NC24_cinema_Penalty Loop
(Copyright: „Penalty Loop“ Film Partners)

by Andrea Grunert

The Town of Headcounts (Ninzū no machi, Japan, 2020), Araki Shinji’s (1) directorial debut is a sombre portrait of Japan at an unspecified time in the future. The film is the dystopian tale of a society that manipulates its citizens and tries to eliminate the undesirable such as the poor and the criminals. If space is an important factor in this first film, the focus in Penalty Loop, Araki’s second film, is on time (2). Yui (Yamashita Riō), the girlfriend of the film’s main protagonist Jun (Wakaba Ryūya), has been murdered. The young man is devastated and takes the law into his own hands, killing her murderer, Mizoguchi (Iseya Yūsuke), who works as a maintenance man at the same factory as Jun. When Jun wakes up, the day after having had his revenge, it is still June 6th – the same as the day before – and his victim is still alive. Jun is caught in a spiralling loop of violence during which he kills Mizoguchi again and again.
Araki varies not only the situations in which the killing takes place, but he also shifts from reality to virtual reality. What makes his film original and particularly appealing is its visual design. Jun and Mizoguchi work at a hydroponic plant factory, a highly automatized place and almost devoid of human presence. Jun, clothed from head to toe in a protective suit, is almost unrecognizable as a human figure. The huge room in which vegetables are grown and where his task is to set in motion a conveyor belt with heads of lettuce looks sterile. Just as in his previous film with its futuristic-looking setting, Araki does not need special effects to create an eerie feeling of unfamiliarity. In addition, the motif of the time loop is a perfect pattern to display a great variety of genre conventions borrowed from fantasy, horror, and crime films.
The hydroponic factory is certainly a significant feature of Araki’s film, but the plot focuses on the two main characters, Jun and his antagonist Mizoguchi, depicting not only the conflict between the two men – reminiscent of two duellists – but also the development of the relationship between them and their personalities. Jun commits his first murder in a frenzy. He first spikes Mizoguchi’s coffee, leaving him writhing with severe stomach cramp. When Jun later kills him, Mizoguchi is no longer able to defend himself and Jun stabs his victim brutally several times, venting his fury at the death of his girlfriend.
When Jun kills Mizoguchi the second time, Mizoguchi sees his assailant’s face, and from then on starts adopting strategies to avoid being killed. The following day, he does not drink the poisoned coffee but offers it to a female employee at the factory and watches almost with glee as the woman writhes in pain. To begin with, there is no dialogue between Jun and his opponent, but language soon becomes an indication of rapprochement as human beings. Jun’s desire for revenge moderates and Mizoguchi, realizing that he is going to die, reacts with sadness.
Despite its emphasis on death and violence, Penalty Loop is not lacking in humour, for example when Jun pushes a trolley on which is Mizoguchi’s dead body, wrapped in a plastic bag and kept in an upright position through the aisles of the factory, a group of employees watching in amazement. In another scene, Jun complains to his victim: “I am going to dump your body. You are so heavy”, to which Mizoguchi replies laconically “I am sorry.” However Mizoguchi also complains about being in constant pain as it hurts being so frequently stabbed or shot.
Araki skilfully mixes tragedy and humour, just as he convincingly combines the social and moral levels. The Town of Headcounts is full of references to present-day Japanese society, and in Penalty Loop too the plot is firmly anchored in reality. The film also has a strong psychological dimension. At the beginning it is reported that the police have arrested Yui’s murderer. That does not seem to be enough for Jun and he wants to see the perpetrator dead. The death penalty is still carried out in Japan but mainly for what are considered aggravated murders. However, for Jun, the law does not seem to be enough. He is depicted as someone who gives unbridled rein to his anger and helplessness over Yui’s death. These are certainly feelings that many viewers could share from their own experience – although probably from other less dramatic scenarios. The death penalty is hinted at in the scene in which Jun and Mizoguchi go bowling. In this scene two kinds of opponents are referred to, namely “executioners” and “death row inmates”. However, it is not the death penalty that is the focus of Araki’s film but how to come to terms with the violent death of a loved one and how to deal with one’s grief.
Jun is depicted as an attentive and caring person, revealed in one early sequence in which he sets a ladybird free. But the brutal death of his girlfriend changes him and the gentle Jun becomes an unscrupulous avenger who plans Mizoguchi’s death carefully and does not kill in the heat of the moment. The film only hints at how such a friendly and ordinary man can become a killer. However, the development of Jun’s personality does not end there, and he becomes himself a prisoner of the spiralling loop of violence that he has triggered. The constant killing sobers him up, and a new process of realization sets in, Jun realizing more and more clearly that revenge will change nothing. Nevertheless, he cannot stop killing.
This awakening of a conscience also means that he can for the first time really come to terms with the past, revealed in flashbacks showing him with his girlfriend. In this way, Araki indicates just how much grief is a slow process. Jun’s girlfriend is presented as a mysterious young woman whom he first met when she was burning documents on a beach. Even when Mizoguchi – who reveals that he is a contract killer – talks to Jun about the murder, much about Yui remains in the dark. For Jun, the brutal loss of his girlfriend also means that he does not get any answers – neither about Yui’s behaviour nor about her true feelings. These many unanswered questions torment him as they do many other bereaved.
The character of Mizoguchi does not perhaps have much depth, but is far more than a mere cliché. Araki, who is also the screenwriter of his film, could easily have portrayed Mizoguchi as an embodiment of evil. Instead, he emerges as a broken figure, which is emphasized by Iseya Yūsuke’s performance, as nuanced and imaginative as ever (3). His acting gives the character profile. Intrigued by Jun who is drawing a picture of a mighty tree close to the factory, he finally tries to draw the tree himself. The camera remains on Mizoguchi for a long time while he concentrates deeply on what is for him an unusual task but enjoys this peaceful moment, a smile lighting up his face. The melancholy but also the joy that he experiences suggest that he too is changing. Artistic creativity is set in contrast to violence and death. By portraying Mizoguchi as a human being rather than a cliché, Araki enriches the film’s moral dimension and critically questions revenge.
In addition to ethical reflections, the questioning of the revenge motif and implicitly of the death penalty, i.e. violence sanctioned by the state, Penalty Loop has a strong spiritual dimension, an aspect mentioned by Araki Shinji in the interview I conducted with him (4). Nature plays a major role in the film’s technological world, which is both realistic and at the same time detached from reality. The factory looks futuristic but is real – Penalty Loop was shot in a hydroponic plant in Fukushima Prefecture. In the factory, nature is domesticized and completely under human control. It is presented as a modern landscape and a human interpretation of nature. But there are also plants in Jun’s apartment and frequent shots of the huge tree that the two protagonists draw. While Mizoguchi is drawing his picture, the wind blows through the tree’s foliage, evoking the idea of a ghostly presence. The same suggestion of a spiritual presence is created by the image of an isolated spot in a bamboo grove, recalling similar images from numerous jidai geki. Nature is central to Shintoism, which holds that restless spirits who have been torn from life unnaturally inhabit trees and howl their suffering to the winds (5). Making use of these conventions, Araki succeeds very convincingly in externalizing inner feelings via pure visual imagination.
Flower symbolism is repeatedly evoked by the radio commentator Jun listens to every morning. According to the voice on the radio, the iris, the flower of the day – i.e. June 6th – is a symbol of hope. However, the yellow iris has a negative connotation, being a symbol of revenge, and thus this symbol combines both the film’s revenge motif and its yearning for hope.
There is no image of a yellow iris in the film, but Jun, the avenger, drives a yellow car. Colours are very important in The Town of Headcounts, and in Penalty Loop too, Araki giving a great deal of emphasis to colours. The film’s main colour is green – the rich green of the salads and vegetables in the hydroponic factory and that of the leaves on the huge tree on the factory’s premises, the green of the bamboo grove and of the plants in Jun’s apartment. This lively colour establishes a significant contrast to the theme of murder and violence. There is also the blue of the water in the sequence in which Jun and Mizoguchi are rowing on a lake. Filmed from bird’s eye view, the bluish-turquoise surface of the water creates an almost idyllic image. This brief moment contrasts with the nocturnal images in which water is linked with death – Yui is murdered near a lake; Jun apparently dumps Mizoguchi’s dead body in the same lake. Even the scene with the two men in the boat ends with a death when Jun shoots Mizoguchi dead. Araki’s use of water as a motif in the film is a reminder that this element is in many cultures strongly associated with both life and death and expresses the very idea of rebirth.
Araki privileges image, music and sound over dialogue. Emphasis is put on the actors and how they communicate using their eyes and their facial and body expressions. Very often, Araki is content to offer allusions. In Penalty Loop, the viewer does not know any more than the characters do, but is it necessary always to explain everything? Making clever use of the time loop narrative, Araki has created a film full of unexpected turns. Despite its violent theme, Penalty Loop is highly entertaining, and the spellbinding combination of drama and comedy leaves enough space for deeper reflection on death, loss and grief. Moreover, Araki succeeds marvellously in combining a great variety of narrative and visual elements without destroying the film’s internal coherence.
Notes
(1) Names are written according to Japanese conventions: the family name before the given name.
(2) It should be noted that the time loop motif figures in two other recent Japanese films: Takebayashi Ryō’s Mondays: See You “This” Week! (Mondays: Kono tainurūpu, jōshi ni kidzuka senai to owaranai, 2022) and Yamaguchi Junta’s River: The Timeloop Hotel (Riba; nagarenaide yo, 2023). The first of these films deals with Japanese white-collar workers, a young salaryman being caught in a time loop. In the second, the characters are caught in a two-minute time loop at an inn in the countryside. Penalty Loop is however very different from these two films, the time-loop factor being the only common element.
(3) See Araki Shinji on working with the actors in the interview that I conducted with him during the Nippon Connection Film Festival in Frankfurt on May 30th, 2024.

(4) ibid.

(5) Links between nature and the spiritual world are also features of Buddhism and other religions.

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Siegfried Kracauers „Straßen in Berlin und anderswo“ wurde 2009 neu herausgegeben, 1964 ziemlich unbeachtet erschienen, lässt uns die Sammlung von Feuilletons (entstanden zwischen 1926 und 1933) Kracauer als wachen und auch wahr-träumenden Beobachter des Vorkriegsalltags kennen lernen. Es ist faszinierend, wie wir in diesem Buch auch kommendes Unheil, hinein oder herauslesen können, alles verdichtet im Text über die Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, betitelt „Ansichtspostkarte“. Die noch unzerstörte neoromanische Kirche war eines der beliebtesten Berlin-Motive auf Karten, so beliebt wie heute das Foto von der Ruine und dem Kirchenneubau. Es ist ein geradezu prophetischer Text, der doch mit Vorurteilen beginnt, mit Architekturkritik und religiöser Überheblichkeit. Kracauer meint zu wissen, dass in diesem Haus Gott nicht wohnen und nicht angebetet werden kann. Wie in einer Vision ihrer Zerstörung wird aber die verachtete Kirche am Abend durch das Licht der benachbarten Kinos fast aufgelöst. Dieses Licht und seine profane Herkunft wird – quasi soziologisch – genauso kritisiert und verachtet wie der Kirchenbau. Doch spricht Kracauer diesem Lichtspiel eine Kraft der Verwandlung zu: den Ort zu einem „Hort des Vergossenen und Vergessenen“ gleichsam umzuschaffen. Es ist die Vision der Umwandlung in eine andere Art der Gedenkkirche, nicht zur Erinnerung an einen Kaiser, – obwohl sie seinen Namen weiterhin trägt – sondern in ein Mahnmal, die Vision einer da noch unbekannten Zukunft von Schuld, Zerstörung und Bewältigung. Ein Ort, an den Menschen heute wirklich auch kommen, um Tränen zu vergießen. Die Kerzenleuchter in der Gedenkhalle, dem ursprünglichen Eingangsbereich der alten Kirche, sind umlagert und füllen sich nach der Öffnung morgens im Nu mit angezündeten Lichtern.
„Die Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche am Abend: wer sie, vom Bahnhof Zoo herkommend, erblickt – und der Großstädter erblickt sie überhaupt nur abends, da sie ihm tagsüber nichts weiter ist als ein riesenhaftes Verkehrshindernis ist -, dem wird ein merkwürdiges , ein beinahe überirdisches Schauspiel zuteil. Von der religiösen Baumasse strahlt ein sanftes Leuchten aus, das so beruhigend wie unerklärlich ist, eine Helle, die mit dem profanen rötlichen Schimmer der Bogenlampen nichts gemein hat, sondern sich fremd von der Umwelt abhebt und ihren Ursprung in den Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniswänden selber zu haben scheint.
Dringt der fahle Glanz aus dem Kircheninnern hervor? Aber dieser Kuppelbau, der Schwert und Altar miteinander verkuppelt, hat offensichtlich nur den einen Ehrgeiz: nach außen hin zu repräsentieren. Das trägt eine romanische Uniform und ist inwendig gar nicht zu benutzen. Das könnte mit Steinen ausgefüllt sein. Das beschwört die Erinnerung an Bezirkskommandos, Hofprediger und Kaiserparaden herauf.
Der geheimnisvolle Glanz ist in Wirklichkeit ein Reflex. Reflex der Lichtfassaden , die vom Ufapalast an bis über das Capitol hinaus die Nacht zum Tage machen, um aus dem Arbeitstag ihrer Besucher das Grauen der Nacht zu verscheuchen. Die haushohen gläsernen Lichtsäulen, die bunten überhellen Flächen der Kinoplakate und hinter den Spiegelscheiben der Wirrwarr gleißender Röhren unternehmen gemeinsam einen Angriff gegen die Müdigkeit, die zusammenbrechen will, gegen die Leere, die sich um jeden Preis entrinnen möchte. Sie brüllen, sie trommeln, sie hämmern mit der Brutalität von Irrsinnigen auf die Menge los. Ein hemmungsloses Funkeln, das keineswegs nur der Reklame dient, sondern darüber hinaus sich Selbstzweck ist. Aber es schwingt und kreist nicht selig wie die Lichtreklame in Paris, die ihr Genüge darin findet, aus Rot, Gelb und Lila ihre verschlungenen Muster zu bilden. Es ist viel eher ein flammender Protest gegen die Dunkelheit unseres Daseins, ein Protest der Lebensgier, der wie von selber in das verzweifelte Bekenntnis zum Vergnügungsbetrieb einmündet.
Der milde Glanz, der die Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche umfließt, ist der unbeabsichtigte Widerschein dieser finsteren Glut. Was vom Lichtspektakel abfällt und vom Betrieb ausgestoßen wird – öde Mauern bewahren es auf. Das Äußere der Kirche, die keine Kirche ist, wird zum Hort des Vergossenen und Vergessenen und strahlt so schön, als sei es das Allerheiligste selber. Heimliche Tränen finden so ihren Gedächtnisort. Nicht im verborgenen Innern – mitten auf der Straße wird das Unbeachtete, Unscheinbare gesammelt und verwandelt, bis es zu scheinen beginnt, für jeden ein Trost.“
Tatsächlich ertappe ich mich dabei, dass ich mich in diese Perspektive der Zwischenkriegszeit vor der großen Zerstörung gut versetzen kann. Als Zeitgenossin hätte ich wohl den neoromanischen Bau, der den Geist dieser Epoche nicht einzufangen vermag, – anders als die Turmruine! – auch geringschätzig betrachtet, Und einfach deshalb, weil die Kirche noch da war! Aber der Anblick einer alten Postkarte von 1925 „Berlin: Kurfürstendamm und Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche“ löst in mir tiefes Bedauern, Erinnerung an die Kriegszerstörung und den Wunsch nach Wiederherstellung aus. Es freut mich immer wieder, dass die Berliner sich den Plänen eines kompletten Abrisses widersetzten. So wurde das Fragment der Turmruine die überzeugende äußere Gestalt der Mahnung. Und in der Gedenkhalle „mitten unter uns“ steht der kriegsbeschädigte Christus, der früher auf dem Altar im Kirchenraum seinen Platz hatte, und heute in seiner versehrten einarmigen Gestalt gütig auch diejenigen begrüßt, die nur zufällig hereinstolpern. Manche Touristen , so erzählte mir eine Ehrenamtliche, fragen sie irritiert, ob sie sich in einer ehemals katholischen oder evangelischen Kirche befinden, da die Halle innen mit byzantinisch anmutenden Deckenmosaiken ausgestattet ist, auf denen man nicht sogleich die weltlichen Herrscher erkennt, die Hohenzollern. Vielleicht erst wenn eine Führung darauf hinweist, geht der Blick nach oben zum zentralen Christus Pantokrator, / Weltenherrscher an der Decke, auch beschädigt, oder – noch übersehbarer – zum Boden, wo ein den Drachen besiegender Erzengel Michael streitet.
Freitagmittag aber beim Coventrygebet, das 1959 formuliert wurde, und jede Bitte mit „Vater vergib“ beschließt, wird die Mahnung greifbar, denn die Gedächtniskirche hat das unglaubliche Privileg, eines der Nagelkreuze aus dieser von Nazideutschland 1940 bombardierten englischen Stadt erhalten zu haben, was mit der Verpflichtung zum Versöhnungsgebet verbunden ist.
So hat sich erfüllt, was in Kracauers Text in einer prophetischen Doppelbelichtung vorweggenommen wurde. Reimar Klein schreibt im Nachwort zu „Straßen in Berlin und anderswo“, die Kirche erinnere nicht mehr an die „Allianz von Thron und Altar“, sondern mahne „auf einmal zur Trauer über vergangenes Leiden.“

Bettina Klix

The Pass-Image-01

by Andrea Grunert

Koizumi Takashi’s (1) jidai geki (period film) The Pass: Last Days of the Samurai (Tōge: Saigō no samurai) is the adaptation of the novel Tōge written by Shiba Ryōtarō and published in 1968. Koizumi, a longtime assistant of Kurosawa Akira, directed After the Rain (Ame ageru, 1999), based on a screenplay written by Kurosawa who died in 1998. Recently, Koizumi has directed two other jidai geki: A Samurai Chronicle (Higurashi no ki, 2014) and Samurai Promise (Chiri tsubaki, 2018). Yakusho Kōji, who plays the leading role of Kawai Tsugunosuke in The Pass, also starred in A Samurai Chronicle. Several actors who have worked with Kurosawa appear in supporting roles: Nakadai Tatsuya (2), Kagawa Kyōko and Igawa Hisashi.
The action starts in November 1867 with the declaration of shogun Tokugawa Yoshinobu (Higashide Masahiro) to return governmental power to the Emperor (3). However, imperial loyalists from Satsuma, Chōchū and other domains opposed the idea of Yoshinobu’s leading role in a government council of the territorial lords. On 27 January 1868, Yoshinobu and his allies from various domains clashed with pro-imperialist forces at the Battle of Toba-Fushimi marking the beginning of the Boshin War (4). The protagonist of The Pass, Kawai Tsugunosuke (1827-1868) serves as the chamberlain of Makino Tadayuki (Nakadai), the lord of the Nagaoka domain (5). As a Tokugawa loyalist, Tadayuki continues to support Yoshinobu while he also expresses his respect to the emperor. His chamberlain follows a policy of “armed neutrality” and dreams of independence for his domain.
Numerous films and television series depict the final years of the Tokugawa shogunate, known as Bakumatsu, and the early Meiji period (1868-1912). The leading pro-imperialists of Chōshū, Satsuma and Tosa or the shinsengumi, an elite group of swordmen created by the shogunate, continue to inspire Japanese cinema (6). The Bakumatsu period and the first years of the Meiji era were times of great turmoil, making them particularly suitable for literary and cinematic productions seeking action, emotions, and reflections on political and cultural change.
In 1853, the arrival of American ships put an end to Japan’s isolationist policy (7). The Pass does not deal with the arrival of foreigners from America and Europe on the Japanese coast from 1853 onwards, but with internal struggles, specifically the threat posed by the army of Chōshū and Satsuma and their allies to Nagaoka. Kawai’s attempt to prevent war is unsuccessful due to his failure to consider the arrogance of the samurai from Chōshū and Satsuma, who refuse all negotiations (8).
The Pass contains numerous dialogue scenes, including political negotiations, idea exchange, strategy planning and private conversations. The placid rhythm is only interrupted by battle scenes in the final part. The film’s focus is on Kawai’s efforts to maintain peace while preparing his clan for an eventual war. In his first appearance, Kawai observes a shooting training. Later, he expresses his satisfaction with the Gatling gun (9) that he obtained for his clan and is interested in purchasing two or three more of these machine guns to compensate Nagaoka’s shortage of manpower.
Kawai is portrayed as a mild-mannered but strong-minded man who seeks to avoid conflict. In one scene, he confronts a group of young samurai from his clan who ambush him in a dark street. Although there is a brief fight in which Kawai demonstrates his physical strength, the conflict is primarily resolved through dialogue. However, the contradiction within the policy of “armed neutrality” is exposed in a conversation between Kawai and a maid who questions him: “You claim that conflict is wrong, yet you are constantly preparing for it.” The young woman’s remark brings to mind the dilemma often portrayed in jidai geki, where samurai live and die by the sword, yet many of them try – often in vain – not to kill.
The Pass briefly depicts the horror of war, exemplified by a scene in which Kawai encounters an elderly peasant holding his whimpering grandchild, still an infant, in front of his burning home. Yakusho’s exceptional acting conveys Kawai’s helplessness in the face of this atrocity. Kawai seamlessly fits into the lineage of samurai and ronin (masterless samurai) of Koizumi’s jidai geki which inherit Kurosawa Akira’s humanism. Kawai’s primary concern is for the people of his clan and their future. He acknowledges that the future entails change which in turn signifies the end of his own social class. In Samurai Promisse, the protagonist states that a samurai’s duty is to think of the people. Similarly, Kawai expresses a political idea: “The people are the nation. Dignitaries serve the people.”
Kawai is portrayed as a skilled strategist and honourable samurai, devoted to his lord and clan, and kind to the people. Despite this idealisation, he is depicted as a human being with many dimensions. The focus on his personal life, which reveals Kawai as a loving husband and highlights the strong bond between him and his wife Osuga (Matsu Takako), makes the character more relatable for modern audiences. The scenes showing the protagonist at home with his wife or enjoying life in a geisha house, to which he invites Osuga to accompany him, contribute to this rich human portrayal that avoids mere stereotyping.
The film showcases moments of great beauty through carefully composed and lit shots. The attention to detail is evident, particularly in the long shots where human presence is reduced to figurines. The colour palette predominantly features blues, greys, browns, pale greens and gold. The careful composition of each shot aligns with the slow rhythm of the narration and Japanese aesthetics, which also inspires the architecture.
The Pass, as well as Koizumi’s previous jidai geki including After the Rain, emphasises a classic narration and style. This is in contrast to more daring approaches to the genre, as demonstrated in Miike Takashi’s 13 Assassins (Jūsannin no shikaku, 2010) or Shimamura Yūji’s Crazy Samurai Musashi (Kyō samurai Musashi, 2020). The Pass does not criticise samurai ethics. Its protagonist is an example of an honourable loser who fought against an army of 50,000 with only 690 men. However, the film’s portrayal of the ideal samurai based on humanity challenges interpretations which value obedience and masculine strength. Moreover, Kawai’s vision is not restricted by the values of his own social class. He encourages a young man to pursue his desire to become a painter and emphasizes the importance of education in planning the future of his clan.
The Pass teaches us lessons about war and peace and about the importance of dialogue. It also highlights the conflict between the ideal of peace and the reality that war is always a possibility. It is precisely this dilemma that not only the Japanese have to face again today.

Notes

(1) The names are written in accordance with Japanese conventions, with the family name preceding the given name.
(2) Yakusho attended Mumei juku, an actor’s school founded by Nakadai and his late wife Miyazaki Yasuko (1931-1996).
(3) Following two and a half centuries of rule by the shoguns of the Tokugawa family, which gave the period from 1603 to 1868 its name – Tokugawa period (Tokugawa jidai) –, imperial rule was reinstated.
(4) The Boshin War took place from 1868 to 1869 and concluded with the defeat of the pro-Tokugawa forces.
(5) Nagaoka was a small domain located in Echigo province.
(6) See, for example, Ōtomo Keishi’s five Rurouni Kenshin-films (2012, 2014, 2021) and Harada Masato’s Baragaki: Unbroken Samurai (Moeyo Ken, 2021).
(7) During the first half of the 17th century, the Tokugawa regime implemented a policy of isolation, with strongly restricted relations and trade between Japan and foreign countries.
(8) The Nagaoka territory was one of the main battlefields in the Boshin War.
(9) The Gatling gun, an early machine gun with multiple barrels that fired rapidly, was invented in 1861 by the American Richard Jordan Gatling.