Jasper Sharp : 2009 : August

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Koji Shiraishi's Grotesque

Koji Shiraishi's Grotesque

I’ve just had my attention drawn to this piece of news on the BBC website regarding the decision by the British Board of Film Classification on August 18th not to pass the Japanese horror film Grotesque (Gurotesuku). The film is directed by Koji Shiraishi, best known as the director of Slit-Mouthed Woman (Kuchisake onna) from 2007, released internationally by Tartan under their ‘Asian Extreme’ label as Carved: The Slit-Mouthed Woman, and one of the two films that came out around the same time based on the same Japanese legend (the other being Takuaki Hashiguchi’s 2005 supernatural pink film of the same title). Shiraishi also directed a number of straight-to-video J-horror titles, and the 2005 feature Curse (Noroi), so he’s not exactly a major name by any standard.

I can’t say that Grotesque is a title that has ranked high on my must-see list. In fact, I was completely unaware of it until today. It was released theatrically in Tokyo in January of this year, but it hasn’t exactly created a huge buzz on the festival circuit. To give you a bit of background, culled from Kevin Ouellette’s Nippon Cinema website, the film is a gruesome rendition of the minimalistic torture porn genre exemplified by Eli Roth’s Hostel, featuring a sadistic maniac who kidnaps a young woman (played by AV actress Tsugumi Nagasawa) and her boyfriend and precedes to torture, mutilate and kill them. In other words, the pseudo-snuff video Guinea Pig series of the 1980s reprised for the big screen.

There’s nothing on the BBFC website entry about the reasons for rejecting the film, which was submitted by distributor 4Digital Media Ltd, although the BBC article quotes the BBFC director David Cooke as saying it presented “little more than an unrelenting and escalating scenario of humiliation, brutality and sadism…The chief pleasure on offer seems to be in the spectacle of sadism (including sexual sadism) for its own sake.”

It’s funny, because compared to the era in which I formed my viewing tastes, back in the 1980s when the BBFC was run by the tyrannical hand of James Ferman, I’d not really been aware of any cases of films being “banned” outright in the UK, although certainly cuts are still regularly being demanded (Takashi Miike’s Ichi the Killer in 2002 is just one Japanese example I can recall, but I know there’s been plenty more for the video market). If a film isn’t passed, it’s usually a low-profile offering for the home-viewing market or a pornographic title: only three films hoping for an 18 certificate have been refused over the past four years. These, as the BBC article states, include “violent sex thriller Murder Set Pieces and Terrorists, Killers And Other Wackos, a film comprising real clips of execution and torture.”

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Koji Shiraishi's Grotesque

Now, you won’t see me weeping bitter tears over the non-availability of such throwaway titles as Grotesque, nor succumb to the facile knee-jerk cries of “hypocrisy!” (or even “racism”!) that often accompany such BBFC rejections, but in the wake of the body’s passing of Lars von Trier’s Antichrist a couple of months ago, with the proviso that the poster contained the warning “contains strong real sex, bloody violence and self-mutilation” it seems high time this self-serving institution’s role in the 21st century was subjected to a little more scrutiny.

Perhaps the rejection of Grotesque is best seen as a token gesture to show that the BBFC does still have some purpose, a case of being seen to act rather than actually having the power to stop people seeing films that can still be (illegally) downloaded or ordered from overseas online retailers. After all, it’s a minor title that few would have heard about (although the ban ironically means that more people will hear about the film now), as opposed to von Trier’s film, whose presence in competition at this year’s Cannes had already generated its fair share of press attention and wrapped it up in a specious arthouse sheen.

I’ve not seen Grotesque, as I’ve mentioned, but I know there are those that have perceived artistic merits in Antichrist that completely bypassed me. But surely the subjective notions of the quality of the films in question should not be a decisive factor in what gets passed and what gets rejected. What the BBFC are trying to do here is second guess the motives of the filmmakers, the distributors and the potential audience for such materials. It seems assumed that while viewers will be sickened by von Trier’s sexualized graphic violence, a different demographic will revel in similar displays in Shiraishi’s film.

The BBFC’s decisions seem to hinge more on how a film is marketed than its content. As an example, during a panel discussion entitled ‘Sex on Screen’ that took place as part of this year’s Bird’s Eye View festival in March, Petra Joy, a German woman who makes tasteful sex films for the couples and the female market, complained that the audiences for her works was unfairly restricted in Britain, as the BBFC automatically stamped them with the 18R certificate (introduced in 1999), meaning they could only be sold in licensed sex shops or screened at licensed cinemas, even though they were often less explicit than art cinema releases such as Baise Moi and Anatomy of Hell. We’re on the dodgy ground of content versus intent here, but it seems bizarre to me that films intended to titillate are treated as something more seditious than films that are intended to disturb or disgust.

In this age of internet downloads, it’s safe to say that anyone who really wants access to violent or sexually explicit material is going to be able to find it. The BBFC cannot stop that, nor is it in its remit to do so. It can only prevent films from theatrical or video release in UK markets. If the BBFC does have a role, it should be in the classification of releases, not the suppression, to give age guidelines about whom the film is suitable for. Distributors should also be allowed to bypass the organization entirely, as in America, and release their films unrated.

Because if the BBFC’s continued presence is of any consequence, it is mainly though protecting the interests of larger distributors and restricting the number of films that are commercially viable for release. To release a film theatrically or for the home-video market, it is a legal requirement to submit them to the the BBFC, whether they be sex films, horror films, action films or innocuous children’s titles or documentaries. The body charges a mandatory per-minute fee, charged separately for theatrical and DVD releases: if a company wants both, it gets charged twice, and once again for all DVD extras. This charge would be the same for Paramount and Universal as it would for if I decided to set up a label operating from my own bedroom. If, like me, you regard the moving image as much a valid form of communicating ideas as print media, then you’ll regard the BBFC’s power as profoundly undemocratic. Even if you don’t, it’s still an unfair bar on those wishing to enter the market.

The fact is, for smaller distributors, the BBFC submission charges are the most significant costs they’ll face. If a film is likely to sell less than 1000 copies, you might as well not bother, which immediately discounts the bulk of “minority interest” (in other words, foreign-language) films. A longer film, say three hours in length, would be charged twice as much as a 90 minute feature. This is the reason why Koji Wakamatsu’s United Red Army will probably never see a commercial release in the UK (I challenge somone to prove me wrong here!)

I personally couldn’t give two hoots about whether I, nor indeed anyone else, have the opportunity to see Grotesque. But there are plenty of other foreign films that won’t see release in Britain because the financial bar is set so high for distributors that they are commercially unviable. As the number of small indie distributors, valid commercial enterprises that are vital to the UK film industry, dwindle under the pressures brought about by the current economic situation and the rise in illegal downloading, this is more than a shame. It has implications for the entire cultural climate of the country.

For more details see also Brits ban ho-hum-sounding Flick and the Melon Farmers website.

Sex seems to be all the rage with festival and film museum programmers this year. Why, only a few months ago I was asked to introduce In the Realm of the Senses (a neat segue from the Oshima posting) at the new London Student Film festival as part of a sex-themed program that also included Shortbus and Pasolini’s Salo, or the 120 Days of Sodom, and I pride myself in having been active in bringing Japanese eroticism to a number of otherwise more highbrow cultural institutions.

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Therese and Isabelle (1968)

Those of a certain age probably can’t remember a time when porn wasn’t just a couple of mouse clicks away on the internet, and judging by the unhealthy obsession with all things pornographic of Channel Four’s documentary commissioning editors, it seems like there’s quite a few over-forties who missed the joy-boat first time round too. Truth is, if we’re talking in terms of the big-screen celluloid sex flicks that were a regular fixture in most cities’ dark undergirths during the 60s and 70s, most critics prudishly averted their eyes, although I do remember a former Monthly Film Bulletin writer regaling me with tales of woe about spending much of the 1970s frequenting all sorts of unseemly venues as part his job description, compiling full cast and credit lists of every single re-dubbed, re-titled, re-edited and heavily censored (this was Britain, after all…) softcore cheesefest from the continent.

Camille 2000 (1969)

Camille 2000 (1969)

Well, you’ll get no such snootery from me. As far as I’m concerned, if a film was released into cinemas, it’s part of cinema history, which is why I’m somewhat overjoyed the the BFI have taken the plunge into the unknown with their September season entitled, quite simply, Sexploitation, curated by someone who goes under the porn name of Julian Marsh III. Among the many rarities included are a number of Radley Metzger classics (Therese and Isabelle, Camille 2000 and Score), a Herschell Gordon Lewis/David Friedman double bill of Boin-n-g! and Scum of the Earth! from the days when such titles came with an obligatory exclamation mark appended, and a handful of goodies from Russ Meyer.

The BFI brochure were keen to point out the faded, scratchy quality of some of the prints being shown but, as any aficionado will tell you, that’s all part and parcel of the pleasure. More exciting is that one of the three directors the season centres upon, the legendary Joseph W Sarno, will be in town on October 1st to talk about his time in the industry, and the whole programme is going to be put into context with a screening of Schlock! The Secret History of American Movies, a documentary about this heyday of cinematic sleaze directed by Ray Greene, who will also be in attendance to answer any questions you might have, if you’re not too embarrassed to put your hand up.

You’ll find more details on the BFI website, right here.

I’m gradually getting my details uploaded to this website at the moment, though it might be a few weeks until everything is up and running 100%. In the meantime, I just wanted to draw people’s attention to a couple of interesting programs coming up at the BFI Southbank in London over the next month or two. I’ve had nothing to do with either of them, though both fall within my spheres of interest.

The first is the long anticipated Nagisa Oshima season curated by James Quandt of the Cinematheque Ontario that has been doing the rounds internationally over the past year. The season played the Cinematheque last October-December, and it has now finally reached London. The second is the Sexploitation season, which I’ll deal with in another post.

Nagisa Oshima, the man himself.

Nagisa Oshima, the man himself.

Nagisa Oshima is a director who’s rather fallen out of fashion in recent years, not only because much of his work, especially from the 1960s, has been very difficult to see, nor because Oshima’s own poor state of health has prevented him form being as vocal about his important status in the history of Japanese cinema as other directors from his generation. The main reason that I can see why Oshima doesn’t enjoy the same level of appreciation nowadays as some of his contemporaries like Shohei Imamura or Koji Wakamatsu is that his films are so much part of the political and intellectual discourse of the era that those coming to them cold are probably going to be left in the cold. Oshima came from the same “filmmaking as political process” philosophy as Jean-Luc Godard in France, which is not to say necessarily that he shared the same politics. But it does mean that at times his works can be pretty abstruse, unless you’ve done your background reading (and what better place to start perhaps, than my own Behind the Pink Curtain…) On the plus side however, it means that no two Oshima films are alike, in terms of form, tone or content, even though it is possible to detect threads running through his work.

The Catch (1961)

The Catch (1961)

I’m pretty excited however, because the season is a more-or-less complete retrospective, which means there’s quite a few titles showing that I’ve not even seen, namely The Catch, Shiro from Amakusa: The Christian Rebel and Three Resurrected Drunkards. I’ll also make a point of heading out to see my own personal favourite of his films, Boy, on the big screen. The season will of course feature his best-known work, In the Realm of the Senses, which the BFI are putting out on an extended run across the country, no doubt in preparation for an upcoming DVD/Blueray release.

Anyway, here’s the BFI press release, and more details can be found on the website:

Boy (1969)

Boy (1969)

Throughout September and October, BFI Southbank will celebrate the astounding films  of Japan’s foremost modern master Nagisa Oshima, with a full retrospective of his films including an extended run of In the Realm of the Senses (Ai no Corrida, 1975); plus a rare opportunity to see a selection of television work from the ‘outlaw’ director who spearheaded Japan’s new wave.

One of the crucial differences that sets Nagisa Oshima apart from other great Japanese film-makers is that he has never accepted that he is defined merely by his own cultural identity. Constantly swimming against the tide, Oshima doesn’t accept consensus views on anything. Instead, he faces up to contradictions and insists on thinking his own way through them. This contrariness is reflected in his films as,  in the 1960s and fired up by his earlier experiences as a student radical, he quickly established himself as a one-man ‘new wave’ in Japanese cinema.

Initially obsessed with the idea of revolution, many of the early films deal more or less directly with the failure of the Left, and ask why campaigns often miss their targets and why some movements tear themselves apart. Gradually, as his faith in revolution faded, he turned to other ways of attacking Japan’s body politic, focusing on the plight of the country’s most discriminated-against minority, Korean immigrants, and taking a more direct approach to the two issues which disrupt the cohesive surface of Japanese society: sex and crime.

This two-part season will include all of his feature films as well as some of his equally personal TV work. Part One kicks off with the four incendiary movies he made  for Shochiku in 1959/60; A Town of Love and Hate (Ai to Kibo no Machi, 1959), Cruel Story of Youth (Taiyo no Hakaba, 1960), The Sun’s Burial (Taiyo no Hakaba, 1960) and Night and Fog in Japan (Nihon no Yoru to Kiri, 1960) before examining his achievement as an independent film-maker with work including Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence (Senjo no Merry Christmas, 1983) and climaxing with Gohatto (1999), the  ‘gay samurai’ movie he willed himself into recovery to make after suffering a debilitating stroke. This retrospective includes many of the electrifying movies which helped shape our sense of what cinema is – and should be.