The Pornographers offers me a good chance to put this new "rapid first response" idea of mine (as opposed to the lengthier research and consideration that characterized most of my earlier reviews) to work on the latest iteration of this blog. It's one of those films that I recognize as important and worthy of inclusion on historic and aesthetic grounds in the Criterion Collection. But the plain fact is, I really don't want to spend a whole lot of time in the scummy milieu that Shohei Imamura seemed to take a special delight in placing before his viewers. With a plot and subject matter that could have been adequately explored in a ninety minute time frame (or even less), Imamura meanders through two hours that often felt like a grind, to the point I had to take breaks every half-hour or so just to freshen up my perspective. His scenes vary between sharp-edged social satire, wallowing indulgence, smarmy expose and the occasional (and unannounced) flashback that provides insight into his characters' tragic pasts and current propensity to self-immolation. The visual techniques and compositions are all top-shelf - lots of intriguing and playful frames within frames and creative play with the widescreen format - so there's plenty to admire regarding the craftsmanship, and the darkly warped sense of humor definitely induces grimacing laughter on multiple occasions. But it's still a sleazier ride than I was in the mood for when I watched it yesterday (for the second time, after an earlier viewing this past summer.)
For viewers who haven't seen it, the film's title probably implies much more in terms of explicit sexuality and graphic intensity than they'll see on screen, but that doesn't mean they won't feel dirty afterward, provided that they're not so jaded already as to miss the brutality and violence of what's going on, despite the comic affectations with which it's all presented.
Though there are indeed multiple characters involved in the creation and distribution of pornography, The Pornographers isn't really about the "industry" as it existed in mid-1960s Japan, when its content was distributed in the form of 8mm handheld short films, shot on the fly in makeshift environments, or in seedy cheap paperbacks. The focus of this film's action is on Subu Ogata, an entrepreneur of sorts whose chosen field of business is the sex trade, in whatever niche presents an opportunity: the media ventures already described, but also prostitution, "Peeping Tom" photos and Chinese herbal precursors to Viagra and Cialis. Presumably drawn in by the prospect of fast and lucrative returns on his investment, Subu's success draws the unwanted attention of police and yakuza gangsters, each trying to press in on his action from their respective angles. In the process of conducting this enterprise in the face of all the obstacles, Subu has developed a self-congratulatory rationale (quoted above) about the humanitarian benefits that his products and services provide to society, though it requires a deliberate blindness on his part (and perhaps ours, the more we find ourselves simply laughing sarcastically at his predicament) to the suffering and squalor he exploits along the way.
In his private life, Subu is part of a hard-pressed family. He's been a boarder for the previous seven years with a widow named Haru, who's raising two teenagers, a son Koichi and a daughter Keiko. They all operate a small storefront hair salon, though Koichi is looking for financial support that will get him into a college and out of the house. Keiko is entering her mid-teens and, taking note of all the tawdry carnality erupting all around her, decides that she's ready to try her own hand at promiscuity as well. The salon's meager income is augmented by Subu's black-market revenues, but a series of legal and criminal setbacks makes heavy incursions to his profit margins, adding further levels of pressure and anxiety into an already unstable mix. Subu and Haru each have a role in gratifying each other's sexual and emotional needs, but not in such a way as to dignify their relationship by referring to them as "lovers." Besides the four human members of this truly dysfunctional household, a fifth needs to be mentioned: a live carp kept in a barely-large enough tank. The fish is not a pet, but rather a monitor of sorts, the reincarnation of Haru's dead husband who maintains vigil over whatever happens in her bedroom. The carp is known to jump anxiously in its tank when the dead husband's spirit either doesn't like what he sees or seeks to issue an ominous warning of bad things about to happen.
I can't speak on behalf of the deceased, but if I were that carp, I'd be flipping and flopping practically non-stop whenever the house was occupied. Any number of incestuous or merely indecent boundary violations are documented in the casual daily interactions of Haru's family - mother and son, father-figure and daughter, brother and sister all get their turns at degradation, and none of them look especially sexy or alluring in the process, which is probably one of the signature differences between Imamura's squalid realism and how this sort of material is glossed up for consumption in today's cable and streaming TV market.
I suppose that an important purpose was served by this caustic protest against the enforced propriety of Japanese culture in this era. Imamura's obvious desire for his cinema to reveal the hypocrisy and corruption that lurked beneath the repressed surface contours of corporate expansion and economic prosperity surely earns my respect, but having made my visit and tipped my hat, I'm eager to move on.
(But for readers interested in finding another take on this film that digs deeper than I have the patience for, I recommend Ed Howard's review on his Only the Cinema blog. Bill Gibron over at DVD Verdict also went quite deep and long with his analysis back when Criterion first issued this DVD in 2003.)
Next: Masculin Feminin