A Japanese political drama critical of the state? For me,
this was a must-see movie. The previous month I had watched Shusenjo (Shusenjo: The Main
Battleground Of Comfort Women Issue), also fiercely critical of the Japanese
state, but made by a Japanese- American, and also, not a fictional account, but
a documentary. I welcome critical movies like this—they function as a
counter-balance to things like the Nippon Kaigi Wasurerarenai, which is currently showing hourly at the Yushukan (the
museum in the grounds of Yasukuni Jinja) at the moment. Wasurerarenai, pitched as a documentary, might be better
characterised as fiction, given the narrative it weaves—a narrative that,
contrary to the title of the film, seems to forget a lot of what occurred
during World War 2.
Shinbun Kisha, on
the other hand, is fiction, but might as well be a true story. It depicts the
conflict between the government and the media in a gritty and realistic manner.
Indeed, the story occurs against a backdrop of real-life events, including a headline-making
rape narrative, obviously modelled on the 2018 alleged rape of journalist Ito
Shiori by journalist and Prime Minister Abe supporter Yamaguchi Noriyuki, to
the point where the rape victim actress even resembled Ito Shiori. It is this gritty
real-life feel about it that draws the audience in right from the beginning.
The plot revolves around two young protagonists—newspaper
reporter Yoshioka Erika and Ministry of Foreign Affairs bureaucrat Sugihara
Takumi. Their worlds collide when Sugihara’s colleague and friend Kanzaki
commits suicide harbouring a dark secret about the corrupt underpinnings of the
creation of a new university by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Information about the development of a new university is
leaked to Yoshioka. She decides to chase the lead and after (in a scene potent
with symbolism) Kanzaki jumps to his death off a tall building right in front
of the lit-up and overbearing National Diet building, she follows her nose, eventually
bumping into Sugihara. Still young enough to be idealistic, Sugihara struggles
in this secondment to the Cabinet Information Research Office, where he is put
to work reinforcing the protective wall surrounding the government—doctoring
official documents and squashing anyone who attempts to expose weaknesses. His
conscious reaches crisis point when his friend dies, triggering him to seek out
the truth with Yoshioka.
Yoshioka works for ‘Toto Shinbun’, a fictional Tokyo Shimbun
and is surrounded by comparatively weak and bland male colleagues, including
her boss. Her character is loosely based on the journalist Mochitsuki Isoko,
who has gained a reputation for being ‘difficult’ simply because she asks
politicians challenging questions, and whose book ‘Shinbun Kisha’ planted the
seed for the creation of the movie inside producer Kawamura Mitsunobu’s brain.
Yoshioka, however, is not ethnically Japanese. She was born and raised in the
US to a Japanese father and Korean mother. The presentation of this was implausible
for two reasons. The first was, if she was born and raised in the US, I would struggle
to believe her Japanese language skills would be adequate to work as a
journalist (and her accented spoken Japanese supports this doubt). Secondly,
the one time she spoke English when she bumped into a former colleague of her
late father, her English was not that of someone born and raised in the US.
More interesting though, is the decision to make this role a Korean woman
instead of a Japanese woman. I might interpret this as a political statement by
the producer about the rigidity of the Japanese state—a rigidity that, without
foreign intervention, does not waver. Not only is she Korean, she is from the
US—a true global citizen. But this depiction denies the reality that Mochizuki
is in fact Japanese, proving that there are people ‘within the system’ trying
to change the system. This then leaves me wondering if casting strong Japanese
women in movies is too difficult. Certainly I was appalled by the depiction of
the only other women in the movie. Sugihara’s wife was a caricature of a women—infantilised
and portrayed as utterly self-sacrificing, completely undemanding and living
only for her husband and unborn and then new-born child. Is this really the
best a director of a ‘politically critical’ movie can do? A friend suggested
that Sugihara’s wife was deliberately depicted as babyish and lacking
independence so as to further intensify the ‘protection’ imperative of Sugihara
that contributed to his internal struggle that takes place when confronted with
the depths of corruption within the institution for which he works. Regardless
of the reason the wives (the wife of Kanzaki as well) were depicted so
obsequiously, I’m sad for Japanese women that this kind of depiction of women
continues unabated on Japanese screens.
The acting was pretty average—wooden and exaggerated. This
is par for the course in Japanese movies, and a regular disappointment. I
really enjoyed the cinematography though. The blue lighting in the ministry
offices made for a strong sinister effect and the dark, cluttered newspaper reporting
room had a gritty and realistic feel about it. I live in Hanzomon and go to the
Diet library now and then and seeing familiar streets and buildings on screen
was a real buzz for me. It was a great idea to shoot during Autumn as the Ginko
leaves in that neighbourhood are beautiful.
Contrary to what is shown in the film, the National Diet
building is not always lit up. At night it is often shrouded in darkness, only
its foreboding outline visible. The other night I was out jogging and I witnessed
the exact moment the lights went out. It was very apt that the final line of
the movie was (uttered as advice for the by-now crushed Sugihara) ‘This country’s
democracy is just for show, and it’s for the best’.
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