暴力挽歌

A fatigued train rushes towards a tunnel, ignoring the damp clouds above, giving birth to millions of innocent snowflakes piling onto the ground, crying silently. A female barely on her knees, her heavy breaths waits heavily for her to revive; thick lines of marching soldiers passes in front of her quickly, blurring her vision. Their robotic footsteps disappear into the distance, into the burnishing light of new nationalism, and into the war that will rebuild the world; it’s that tenacious patch that sticks to our memory, and it’s so hard to rip off. The shortcomings of mankind in trying to box with God, draw peace with their guns and swords, hug and caress with fists and elbows under the multi-colored rainbow after the storm. I believe that “Fighting Elegy” really is a special movie that is the preamble before the reform, the antebellum before the war. At least, this film rests in a tender place in the heart of Japanese director Suzuki Seijun, who cleverly instigated and controlled the comically repressed autocracies of youth, and directed this force against the rising fascism in his own land, and to everyone’s demise, it worked.         The literal term of “Fighting Elegy” can be easily placed on the numerous amounts of erections singing from the pants of pillaging and barbaric youths; which is also proportionally related to the arrogant afflictions of rampaging violence and gang wars between High School delinquents, and the spectators hidden are the perverted old war addicts who just can’t get enough of human suffering. They sit in their authoritative rooms lodged dramatically at the ends of every tight, chilling hallway; writing apocalyptic orders onto ancient scrolls with their insidious calligraphy. Seijun Suzuki is quick-witted when jesting the academic officials and principals. In the result of a disruptive circumstance, the mischievous Catholic pupil, Kiroku, enters his teachers’ chamber for a moral punishment, unexpectedly seizes his own ruler from his sleeve of tricks, and points it inches away from his superior’s frame, and scolds him with it, turning the law of order into unbending chaos. The satire of fascism and the dissatisfaction of the social progression, and also sex, are as encouraging, and as invigorating as ever.        All the students have their own fights within their own elegies. In their casual campaigns of carnage and conquest, they cover each other with thin straws, plastic paddings, cheap and wooden samurai swords, sticks, and metal hats to defend their constricted sense of teenage angst and agony. The theatrics are extreme and decisive, the intense humming of war chants blazes the colorless afternoon into fierce streaks of smoke and clouds. The particular use of emphasis works to the point as Suzuki really lets his emotions fly into the distance, all the students act as warriors, strolling down the field where heads will roll. The music trumpeting and triumphing the day, and everyone ready to die, or get their heads split in some twisted form of Japanese honor.        I was certainly impressed with the explosive clashes between the oppressed and the repressed; it was unrestricted, lively, and very animated considering the time, when Japan was a solemnly quiet and hesitant country. The brawl, or chicken-den death-math is the ultimatum; the blood turns red and two men trapped inside a cage becomes as psychotic as the loose camera movement, falling, rising, and tumbling with the punches and kicks thrown. They strangle the steel wires until it becomes a part of their skin, choking each others’ necks, brutally preparing themselves for the millions of soldiers who will bear their strong arms and wear their stripes of fascism.         --------------------        The orgasmic roars of men swinging their phallic sticks can only be a satire of autocracy and totalitarianism. The boys who pretend to be heroes in order to seduce the innocent damsel couldn’t have possibly been the basis of Japan’s evolution to militarism. However, the quirky “Fighting Elegy” quickly makes this a valid claim. The lone, brave and brash protagonist, Kiroku, marches around the town with his chest beaming, eyes overpowering the landscape, looking for an outlet to mental masturbation; he notices his lifetime crush Michiko, and immediately cowers into a shell like an armadillo under attack. He stumbles over his tongue and trips on his speech, unable to form logical communication. At his Catholic school, Kiroku masquerades as the impudent urchin, getting into frequent fights as farcical as Sunday comics. His mates begin to inquire and scrutinize his missing sexual appetite, and attempt to show him that a man needs to know where to stick his baton. They take him to an elevated mount behind the schoolyard, and heighten the barometers of high-powered masochism; the trait of samurais and military soldiers, who all clutch a severe image of prestige and omnipotence. And most importantly, they get their women to get on their knees to shine their robes.         Kiroku annihilates and batters everything in his path, alive or not, but his oblivious rage shrivels to the size of a pea pod in the bronze pupils of his father, standing like a stern statue, catching Kiroku in an very undisciplined act. In the conventional and precise chamber of their house, the strict reparation was merely a fond and memorable conversation between parent and son. His father reprimands Kiroku by loving him dearly, and comforting him in his normal blunders as a headstrong teenager. He hands the reigns to his son with a firm hand, and informs him to grip it with all his might, giving him actual responsibilities as an adult. Sejiro Onda, the man who played Kiroku’s father had infinite strength, and was powerful with his charming sovereign commands. The language between the two, albeit short and sweet, enlivened the film to an affable and compelling level.        Shortly, instincts take over and Kiroku gets into serious trouble again. His fear breaking apart into cold sweat, he decides to elude his family and stay with his uncle in the faraway countryside. In his takeoff, he stood in the open and isolated street, gazing intensely into the window of his crush Michiko, and shouting her name in slow syllables, grabbing them like invisible snowflakes in the air, and putting the tasteless words in his mouth. He leaves and transfers to another school, followed by another timeless scene between him and his father when dad goes to visit him; their feet dangling from a high rock, sitting shoulder to shoulder, thinking about the consequences of this aggravating account.        The day that Kiroku enters his new school, he becomes rough target of aggressive bullying. The film centralizes the main story and accumulates the sweat and gravels of reputation and pride; it is now the backbone implanted in Kiroku’s character. All the students are ready to prey on the young and innocent martyr, who protects himself behind a shield of textbooks and tables. Kiroku stands on his own two shoes, and the teacher was helpless to stop the barrage of attacks. The film’s direction abducts this tense energy, but the more outstanding aspect was easily the acting. Hideki Takahashi, the talented man who performed as Kiroku, was focused and frantic. His intonations and his inflections in his adolescent tone while under immense pressure, or when confronting his superiors, were simply daunting. His inpatient bellicose behavior never crossed the controversial threads of cinema, and he was a boy’s boy, and also man’s man.         --------------------        Seijun Suzuki was not the vibrant soul of Japan, but he was a mind that was cunning and was constantly at work. Kurosawa might have been the curse for other Japanese directors who never got a good chance to see their success overseas, but Suzuki, like many others, was probably behind Kurosawa’s great shadow trying to get a peek over his broad shoulders. Suzuki’s films are usually of masculine breeds of gangs in seductive sunglasses, irresistible trends of brotherhood and loyalty that will thicken anyone’s bloodline. Thus, “Fighting Elegy” was a good divergence that he found, even with a shortage of finance, the black-and-white cinematography became heroic and majestic in the finale. The striking and thick sceneries of Japan’s countryside and the almost artificial snowfall pushes this film in the final sections. We also feel a good wave of nationalism rising and shining like the sun. The alluded silent ovation to Japan’s intellectual Kita Ikki, was surprising but yet integral. Ikki, an anti-Western Marxist who was executed in real Life and in the film for promoting radicalism, was the threat that provoked Kiroku to join the army. In the novel which wasn’t shown in the film, Kiroku later dies in China during World War 2. Suzuki himself simply can’t resist letting Kiroku grow into a rounded, sturdy human being, just watching his final confrontations with the principle was simply vigorous. The actor, combined with unorthodox and polished direction, turned a waving hand into a rigid fist that forcefully struck the political construction of Japan. It didn’t matter much at the time, but now we realize that Seijun Suzuki was indeed creating Japan’s own version of “Dr. Strangelove,” and this should be good enough for any director in my opinion.