A film for trapped things

An interview with Akihiko Shiota, director of Harmful Insect.

By Johnny Ray Huston

Bay Guardian: Harmful Insect spends time on the city outskirts, amid rusty, deteriorating architecture. Could you share some information about the locations you used?

Akihiko Shiota: In Harmful Insect, Sachiko drops out of school and begins to meet and interact with a variety of people alienated from society. These are the type of people referred to as "harmful insects" by conservatives the world over who avoid any involvement with them. These are also the type of people that most commercial Japanese films avoid portraying as characters. In depicting the interactions between Sachiko and these people, I decided it would be appropriate to turn the camera towards the dilapidated scenery in the outskirts of Tokyo, the kind of place the typical Japanese film rarely shows. The area we shot in is a corner of what used to be a heavy industrial zone around the border of Tokyo and Kanagawa, an adjacent prefecture. Lined on one hand by shut down factories left behind the times, the region came to be surrounded by a residential area for Tokyo-bound commuters. What was necessary for the setting of this film was none other than this situation in which two completely disparate worlds are found next to each other.

BG: You've praised the performance of Aoi Miyazaki (who can also be seen in Shinji Aoyama's Eureka). Did she add unscripted elements to Sachiko?

AS: I think Aoi Miyazaki is a wonderfully talented actress. On the set, she's a cheerful and innocent girl. But once she stands before the camera, she becomes "Sachiko" – everything from her standing posture to her facial expression. Rather than playing the part of Sachiko, it's as if she instantly becomes Sachiko herself. We never discussed anything in particular. During the shoot, I gave her very simple instructions, and the rest came from her own inspiration. That was precisely the image I was seeking for Sachiko. Some actors look for constant instructions from the director, fearing freedom, but Aoi is different. She intuitively grasps her role and performs it. And she always hits her mark.

Sometimes chance comes around on our side. There was one performance Aoi had a great deal of difficulty with, and that was crying. She seemed to have a very hard time shedding real tears as an act. We were trying to shoot the scene in which, after the young man Takao had vanished, Sachiko has her head down on her desk and begins crying. It's when she turns to face the camera and knocks over the cup full of beads. She tried so hard then to cry, but she couldn't. She'd give me the saddest eyes, but she couldn't shed a tear. But as I stared at her expression, I suddenly thought that perhaps this is the real Sachiko. Even while gripped by a profound sadness, perhaps the real Sachiko is really unable to shed a tear. It felt like I'd finally discovered the true character of Sachiko. Aoi's wonderful expression allowed me to make that discovery.

BG: Focusing on teens and children in your films, have you drawn from the work of directors from other countries?

AS: I had a different theme in mind for each of my films, and I didn't intend to focus in particular on youth. But as more people point that out, I've come to be more conscious of it. Indeed I love portraying children, and I'd certainly have to admit that I believe children are extremely intriguing as subjects of films. Children can hardly control themselves, nor can they verbally explain their actions. They act, and then they realize the meaning of what they've done. And by the time they realize the meaning it may be too late. I find that to be so fascinating about them, and that's why they're so appealing as film subjects.

No doubt there are some influences from foreign cinema, but I haven't really been that conscious of it. For instance, I've seen my share of Truffaut films, but in making Don't Look Back, I didn't go back and see 400 Blows again, nor did I think about referring to it. Don't Look Back is a film about friendship, betrayal, and forgiveness, so to speak. The films that were foremost on my mind as I made [1999's] Don't Look Back were certain Westerns by Sam Peckinpah and some action films by Robert Aldrich. My thinking is that no films portrayed the friendship between men better than American films through the '70s. Sam Peckinpah, Robert Aldrich, and Don Siegel were directors that I'd admired as the gods of movies since I was in elementary school. My respect for them isn't a result of meeting Kiyoshi Kurosawa and being influenced by him; rather, we became collaborators because we shared a passion for the same type of films.

In terms of films using youth as protagonists, I love the works by Vitaly Kanevsky, the Russian filmmaker.

BG: Number Girl's music works powerfully in relation to Sachiko's actions. How did you come to use the group in the film – was their music made for Harmful Insect, or taken from an album?

AS: Harmful Insect is almost completely void of nondiegetic music. My reasoning is as follows. First, nondiegetic music is generally used to correspond to the emotion of the character on screen and to communicate it simply and clearly to the audience. If the character is sad, sad music plays, and if the character is happy, cheerful music plays. Second, nondiegetic music is used to communicate the mood and emotion for the scene and situation simply and clearly to the audience. If it's a scene in which something scary is about to happen, eerie music plays to make the viewer uneasy, and if it's a scene of victory after a battle, you'd hear some celebratory music. In any case, nondiegetic music is used to indicate in a simple and clear manner what is being conveyed through the story. But Harmful Insect features a girl with an extremely complex inner world with intricate emotions that could hardly be articulated in simple terms. That's why it's impossible to use nondiegetic music in the film. It's trying to tell a story that can't be simplified to begin with.

In place of nondiegetic music, you hear the sound of the wind, the speeding cars, the airplanes crossing the sky. The various noises reverberate throughout the film, forging a menacing world without speaking a word. Within the film, the noises collide with one another, waging battle. Then suddenly, in the latter part of the film, the rock sound from Number Girl resounds across a host of scenes. This is something I conceived while writing the script, and I'm very satisfied with how it's achieved its goal. That music aligns itself neither with the emotions of the characters or the emotions of the scene. What I intended to emphasize was the violent flow of time as the music mows down any and all feelings in the characters, pushing its way through to its catastrophic end. As the music continues to reverberate, some laugh, some grieve, and others even lose their lives. Yet nothing stops to lament the loss; it must push onwards and onwards, relentlessly. I found everything I needed in Number Girl's music. So I asked Shutoku Mukai, the band leader, to compose an original track for the film; [his music] was created originally for Harmful Insect. But it's really a coincidence that the music seems to coincide so perfectly with the visual editing. In fact, it was almost too perfect in the beginning; I had to make some adjustments in the editing to consciously create a little gap between the image and the music towards the end. Sometimes we simply come across miracles like this when making movies.

BG: The sound design in your films if often as striking as the visual element. What ideas did you have in mind when collecting the fierce plane and car engine noises of Harmful Insect?

AS: As you point out, I attach a great deal of importance to sound while making my films. I may even emphasize it more than the visuals. Most people probably think of Harmful Insect as a sync-sound film, but the entire film is actually post-dubbed. Everything you hear in the film has been reconstructed with specific intentions. The particular effect of the use of various noises in the film is just as I explained earlier with music. But I also paid a lot of attention to sounds beyond those ambient drones. The original screenplay for this film was written by Yayoi Kiyono, a talented student at the Film School of Tokyo, where I teach. With her consent, I rewrote the entire script before shooting the film. I shaved down from what was already a very spare dialogue, and I thought about how far I could go to express through sounds the inner world of Sachiko, her mother, and the other characters. How, for instance, would I go about expressing the grief of Sachiko's mother, who is utterly unable to find happiness as a mother, as a wife, or even as a woman? Rather than indicating that through dialogue or through emotional dramatization, perhaps I could convey that just through the sound of her pounding on the floor after coming home late at night. After Sachiko is left behind by Takao, perhaps I could express her inner world through the sound of beads spilling across the floor. I wondered if, with the sound of the beads rolling on and on, I might be able to convey not just a simple sadness but her powerlessness in being unable to control her situation as well as her silent protest against her mother and her lover downstairs. I hoped to use sound to portray the complex inner world of Sachiko without reducing it to simple words and music. Ever since [1999's] Moonlight Whispers, I've consistently grappled with the artistic use of sound in my films. I'm extremely pleased to find that a critic in the U.S. has noticed that about my work.

BG: Sachiko's mother in Harmful Insect reminds me of Namuro's mother in Don't Look Back. In what ways would you say these women (and their children) are similar, and how are they different?

AS: Indeed, the two mothers are similar and yet different. The way I see it, the mother in Don't Look Back is a perfectionist who'd spent her life believing she is perfect both as a wife and as a mother. Then one day her marriage collapses, and she loses sight of herself. And when her beloved child was about to be taken from her, perhaps her only way of protecting her own identity was to fundamentally disavow the world that had cornered her. So she decides to take her own life and drag her son with her. Sachiko's mother is a little different. She's a weak woman who can't even trust herself. She tries hard to play the part of the mother, but she can't quite do it. Unable to give up being a "woman," she seeks love from men. Yet she can't even find happiness as a woman. In a sense, she's like a child who failed to grow up, and insofar as she's a child, Sachiko is forced to be an adult. Because Sachiko's mother is like a child, she'd take a blade to her wrist on a sudden impulse without thinking about Sachiko. In this sense, the two are complete opposites of each other, but they're also similar in their inability to control themselves, which in effect results in causing misery for their children, who are supposed to be such important presences in their lives.

BG: Both Don't Look Back and Harmful Insect contain fireworks; would you like the films themselves to be experienced as fireworks of a sort?

AS: I used fireworks in Don't Look Back because I myself used to play with fireworks. Once I made the decision to use fireworks in my film, I began to realize little by little what cinematic props they are. The sheer cinematic joy in finding that just two intersecting streaks of light in the blue darkness of dusk, just a momentary glimmer of the flame can express the two youngsters' friendship, joy, and sadness.... And more importantly, I discovered the sound of fireworks. The dry sound of the explosion heard throughout the film is the same sound each time, and yet the emotion it stirs in us as viewers is always different depending on the scene. At times it indicates the joy of friendship, at times the sorrow in parting with a friend, and at other times it resounds like a salute to the protagonist as he decides to live without ever looking back again. The same sound of fireworks can communicate such a variety of emotions in each scene. It occurred to me that that's what's at the root of the power of movies.

Harmful Insect took my experimental use of sound to a more thorough level, but with respect to the use of fireworks, I don't think it leaves as vivid an impression as Don't Look Back did. In Harmful Insect, I used fireworks mainly to fix Sachiko's innocent smile onto the screen. Before reaching the tragic climactic moment, I wanted the audience to remember that Sachiko is but a 13 year-old girl still. Forced to act like an adult since the beginning of the film, she shows for a moment a glimpse of the innocence of childhood, unaware of the true tragedy that awaits her.

BG: What did you learn from your experiences working as an assistant director with Kiyoshi Kurosawa? How would you compare your directorial approaches?

AS: I've known Kiyoshi Kurosawa since my college days when I was making my own 8mm films. Through that connection, I served as his assistant director for two of his earlier films [1983's The Kandagawa Wars and 1985's The Excitement of Do-Re-Mi-Fa Boy] before we took separate paths. Indeed there are some similarities in our styles, and I think it's possible to surmise that I'm somehow influenced by Kurosawa. Personally, though, I'm unable to consciously register exactly how I'm influenced by him. I'll leave it to the objective eyes of film critics to make that assessment. What I can say, however, is that when Kurosawa and I direct films, we never go over the given budget. That's a major reason behind why we're able to continue making more films even though we never produce any blockbusters. As I'm sure you're aware, we Japanese directors make films with unbelievably low budgets. It doesn't even compare to French film budgets, not to mention Hollywood films. My films in particular have lower budgets than even Hong Kong or Taiwan films. Our inspired ideas are routinely hindered by the limit of the budget. Sometimes we can't even realize 10% of what we thought up. But we never give up. If one idea is impossible because of our budget, we'll crank out another idea by all means. Perhaps I learned this "never give up" attitude from Kurosawa.

BG: Kurosawa has touted American genre directors such as Tobe Hooper and Don Siegel in interviews – are there any directors you have a special fondness for that people might be surprised to learn about? Also, who have you written about for Cahiers du Cinema Japan?

AS: As I mentioned earlier, I love American directors from the '50s through the '70s like Peckinpah, Aldrich, and Siegel. I also have deep admiration for Richard Fleischer and Joseph Losey. Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven was one of the most moving films I saw in the '90s. On the other hand, I also love Japanese auteurs like Yasujiro Ozu and Kenji Mizoguchi, as well as the wonderful genre film director Seijun Suzuki. But my films are my films. When I make films, I never model them after anyone else's. Before shooting Don't Look Back, I may have remembered the works of Peckinpah and Aldrich, but I didn't go back to review and study the tapes, nor did I try to look for ideas from them. In Cahiers du Cinema Japan, I wrote a piece about Jacques Doillon, the French filmmaker. He seems to have a quality similar to John Cassavetes.

BG: Harmful Insect ends ominously at and then near a restaurant. What were your motivations behind choosing this setting?

AS: I think many Japanese films are set in suburban restaurants because they're so familiar and ubiquitous. At least that's why I chose it for my last scene in Harmful Insect. It has no relation to Kurosawa's films. I'm not sure how many foreign viewers are able to catch this, but the family in the restaurant cheerfully chatting are actually Filipino, not Japanese. You may be able to hear some sounds similar to Spanish. As immigrants, they live as oppressed minorities in an extremely xenophobic Japanese society. They accept for lower wages the kinds of jobs the Japanese try to avoid. The Filipino man is wearing a work outfit much like the one worn by the teacher who works at the nuclear power plant. This family has gathered together and, at this restaurant where people generally go for inexpensive food rather than quality food, they are genuinely rejoicing for being alive and well at the moment. What Sachiko is staring at is the vitality and cheerfulness of these people, yet another face of the reality of Japanese society rarely captured by Japanese films.

BG: What current and/or future film projects are you working on?

AS: Harmful Insect was an adventurous undertaking both for me and for the investors, and it's exceedingly difficult to continue this type of filmmaking. Therefore, I'm intending to make several major commercial films from now on. I've received some offers for projects, and I'm in the process of assessing them now. They're all genre films with adults as protagonists, and I would expect them to be considerably different from my earlier works. So far I've only directed films I conceived myself, but I believe that directing someone else's project is one opportunity for me to expand my horizon as a filmmaker. Once I've gotten some of those under my belt and established myself more solidly within a few years as a director with clout, I hope to tackle once more the world that exists beyond Harmful Insect. My belief is that I can accomplish this within three years.

BG: One last question, perhaps for people who have already seen Harmful Insect. In another online interview, you say that Sachiko burns down her own house, but the plot summary in the film's press kit says that it is Natsuko's house that is set ablaze. Which is correct, or would you prefer that the answer remain elliptical?

AS: Perhaps there was some misunderstanding in the interpretation during the [online] interview. Sachiko burned her friend Natsuko's house, not her own. My intention was to first show a long shot of Natsuko's house, then repeat the exact same composition when it is set on fire, but perhaps due to the second shot being so dark, this seems to be lost on some viewers. It's one thing I regret.

The question then becomes, "why did Sachiko set Natsuko's house on fire?" and I'm afraid even Sachiko herself wouldn't be able to answer that. If one were to forcefully insist on it being verbalized, I imagine she might say something like "because Natsuko was so nice to me...." Certainly, it's beyond reason. Yet perhaps it's for that precise reason that we sense something like the scent of truth here. In real life murder cases, men charged with killing their lovers are asked to explain their motives, and it isn't unheard of for them to reply, "because she loved me so much." Incomprehensible at first glance, this is nonetheless the truth. I believe people are exceedingly irrational creatures to begin with.