Name a more iconic actor-director pairing from the mid-20th century than Akira Kurosawa and Toshiro Mifune. Unless you were going to say John Wayne and John Ford, we’ll wait for you to get back to us.

Over 18 years and 16 films they carefully crafted together, many made back-to-back or in quick succession, both iconic figures in Japanese cinema indisputably produced the most memorable and lasting work of their respective lengthy careers, doing so whilst working in such eclectic genres as crime movies, romantic dramas, adaptations of Shakespeare and East Asian folklore, and of course, as soon as the post-war ban on martial depictions was lifted, jidaigeki samurai films.

Coincidentally, both men were already working in different areas of the Japanese film industry during WWII – Kurosawa made propaganda films while Mifune was deployed in the aerial photography division of the Japanese armed forces. They both eventually found their way to Japanese mega production company Toho Studios. Toho gave both director and star their home throughout their long creative partnership, Mifune being discovered quite by accident in the “New Face” mass casting call after being rejected for his preferred job as a camera operator, while Kurosawa had steadily worked his way up from an assistant director under his mentor – the versatile pre-war filmmaker Kajirō Yamamoto – to write and direct his own projects.

Akira Kurosawa, much like Alfred Hitchcock, valued a polished script above all else and did not believe even a talented director could make up for shortcomings on the page. To mitigate this, he worked closely with a group which functioned almost like a modern American TV writer’s room, in order to exchange and improve upon ideas, ensuring the consistent quality of his screenplays. The final film was usually  made with his trusted creative team, the “Kurosawa-gumi”, including writers such as Ryūzō Kikushima and Shinobu Hashimoto, cinematographer Asakazu Nakai and script supervisor Teruyo Nogami. 

The pair’s memorable first encounter at an audition is recalled by Kurosawa thusly: “a young man reeling around the room in a violent frenzy… it was as frightening as watching a wounded beast trying to break loose. I was transfixed.”

To put it simply: Mifune was a force of nature. His aptitude for fighting both on screen and off, and the manner in which he threw himself into any task without visible fear, his intense stare, booming voice and intimidating presence made him impossible to ignore. He always stood out even in the impressive ensemble casts of such films as Rashomon and Seven Samurai. Kurosawa ended up designing some of the most memorable sequences in his always vivid films around what Mifune was likely to do, even though requiring some flexibility to accommodate his bankable but uncontrollable star could be a real problem for a director who would not budge an inch from his creative vision without good reason.

Their distinct working method involved both men intensively preparing separately from each other, and while their commitment to their beloved art form and often passionate disagreements certainly bore fruit, by the midpoint of both of their careers in film – following the difficult, contentious and much-delayed shoot of Red Beard (1965) – actor and director parted ways for good. Mifune’s career continued steadily on in Japan and abroad, but Kurosawa struggled with his work and mental health for over a decade until his modest late-life creative resurgence (roughly marked by the release of Kagemusha in 1980). Neither man quite hit the same heights they had reached while working together ever again. 

It is profoundly difficult to pick out a truly representative handful of films to stand in for the imposing Kurosawa/Mifune back catalogue, so we’ve gone a seasonal route and picked one of their collaborations from their early “spring” period, another from midway through, their “summer” and “autumn” periods, and finally one towards the end, the “winter” of their creative partnership. Please enjoy the first of The Film Magazine’s new series: Cinema’s Greatest Collaborations.

Spring: Stray Dog (1949)

Toshiro Mifune played tough Yakuza gangsters a lot in his early roles, notably in his film breakthrough with Akira Kurosawa, Drunken Angel in 1948, but was given the chance to be a lot more nuanced here in his third collaboration with his soon-to-be creative partner, playing a hapless and insecure cop. Both this and Drunken Angel also star Kurosawa’s other acting muse Takashi Shimura, but it is Stray Dog that gives Mifune in particular far more room to breathe as the unquestionable lead of the story, and he has far more opportunities to demonstrate multiple facets of his screen persona.

This sweaty, intense urban drama asks, what’s the most humiliating thing that could happen to a cop? Being promoted to Detective then immediately having your gun stolen on public transport by a common pickpocket has to be up there with the worst possible scenarios. Detective Murakami’s inadequacies both as a law enforcer and as a man are explored time and time again as he inadvertently digs himself into an even deeper hole in trying to put things right, eventually seeking help from the more level-headed and canny Detective Sato (Shimura) out of sheer desperation.

Because of the way he looked and sounded, Mifune specialised in, and was typically typecast as, scary brutes and slovenly slobs, but his versatility is tested here as he gets to be vulnerable and haphazard in how his character tries to correct his mistake. He ineffectually tries to chase down, and is often outsmarted by, prostitutes, dealers and smugglers, and so has no choice but to latch on to a senior colleague who actually seems to know what he is doing. 

Perhaps the best scene in the entire film is one of the more low-key sequences, where after an entire day of chasing a key witness without a result, the sex worker in question buys him a beer and some food and listens to his woes before providing some key information seemingly not out of honesty or duty but out of pity for this pathetic excuse for a police officer. Kate Blowers highlights in her essay “A Japanese Bull in a China Shop” that “When things go wrong for Mifune—as they often do, particularly in his earlier films—they go tremendously wrong”. Perhaps no other film in the entire Kurosawa/Mifune filmography shows this as explicitly as Stray Dog.

Mifune’s eldest son Shirō described his father’s unmistakable presence and unique working method, which can be seen plainly in most of his screen appearances: “He’s not an actor who blends into the background. You feel him energising everything around him. [Even though] he studied his part thoroughly, in front of the camera when they yelled “Action!” he forgot everything and just went for it”. Mifune’s performance often had a feeling of improvisation around it despite his meticulous preparation, which helped all of his characters feel immediate and raw. 

Mifune could be scary, attention-grabbing and forceful, but in few of his films, especially those with Kurosawa, did he get to be this withdrawn, pitiable and fundamentally sad.

Summer: Throne of Blood (1957)

Throne of Blood is one of three Akira Kurosawa films heavily inspired by William Shakespeare plays (the others being the “Hamlet”-riffing The Bad Sleep Well and “King Lear” reimagined as Ran). In this case, the acclaimed director closely adapted “Macbeth”, transposing events to a particularly moody and atmospheric vision of Medieval Japan.

What better persona to embody barely-in-check madness than Mifune? As the increasingly unhinged Lord Washizu, he plays the part of a strong and charismatic leader, but with an ever-present element of instability, of unpredictability, perfect for any portrayal of Shakespeare’s severely troubled and timeless protagonist. Mifune’s exaggerated striding gait, mad stare and tendency to laugh inappropriately in deathly serious situations helped to punctuate many a serious Kurosawa scene with welcome levity, but here it’s all in aid of the high melodrama. 

The film is one of the few genuinely disturbing film adaptations of “Macbeth”, the more explicitly supernatural elements delving deeply into Japanese folklore and the striking visuals borrowing from Noh theatre traditions, from the makeup applied to the actors to the highly theatrical staging of the most powerful scenes. Gone are the three witches, in their place an evil forest spirit appearing as a decrepit woman spinning a loom, foretelling triumph and turmoil, the haunting spectres who appear unbidden to our Macbeth stand-in looking just like something from Japanese folkloric art. 

Either as a commitment to realism or out of sheer recklessness, Throne of Blood‘s unforgettable finale sees the (uninsured and potentially expensive star) Mifune being shot at with real arrows by a college archery team playing his lord’s treacherous army. Kurosawa at times seems to care so little for his star that you wonder how such high budget projects ever managed to get off the ground. Tom Cruise’s insurance coverage might be a nightmare to navigate for modern blockbuster filmmakers, but the same risks were in evidence decades earlier in Japan with Mifune. 

An observation made in feature documentary Mifune: The Last Samurai is that: “Kurosawa demanded everything from his cast and crew and was exacting in every detail, but he left it to Mifune to develop his own character, telling him “Do what you want with it”.” The Kurosawa-gumi had Shakespeare’s words, their own Japanese cultural perspective, and a whirling dervish of an acting force that simply needed to be pointed in the right direction and unleashed, so no extra embellishment was required to make the final product as dramatic as it could be. 

Haruo Nakajima (actor in Godzilla and Seven Samurai) remembers that “Mr. Kurosawa would spend an entire day filming one shot… Working with Mr. Kurosawa was like working on a play instead of a movie. We would spend a great deal of time rehearsing. It was torturous.” While this rule of intensive rehearsal  and control over his cast went for most of Kurosawa’s cast members, particularly on such high-profile and expensive features as Seven Samurai, it didn’t seem to apply to Mifune because giving him such instruction simply couldn’t be done. Luckily for Kurosawa, he saw what Mifune brought to the table and worked around him rather well.

Autumn: The Bad Sleep Well (1960)

Two characters who are shown talking about Mifune’s character in The Bad Sleep Well are neatly analogous for how this particular performance took many viewers by surprise: “What’s his efficiency rating? / Almost perfect, but he is very reserved.”

Extremely dialled-back by his usual standards this particular performance may be, this demonstrates Mifune at his coolest and most suave. Rather than unleashing a hurricane, Kurosawa tapped into his star’s captivating camera presence and inherent charisma to keep the focus always on him when he’s on screen and the audience’s thinking on him whenever he isn’t. 

Mifune plays Kōichi Nishi, seemingly an ambitious corporate type who marries into the family who run the corrupt Dairyu Construction Company, engineering an elaborate scheme to bring the company down from the inside as revenge for a family loss as a result of their dirty dealings. Though we only see him briefly in the opening sequence before the film’s first half focuses on the other key players, the denouement is all about Nishi and his plans coming to fruition, doing very bad things to bad people; Mifune being calm, collected and crafty all the way through.

Chuck Stephens commented on Mifune’s anti-hero in his essay for Criterion: “though he is mute for the first thirty minutes of the movie, it is Mifune’s stoic Nishi who will soon be shown as the poker-faced pivot around which the film’s every action and reaction will revolve.”

The Bad Sleep Well launched Kurosawa’s self-titled production company independent of Toho and marked a move from outright commercial filmmaking, the release making a slight loss at the Japanese box office but still earning plaudits from critics at home, particularly for its intricately plotted, noirish first half.

Kurosawa going independent of Japan’s biggest studio allowed him to get extremely political and discuss the dire state of post-war Japanese business practices, particularly in the film’s repeated insult: “He’s not a man, he’s an official”. Kurosawa uses the “Hamlet” story template and makes it as modern and relevant as it could be to a country re-establishing itself, and with his newfound freedom from interfering studio higher-ups and with the end of post-war restrictions on explicit political commentary in Japanese cinema, he could really get stuck in. Chuck Stephens again described Kurosawa’s aims for the film succinctly: “a film whose bitter intent—to throw open the windows of Japanese corporate corruption and air out the stench—is staged as a series of haltingly revealed motivations, haggard resurrections, and harrowing defeats“.

Despite the fascination of seeing Mifune breaking his usual mould, this most definitely wasn’t a crowd-pleaser – the film is hard-going and demands your constant attention – but Kurosawa’s main goal was to ask his audience to consider Japan’s place in the world and what, if anything, could be justifiably sacrificed on a moral level for the sake of economic stability. 

Winter: Yojimbo (1961)

From the extremes of a dark and cerebral social issues film, Akira Kurosawa and Toshiro Mifune’s next collaboration spawned a character so successful it resulted in the pair’s only direct sequel. Sanjuro came just a year after Yojimbo, which in turn spawned the completely unauthorised remake (as in “we’ll see you in court” unauthorised) from Sergio Leone, A Fistful of Dollars, which kick-started the iconic Dollars Trilogy starring Clint Eastwood.

Mifune plays a nameless rōnin (wandering, masterless samurai) wearing a shabby kimono, unabashedly scratching and yawning away, seemingly uninterested in the affairs of the world except for where his next meal is coming from. He is reluctantly pressed into service to defend a town from some cruel local gangsters, but does not feel obligated to go above and beyond what he is being paid to do.

Forming his own production company, Kurosawa Productions, to house his more ambitious projects and lessen Toho’s understandable fears of heavy financial losses following the uninspiring reception of the challenging corporate thriller The Bad Sleep Well, Kurosawa returned to the Samurai films he was still best-known for and helped establish many a convention of lone warrior action movies in the following decades with Yojimbo.

Hisao Kurosawa (the director’s eldest son) points out that “Yojimbo was Kurosawa’s attempt at doing something fun. He wanted to do something everyone would enjoy”. This is Kurosawa doing popcorn entertainment, and it and its sequel Sanjuro influenced multiple genres and wider cinematic iconography for the following decades, including the way fight scenes (both sword duels and quick-draw gunfights) were staged and edited in addition to establishing how you use stylised violence to punctuate a genre film in everything from Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch to Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill. 

If there’s one indelible image associated with this film, it’s the iconic finale with Sanjuro/the Ronan with No Name (much like Clint Eastwood’s Western icon he never receives a definitive moniker) facing off against the criminal gang in a deserted, windswept street. Previously an insouciant, unflappable presence as prone to standing by and laughing at threats as fighting them, in this moment and despite the seemingly overwhelming odds he becomes the hero the town deserves and dispatches the foes outnumbering him impressively easily and in record time. This was another of Mifune’s skills, he could switch modes in the blink of an eye from sleepy house cat to ferocious tiger (the latter of which was famously an inspiration for the restless way some of his characters moved).

Steven Spielberg theorises that “We don’t make the heroes, it’s up to the audience to turn a character into a hero. And the power of that is in the performance of the actor, it’s up to the actor even more than the director, because a director can only pull so many strings, but if a director pulls too many strings it’s a puppet not an artist”.

Teruyo Nogami (regular Kurosawa script supervisor and one of the director’s inner circle of creatives) said that “People have no idea how hard [Mifune] worked. He was always thinking about his character and how to add humour to it”. No matter how intense Mifune’s screen presence was and how thematically layered Kurosawa’s greatest films are, both men saw the value of diffusing tension, of giving a scene a more varied rhythm and a character more humanity with the addition of a funny grace-note, background buffoonery to repeated physical tics. 

Akira Kurosawa and Toshiro Mifune were a creative partnership for the ages, one that left an indelible mark on film in Japan and around the world, and as artists they were never stronger than when they were working side-by-side. Despite not speaking to arguably his most significant creative collaborator for three decades, when he outlived his muse by just a few months Kurosawa sent a letter to be read at Mifune’s funeral, movingly capturing what their love-hate relationship and their long and often tumultuous collaboration really meant, and perhaps in his way apologising for the way things ultimately turned out:

“When I look back on each and every film, I couldn’t have made them without you. You gave so much of yourself. Thank you, my friend.”

Recommended for you: Where to Start with Akira Kurosawa

Originally a video game released on Nintendo’s handheld console the Game Boy, Pokémon has since spawned a hit anime series, a school playground-infiltrating trading card game, toys of all shapes and forms, and even food. This isn’t to mention the Pokémon branded aircraft.

In 2019, the pocket monsters made their way to Hollywood with the first live-action Pokémon movie, the moderately successful Detective Pikachu, but this wasn’t this media powerhouse’s first foray into theatres. In fact, since 1998, Pokémon has released a feature length anime movie annually.

These films are hardly the pinnacle of cinema, ranging from good to outright terrible, nor are they at the consistent quality of other anime studios such as Studio Ghibli, yet fans continue to return to the series. It seems, even 24 movies into its big screen existence, there remains something eternally endearing about 10-year-old Ash Ketchum and his loveable Pikachu.

In this edition of Ranked, we here at The Film Magazine have judged each of the Pokémon franchise’s 23 feature length anime films and judged each in terms of quality, significance, lore-building, public perception and critical reception to offer you: Pokémon Anime Movies Ranked

Follow us on Twitter.

24. Genesect and the Legend Awakened (2013)

Pokémon the Movie: Genesect and the Legend Awakened may be last in this list, but like any Pokémon movie it still has some positives. Namely, the animation is a standout, and there are a number of slow-motion Mewtwo scenes that are worth the admission alone for long-standing fans of the Pokémon universe. That’s where the praise ends however…

As a product of the Pokémon cycle, Genesect and the Legend Awakened feels almost entirely inconsequential, from its cliché-riddled plot to its shallow exploration of what it means to be a man-made sentient being. It’s repetitive too, flipping from one battle between Mewtwo and Genesect to another, to another and to another before the film is over.

The biggest offence of this 2013 release is how it passed on the opportunity to make this Mewtwo the same one that starred in The First Movie (1998). By bringing back such a well-known character, with a deep history within the universe and a beloved history within the fandom, each scene could have been elevated, turning this forgettable flick into essential viewing. As it turns out, this was not the case, and Genesect and the Legend Awakened became the most lifeless of all Pokémon movies released to date.

23. Pokémon Ranger and the Temple of the Sea (2006)

The final film with the Hoenn gang is the longest in the series… and it shows. Temple of The Sea is a slog to get through, featuring a generic plot that barely surfaces above boring. The film is a glorified advert for the ‘Pokémon Ranger’ videogame released the same year, and even then it does the game no favours.

Many of these films shoehorn in legendary Pokémon to trick kids into thinking the plot is more epic than it actually is. Temple of The Sea might just be the biggest offender regarding this – during the film’s climax, the legendary Pokémon of the sea, Kyogre, pops up for about 30 seconds, impacting the plot in no way whatsoever; but hey, it gave the producers a reason to put it on the poster.

The 3D animation seems to have regressed since the previous instalment (Lucario and The Mystery of Mew), making this not only one of the most boring in the series, but one of the ugliest too.

There are flickers of enjoyment to be had, from May and Manaphy’s touching friendship to Ash’s heroic act in the climax. And the main villain is a pirate with a very cool beard. But if that sounds like a stretch, it’s because it is.

22. Mewtwo Strikes Back – Evolution (2019)

In 2019, Pokémon took a break from releasing new films and released a CGI remake of its first release: The First Movie.

Mewtwo Strikes Back – Evolution looks good for the most part, from stunning environments to rich details never seen in Pokémon before – such as Ash’s hair being no longer the solid black chunk it had been for 20+ years – but the lack of evolution within the narrative and dialogue illustrated Pokémon’s resistance to evolve.

This new coat of paint doesn’t completely match, resulting in something that borders on the uncanny. Perhaps if the script had been overhauled it might have felt more modern, but instead the film is an inferior version of what it once was.

This is ultimately an inoffensive remake, but can only be recommended as necessary viewing to the completionists wishing to watch ’em all.

21. Hoopa and the Clash of Ages (2015)

Most Pokémon fans will say that ‘X and Y’ is the best anime series, but they’ll likely also tell you that Hoopa and the Clash of Ages is the worst Pokémon ever. This 2015 release has been described as an over-the-top fiasco of explosions and fan-service; but is this assessment accurate?

Make no mistake, Hoopa and the Clash of Ages is far from a good film, but unlike other entries in this list, Clash of Ages is never boring. For better or for worse, there is always something going on, even if that something is the arrival of yet another legendary Pokémon.

Some fun can be found in the the titular Hoopa too, an all-powerful Pokémon with the ability to warp space through it’s rings, allowing the transportation of people and Pokémon. The idea of its unbound form is interesting, as evident in the film’s opening in which Hoopa uses its unrestricted power and becomes a God to humans, summoning and fighting legendaries on command, all to show off its unrivalled power.

These brief positives aside, Clash of Ages is all flash and bang as fans of ‘X and Y’ have claimed: the very loose structure consists of a first act followed instantly by the third; plus legendary Pokémon appear in abundance, being treated in the most generic way.

Legendary Pokémon are typically rare, mystical beings, and barely appear in the Pokémon movies so as to keep them special, but here they are toys in a child’s hand, smashing and bashing each other with no explanation.

While it certainly offers turn-your-brain-off fun, Clash of Ages is ultimately excessive fighting with no substance to warrant repeat watches.

Written and directed by Hayao Miyazaki, Spirited Away tells the story of a ten-year-old girl named Chihiro who is whisked away to a fantasy land filled with magic and danger, and is forced to work at a mystical bathhouse for spirits. After her parents are captured by the witch, Yubaba, Chihiro must find a way to set them free so they can return home. It’s a moving story of identity and self-discovery, a film that broke down cultural barriers and inspired a generation of filmmakers.

20 years after its release, Spirited Away is as captivating as ever. In this Movie List from The Film Magazine, we’ll take a look back at some of the film’s most enduring, magical, and thought-provoking moments. These are the 10 Best Spirited Away Moments.

Follow @thefilmagazine on Twitter.

10. Chihiro and Her Parents Go Through the Tunnel

“I’m not going. It gives me the creeps.”

After getting lost and barrelling down a bumpy road, Chihiro’s dad stops in front of a seemingly old building. He wants to check it out, to see what’s on the other side, but Chihiro is hesitant – scared. It’s our first clue that something else is going on here – that maybe things are not what they appear to be. But her parents ignore Chihiro’s pleas to leave. Though it’s easy to read Chihiro as whiny and loud, this moment shows just how perceptive she is, the way most children usually are. In Spirited Away, it’s the adults who are ignorant and blind.

Inside, the building resembles a train station. The attention to detail is incredible: light pouring in through stained glass windows, water dripping from a dusty fountain. It’s fitting that the story starts here, in this liminal space. It’s a physical manifestation of where Chihiro is in her journey: almost beginning – not quite there yet. She’s at the threshold both emotionally and literally.

9. Chihiro’s Parents Turn Into Pigs

After Chihiro wanders off on her own, she returns to the seemingly abandoned village to find it alive with spirits. Night has fallen and the lights glow brightly. Lively music plays. Chihiro, scared and anxious, wants to leave, but when she finds her parents, they’ve turned into pigs. It’s a shocking moment that propels the story forward, forcing Chihiro out on her own, in search of a way to save her parents and return home.

This beat is important to the plot and is also a great representation of the larger themes present in Spirited Away. Her parents’ transformation is not only the catalyst for Chihiro’s journey but a very pointed critique of gluttony and Western Consumerism. In Spirited Away, very real things like laziness, cruelty, and opulence are often expressed in exaggerated, grotesque ways.

Recommended for you: Where to Start with Studio Ghibli

A lot of these films work as dramas and anti-war protests, or warnings about the pitfalls of modern life and work, but driving everything beneath the surface are the supernatural forces which feed off human weakness. Using ten great horror films as an example, this Movie List will explore the changing and developing tropes in Japanese horror. Not every film on this list is out and out scary, but every story has a creeping cruelty that drips with dread.

These are 10 Great Japanese Horror Movies.

Follow The Film Magazine on Twitter.

1. Kwaidan (1964)

Kwaidan consists of four traditional ghost stories which, like a lot of classic folktales, seek to teach morals and feature humans unwittingly caught in supernatural forces far beyond their ken. But rather than witches or fairies, as we’re used to in the West, the supernatural forces in Kwaidan manifest as autonomous locks of cursed black hair, shapeshifting snow maidens, armies of ghosts and an evil spirit trapped in a cup of tea.

Continuing his stellar run of features (including The Human Condition and Hara-kiri), director Masaki Kobayashi shifts genres but not themes. A lot of the horror in Kwaidan comes from the fact that these are stories of humanity in crisis. They often focus on peasant characters trying to survive a war, or on the machinations of powerful feudal lords. A master of the craft, Kobayashi’s camera captures his characters with the same tragic eye he’d perfected in his dramas. Add to that the glorious hand-painted backdrops and the immaculate set design and this may be the most beautiful horror film ever made. More haunting than scary, watching Kwaidan’s protagonists struggle against their deathly fates sends satisfying shivers down your spine.

2. Onibaba (1964) & Kuroneko (1968)

These two horror films from writer/director Kaneto Shindô would make for an excellent double bill.

Onibaba follows a nameless widow and her mother-in-law (a formidable Nobuko Otowa) made destitute by war and forced to kill and steal for their survival. The mother, jealous of her daughter’s youth and terrified of being left alone, comes into possession of a terrifying demon mask. What she thinks is an opportunity to control her daughter through fear turns into a far more unpleasant curse.

As a companion piece, Kuroneko swaps anger and terror for romance and tragedy. A mother (Otowa again) and her daughter are brutally and senselessly killed by a group of marauding samurai. Resurrected as vampiric, cat-like spirits, they start to prey upon samurai. Rather than relishing in vengeance, the women are cursed to live a life without love or humanity.

Despite the supernatural twist, the horror in both films comes from how the weak are made desperate and destitute by the actions of the powerful. Shindô manages to make tension and threat ooze out of nature (you’ll never be more scared of the images of swaying grass or deathly quiet bamboo groves), as though the very country itself is cursed.

Brutal and beautiful in equal measure, Shindô’s supernatural tales offer a multi-faceted look at how war so often destroys what it is nominally trying to save.

Isle of Dogs (2018)
Director: Wes Anderson
Screenwriters: Wes Anderson, Roman Coppola
Starring: Bryan Cranston, Jeff Goldblum, Bill Murray, Tilda Swinton, Harvey Keitel, Greta Gerwig, Yoko Ono

Following on from the critical and public smash that was The Grand Budapest Hotel, Wes Anderson returned to screens after a break of four years with 2018’s Isle of Dogs. The film was Anderson’s second foray into the world of stop-motion animation after 2009’s Fantastic Mr Fox. As with all Anderson projects, the ensemble cast proved to be one of the main draws, on this occasion led by the voice of ‘Breaking Bad’ star Bryan Cranston and Anderson regulars Bill Murray and Jeff Goldblum, each of whom played members of a group of dogs exiled to Trash Island by the infamous Kenji Kobayashi, mayor of Megasaki, whose family was proven to have a generations-deep hatred of canines.

Upon release, Isle of Dogs earned rave reviews and received nominations throughout awards season for Best Animated Feature. Writing in The Guardian, leading British film critic Mark Kermode noted that “Isle of Dogs is a delight: funny, touching and full of heartfelt warmth and wit”. This certainly wasn’t the only outpouring of love for the film, with many noting how well Anderson’s style suited the animation, praising the film’s quirkiness and humour. There have been some detractors who have criticised the way it depicts Japanese culture, with accusations of cultural appropriation, but the overarching consensus is that Isle of Dogs turned out to be one of Anderson’s stronger films.

The core narrative of Isle of Dogs centres on Mayor Kobayashi’s nephew Atari (Koyu Rankin) who sets off to Trash Island to recover his guard dog spots (voiced by Liev Schreiber). Along the way Atari encounters Chief (Cranston), Duke (Goldblum), Rex (Edward Norton), Boss (Murray) and King (Bob Balaban), and together they form a ragtag crew of exiled dogs, all of whom are slightly world-weary and struggling to survive in their newfound world separated from humanity.

The story focuses on both the situation on the island itself and the developing issues on the mainland, where we follow efforts from the government to cover up the fake disease that was used as the reason to exile the dogs. We also follow US foreign exchange student Tracy Walker (voiced by Lady Bird and Little Women director Greta Gerwig) in her efforts to expose the mayor’s lies.

The voice cast is one of the film’s clearest strengths, with Bryan Cranston suitably gruff and grizzled as Chief, a dog whose relationship with Atari and his fellow dogs form the film’s core. Jeff Goldblum’s Duke acts more as comic relief, while there is a fun smaller part for Tilda Swinton as Oracle, a seemingly wise dog.

While the film zips along as many of Anderson’s other films do, it still has a strong sense of heart and intimacy, and the way the relationship between Atari and Chief develops is especially indicative of this.

The score from Anderson regular Alexandre Desplat is another of the film’s high points. Incorporating traditional Japanese soundscapes and built around taiko drums with flourishes of woodwind, the score acts as a nice contrast to Desplat’s previous Anderson compositions – there are even nods to the works of Akira Kurosawa and glimpses of Prokofiev’s “Lieutenant Kijé” throughout the film. In between the more typically Japanese sounds of the score, Desplat and Anderson leave room for spots of popular music as has become customary of Anderson’s filmography, in this case focusing mainly on the eerie tones of The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band.

Isle of Dogs is a loving tale of canine and human friendship, recreating the culture of Japan in a heartfelt manner that illustrates Anderson’s appreciation for Japanese culture and the nation’s people. As with other Anderson films, the offbeat nature may prove to be off-putting to newcomers, but Anderson purists are in for a treat filled with familiar voices who blend into their surroundings meticulously.

Isle of Dogs once again illustrated Wes Anderson’s versatility as a director and was a bold move away from the trappings of The Grand Budapest Hotel which had earned such acclaim. With a filmography that only looks set to grow, one can only hope that Anderson makes further trips into the world of animation.

20/24

Studio Ghibli has, of course, been many people’s first port of call when it comes to the medium. Hailed as Japan’s answer to Disney, the studio’s breathtaking back catalogue has been, quite rightly, celebrated and lauded for close to forty years. However, one studio alone isn’t enough to do justice to a whole art form, and even the Disney comparison is a bit reductive. True, they make fables and fairy tales for all ages to enjoy, but nonetheless Ghibli’s style remains wholly unique.

With such a variety of styles and genres, each as unique as the last, anime is and has long been a hub of creative expression and wonder-inducing cinema, which is why in this Movie List we at The Film Magazine are looking at 10 Great Anime Films for Newcomers. This is not a top ten – there’s no ranking involved – rather this is a list of ten separate starting points from which you can launch into the wider world of anime with your own tastes and interests; there is truly something for everyone out there.

Make sure to follow us on Twitter for updates on more articles like this one.

1. Akira (1988)

Akira may seem like an obvious first choice for a list such as this, but for good reason. Originally chosen to exemplify Japan’s animated filmmaking capabilities to the world, Akira boasts one of the biggest budgets and largest animation teams ever produced, and the result is a mind-boggling spectacular of the form.

Following a group of bikers in a dystopian Neo-Tokyo who find themselves caught up in events far bigger than themselves, the film is a perfect example of anime’s genre-splicing power. This is a world where cyberpunk gunfights are placed against high school rebellion, and teenage angst manifests as telekinetic superpowers.

2. The Girl Who Leapt Through Time (2006)

In The Girl Who Leapt Throughout Time, Makoto is given the power to jump back in time by a couple of minutes, but given that this isn’t far enough back to make any drastic changes to the world, she instead uses it (as we all probably would) to fix any embarrassing mistakes she makes in her social life.

The film is undeniably charming, a slice of high school life which manages to pack so much energy into the most ordinary scenes.

An early offering from acclaimed director Mamoru Hosoda, an expert at blending intimately realistic settings with other-worldly plots, the film seems to be constantly trying to surprise you; just as the high school drama and romance starts to get a little old, a time-twisting mystery starts to reveal itself and evolves the film into something altogether different.

‘Budo – The Art of Killing’ is a title that evokes ambiguity, as referring to ‘killing’ as an art form is perplexing to say the least, as though it is a paradox that has been implemented in order to shed a different light on an unethical matter. Nemoto utilises visual and audible elements in order to support the title’s claim effectively – this notion becomes increasingly apparent throughout the documentary – which, in itself, is an art form, from the use of music in conjunction with the inclusion of moving film that provides both a historical and cultural understanding of a multitude of martial art practices, including Aikido, Karate, Sumo and Naginatajutsu – all of which originate from Japan and have been utilised for centuries, and each of which is still prevalent in contemporary culture.

The documentary style works proficiently in accordance with the theme of the piece itself which details the history of martial arts in a visual form, where those who practice such ancient arts are showcased in order to provide the viewer with a demonstration of how iconic sports such as Karate and Sumo are performed. It is highly intriguing, as previously I had not known much about martial arts aside from what I had viewed via Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris films – it was truly fascinating to learn about how martial arts were initiated and how they still remain relevant and play an influential part in contemporary Japanese culture.

Nemoto has executed the ‘documentary’ format with such precision, and in ‘Budo’, the director implemented the medium of the ‘visual’ most effectively, utilising ‘nature’ as a primary thematic element throughout the entirety of the piece, where jump-cuts of trees, waterfalls, waves crashing on the shore and blossom trees frequent the documentary. One believes this is done purposefully, as one scene from Nemoto’s piece showcases a heavy storm thus promoting the sheer power and unpredictability of the force of nature, which consequently reflects the art of self-defence, which when practiced, utilises strength which is not only physical in the art of ‘Budo’, but also spiritual.

One can possess the power of nature which is utilised as a metaphor effectively throughout Nemoto’s docu-film. The fighting spirit of the trained martial art figure, in turn, reflects the strong force of nature – the documentary comments on the notion of inner ‘spiritualism’ and how this correlates with individuals who practice such martial art forms.

Additionally, Nemoto’s historical piece on ancient Japanese martial art forms showcases a practice entitled ‘Naginatajutsu’, which is a form of the traditional art form of ‘Budo’ – however, it is performed primarily by a female demographic, where individuals utilise a ‘Naginata’ weapon in order to spar their opponent – this part of the documentary was intriguing and rather emotional overall as the art-form itself promotes the idea of spiritual beauty as opposed to physical beauty, thus empowering women in the process; something I found to be moving as it focuses on a woman’s inner self-belief, strength and capabilities, which I found motivational and thoroughly inspiring.

One of the recurring themes throughout the documentary is the belief that ‘human strength can ultimately defeat the sword’, which was an interesting concept that was conveyed through the entirety of the piece. Nemoto features the contrast between the ‘human’ body as being a weapon contrasted with that of the ‘physical’ weapon – the sword – which was utilised historically by the samurai warrior class, whilst those who could not afford such expensive weaponry utilised their body as a weapon – by training and gaining strength via martial artistry. This was a highly interesting concept that was narrated in great detail – Nemoto’s film sheds light on how powerful the human being is and what we as a species are capable of, highlighting how the human being can ‘train’ their body in order to feel no pain. It was absolutely astounding to see multiple scenes in the documentary that showcased ‘Budo’ (one of the main and original Japanese martial art forms) being displayed visually. One of the scenes features a young man who obliterates solid concrete slates with one hand – without even flinching! This was incredible to see. It is hard to envision that a human being such as this man could hold such strength. It was unbelievably powerful and a great scene overall, adding to the incredibly captivating documentary tremendously.

Nemoto also presents the negative side of ‘Budo’, accounting how one’s life can end by the ‘sword’ – and that a certain amount of fear developed around the samurai warrior who bore such arms – even though, the documentary scribes, was intended to be a warrior who was a signifier of ‘protection’ as opposed to a bringer of fear. It was interesting to discover that when the sword of the samurai is crafted, the creator of the iconic weapon (which is crafted in the flames, also described as being ‘born’ in such flames) prays that the sword itself is utilised by peaceful means, without the shed of blood. This was an unusual contrast, but in turn, it highlighted that even with such perceived violence, there is an element of harmony, where such martial arts are utilised for self-defence and that violence is not the primary goal.

Moreover, Nemoto’s documentary highlights how much the martial art of ‘Budo’ (in its multitude of forms) is centred around ‘self-control’, and that it can be perilous for the individual as life can be a constant struggle; that regardless of whether one receives the highest accolade, the iconic ‘black belt’, there are still improvements to be made – one should keep on practising the martial art in which they have mastered in fear that someone may become stronger than them if they do not attain their standard. It is moving, as the piece accounts of how much the internal struggle takes a toll on the individual and that in order to achieve true enlightenment, one turns to Buddhism to reinstate an equilibrium in their lives. There is a comparison between the sharpness of the mind in correlation with the sharpness of the sword, thus stating how pivotal metaphors are and how much they play a part in both the lives of the martial art-trained individuals, as well as the documentary itself.

Aside from the plot of the documentary, Nemoto utilises the notion of the ‘audible’ effectively, not just through the narration of the story, but also through the music that is implemented amongst certain scenes within the piece, where energetic music is played when set demonstrations of the martial art practices are performed. This is highly effective, as it adds to the suspense, as one never knows how it will end or what will entail during the performance, so to speak. It correlated with the ‘energetic’ vibe of the visual side. Both elements of the visual and the audible were fused together cleverly throughout Nemoto’s documentary. Also, the introduction of lively music in certain sections of the piece was welcomed, as it helped to break up the narration and added a sense of action into the documentary style that is usually a genre that is blatantly factual and sometimes banal. Nemoto managed to alter this notion, adding theatrical elements into the narrative and making the documentary enthusiastic as well as informative in the process.

Overall, Nemoto’s documentary ‘Budo – Art of Killing’ was a piece that provided an historical perspective which was educational, enabling the viewer to discover how martial arts developed and how they continue to resonate on from their archaic beginnings. The style of the piece provided both a visual and audible presentation of information which correlated together effectively, where Nemoto utilised both a documentary style format, but fused it with an ‘action’ format, which did not come across as being too theatrical – it was an equilibrium of both elements that worked most successfully throughout the piece. If one is interested in both history and culture, then this documentary in particular is worth a viewing, as it includes an array of informative elements that fuse together, thus creating an interesting piece of film in the process, but if you’re not so interested in such things then this may not be the film for you despite its deeper and more human outlook on such practices.

16/24