movements with extrasensory incantations of music into a climactic frenzy of shots of only one frame each. Its French impressionism influence is clear, but Japanese critics were quick to praise it as surpassing even the best of contemporary European cinema—though some did complain about other melodramatic elements of the film. Surprisingly, Kinugasa didn’t take the movie with him when he travelled to Europe in 1928. It was thought lost until the director found two print copies in rice cans, lost in his old house, much later in 1971. It was nothing short of a miracle that it survived.

‘A PAGE OF MADNESS’ (1926)

‘I Was Born, But…’, 1932

Filmmaker and author Mark Cousins once said that Yasujiro Ozu was ‘cinema’s great master of resignation’, which makes ‘I Was Born, But…’ such a surprise since it’s full of joy and playfulness. Then again, Ozu was only 29 when he made this silent film. It was his 23^rd, and he had yet to discover the artistic sadness that would become his signature style. Harold Lloyd’s American comedy influence can be observed here.

The movie show at the boss’s house is a particularly delightful scene, as the sons go from the shock of viewing their father as he debases himself in an amateur movie to understanding that there is a hierarchy to this world, and that not everybody gets to be at the top. The film’s overall subject is suburban Japan and the family of a salaryman—each superbly played by Tatsuo Saito, Hideo Sugawara, and Tomio Aoki. The freshness of its theme is the main appeal, along with the exquisite acting, making ‘I Was Born, But…’ the first of Ozu’s surviving films that goes on to define him as one of cinema’s greatest filmmakers.

‘I WAS BORN, BUT…’ (1932), ©JANUS FILMS

‘Takadanobaba Duel’, 1937

A strong example of the virtuoso flourishes of pre-war Japanese cinema comes with Yasubei’s run towards the duel in Masahiro Makino and Hiroshi Inagaki’s splendid film. Yasubei is a masterless samurai who enjoys drinking and fighting perhaps a little too much. He’s beyond tipsy upon his return home when he finds a letter from his uncle Kayono, who has written in hopes of receiving his assistance in a duel against eighteen men.

Usually, a dash such as Yasubei’s would be delivered in a few simple shots or through parallel editing, at most. But the Japanese filmmakers chose to showcase their directorial skills through what David Bordwell calls ‘flourishes’, snippets of stylistic excess that can offer viewing pleasure on top of the narrative progress. This samurai’s run to the duel is one of the better examples, with a camera looking up at a raised road that shows him and his neighbours running in a string of pans. Thirty-five pans, all from the same camera position. It may seem that Yasubei is running over the same road but in slight differences, combined with the increased tempo in cutting to deliver the urgency of his sprint. Mr Inagaki, in particular, was clearly a master of montage.

‘TAKADANOBABA DUEL’ (1937), ©NIKKATSU

The Film Shortage of 1941

On 16^th August 1941, the Japanese Empire was already at war with China and almost totally reliant on foreign film stock. Ryuzo Kawamo, chief of Section Five within the Information Bureau, told the major studio heads that the government did not have a single foot of film left to give to the private industry. While it served more as a threat rather than a directive, the government did decide to take advantage of its authority mainly under the Film Law of 1939 in a bid to establish state control over raw materials. The move meant to force a reorganization of the film industry and to bring it under the government’s unflinching domination.

By September, the bureaucrats and the filmmakers hashed out an agreement to set limits on the number and length of films that could be made. It also reduced the number of fiction-film-oriented studios from ten to a mere three, and the number of other producers from hundreds to an even more dismal one. In the government’s opinion, the agreement served to make the Japanese film industry more efficient, at the time notorious for its inefficiencies and over-production habits. It ended up transforming the entire production process and ushering the golden age of Japanese cinema in the ‘50s.

 

‘A Hen in the Wind’, 1948

It’s one of the lesser known oeuvres of Yasujiro Ozu, but it is crucial to his overall body of work, which is more variegated than one might think. While it does hold a trove of slow and harmonious films, there are some remarkably livelier works of silent film in Ozu’s portfolio. Unsurprisingly, the Japanese master is generally and superficially associated with his later, refined style, despite his earlier works being full of unexpected moments of cinematic art.

While it’s obviously an ‘Occupation’ film, ‘A Hen in the Wind’ does not glorify the concept of patriotic reconstruction, choosing to focus on a human-scale compromise instead. In ‘A Hen in the Wind’, a wife resorts to prostitution to cover her son’s hospital bill while waiting for the husband to return from war. When he comes back and learns about her shameful methods, he cannot forgive the woman and pushes her down the stairs. After lying immobile and crooked for a while, she slowly manages to climb back up. Only then is he willing to consider reconciliation.

‘A HEN IN THE WIND’ (1948), ©SHOCHIKU

‘Life of Oharu’, 1952

Kenji Mizoguchi’s mid-century film art reaches a superior level of mastery. The elaborately detailed narrative voyage of an arresting heroine is lifted in a special moment that reveals the Japanese director’s long-take technique and the enormous amount of talent combined with practice required to deliver such a scene. In it, only a few steps superbly link past and present in muted sunlight.

Late in the story, Oharu, the film’s principal character, has been reduced to playing the samisen and begging after many difficult and otherwise twisting events in her life. We see her sitting in front of a gate, and she gets up. She’s reacting to something, moving left to right as she climbs a small slope. We’re then transported into her point of view and see what Oharu saw—her son. It’s only a glimpse of him before the camera returns to track with her back to her spot by the gate. The sequence lasts about five minutes, and it contains only nine shots, of which the last is decidedly beautiful with the quiet and unexpected materialization of her past within her present. It is almost magical and raised to perfection through Mizoguchi’s stellar command of camera movement and fixed composition.

‘LIFE OF OHARU’ (1952), ©KOI PRODUCTIONS

‘Ikiru’, 1952

After winning the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival and thus making history with ‘Rashomon’, Akira Kurosawa went on to deliver ‘Ikiru’ that same year—a film that provides the best evidence of the Japanese director’s ability to communicate challenging ideas through daring, large-scale structures of narrative and image.

While there are plenty of scenes that illustrate his brilliant vision and craftsmanship, what truly stands out is the audacity of their overall design. Much like ‘High and Low’, ‘Ikiru’ is divided into two parts of unequal length, at first focusing on a man who acts on previously suppressed humanist impulses before abruptly renouncing them as the story is taken over by a new and much larger set of characters. The first segment of ‘Ikiru’ follows Kanji Watanabe, a man who discovers that he will die of cancer. It ends with him choosing to fight alongside people who are demanding the realization of a socially useful act—transforming a patch of wasteland into a playground. This is what he hopes will give his life meaning. The second delivers the varied responses to his successful campaign after his death.

The final scenes suggest that his impact was minimal despite his good intentions. It is the culture that demands more radical changes. Its problems cannot be solved by liberal reforms and the virtues of a few decent individuals.

‘IKIRU’ (1952), ©TOHO COMPANY

‘Tokyo Story’, 1953

We’ve just passed the middle of the 20^th century. The Second World War has ended, and Japan has already been making an impressive comeback, from a cultural point of view. Its participation in the global conflict would take years to slither into the background, though it would never be forgotten. Alas, from that darkness came the golden era of Japanese cinema, and there are few films that better encompass its ingeniousness and grandeur than Yasujiro Ozu’s ‘Tokyo Story’.

Oddly enough, one scene stands out among the others. It is a small yet critical moment, superbly understated and yet emotionally startling. The mother has been sitting outdoors with her husband. She hesitates for barely a second as she rises to her feet. That is all—there is no camera movement, no cut to a close-up, no reaction shot whatsoever. Tomi, the mother, is perfectly fine, as is her husband. They’ve only been talking for a while, and they’ve just gotten up. Only, one of them did it slightly easier than the other.

‘TOKYO STORY’ (1953), ©SHOCHIKU

In life, a passing moment has the power to foretell major changes for a family. Still, with so much flowing around us, it is difficult to observe the fleeting details, to truly feel what it means. The art of Ozu’s cinema offers the extraordinary alertness and brilliance needed to see such things. He takes stuff out, rather than put stuff in. He helps us notice the precious elements by removing the distractions.

I can think of no better defining moment that truly encapsulates the artistry of mid-century Japanese cinema. Ozu’s beautiful minimalism stays with us as Tomi’s knees bend, and our hearts fall.

The BFI is launching a six-month season on BFI Player celebrating Japanese cinema. BFI Japan 2020: Over 100 Years of Japanese Cinema will launch on 11 May and will be divided into thematic collections presented between May and October 2020.

The event was originally scheduled to run in venues across the UK from May through September 2020, however, in light of the current coronavirus pandemic that has forced theatres around the globe to close their doors, the BFI has decided to programme nine new online collections of Japanese films on BFI Player.

HARAKIRI (1962)

This major season will kick off on 11 May with a spotlight on Akira Kurosawa‘s work and over the following months will feature the great classics of Yasujiro Ozu, Kenji Mizoguchi and Mikio Naruse, and the pioneering women of the Golden Age like Kinuyo Tanaka. There will be striking films by post-war New Wave directors like Nagisa Oshima, vivid visions of anime masters such as Hayao Miyazaki and Satoshi Kon, and the J-horror netherworlds created by filmmakers like Hideo Nakata.

The season will also celebrate contemporary visionaries such as Takashi Miike, Takeshi Kitano and Naomi Kawase, as well as spotlight the next generation of creatives making waves in Japan, with the chance to see 21st-century films that are yet to be made available in the UK.

The collections will be launched as follows:

• Akira Kurosawa (11 May)

• Classics (11 May)

• Yasujiro Ozu (5 June)

• Cult (3 July)

• Anime (31 July)

• Independence (21 August)

• 21st Century (18 September)

• J-Horror (30 October)

The event will also draw on the BFI National Archive’s significant collection of early films of Japan dating back to 1894, launching a new free collection titled ‘Early Films of Japan (1894-1914)’, which will include travelogues, home movies and newsreels, and will offer audiences a rare chance to see how European and Japanese filmmakers captured life in Japan in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Highlights include the oldest surviving film, ‘Japanese Dancers’ (1894), which captures three Japanese women performing an Imperial dance from The Mikado, and early colour film ‘Japanese Festival’ (1910) which celebrates the 50th anniversary of the opening of Yokohama’s Harbour.

TOKYO STORY (1963)

An online events programme on BFI YouTube will run alongside the BFI Player season, featuring virtual Q&As, introductions and more, with details to be announced soon.

The season is set to continue in cinemas as soon as they are able to reopen, hopefully later this year and into 2021.

And because it’s the BFI, you can rest assured that they’ve also been busy preparing fabulous merch to complement the season. There will be numerous BFI DVD and Blu-ray releases, including Ozu’s ‘Tokyo Story’ (1953) and ‘The Flavour of Green Tea over Rice’ (1952) – both in new 4K restorations; Toshio Matsumoto’s controversial debut ‘Funeral Parade of Roses’ (1969) will receive its UK Blu-ray premiere; and there will be a Takeshi Kitano Blu-ray boxset featuring ‘Sonatine’ (1993), ‘Violent Cop’ (1989) and ‘Boiling Point’ (1990). All these films will be available on BFI Player.

The BFI has also released, together with Bloomsbury, a new book titled ‘The Japanese Cinema Book’, edited by Hideaki Fujiki (Nagoya University, Japan) and Alastair Phillips (University of Warwick, UK), which is available in e-book and print editions now.

And last but not least, their iconic magazine, Sight & Sound, will celebrate anime this summer with a special issue out at the end of May.