Paul Schrader, 1985
I went into this with some preconceived notions. I thought it would be an odd, fanboy sort of thing. I expected it to give off that same weird vibe as that one white boy who's freakishly into Japanese culture. You know the type I'm talking about.
Of course, to use the word "fanboy" presumes a level of amateurishness, which is in no way a correct assessment of this movie. It's masterfully done, and visually and stylistically audacious in a way that few films are.
I found Mishima to be an oddly appealing character. Of course, one has to grant him the considerable leeway of being a dire extremist. But as someone who too often finds herself wrapped up in her own head, Mishima's desire to bridge or eliminate the gaps between art and real life, between the world of words and the world of action, was extremely relatable and terribly, tragically human.
This movie is all about artificiality or performance; it's hard to think of a mise-en-scene that more ruthlessly abjures any touches of naturalism. The episodes adapted from Mishima's novels take place on obviously constructed sets, full of lurid colors and blocky, sparse furnishings. Many of the theatrical flourishes -- paper screens falling down to simulate a police raid, the trunks in an artificial forest stained red with stage blood -- are beautiful in their economy and their emotional impact. All this theatricality eloquently reflects Mishima's obsession with the masks we humans wear in order to face the world, the roles we are constantly playing. Even the episodes from Mishima's life are either saturated with color or shot in high-contrast black-and-white, creating an atmosphere of hyper-reality.
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