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Errant wanderers and aimless drifters Director Retrospectives and Sub-genre explorations:

In the upcoming months, we will be showcasing the works of various directors across Asia to give readers a taste of whom we consider to be the most defining creators of contemporary Asian cinema. We will also be exploring the various sub-genres offered by Asian cinema, which occasionally resemble their Western equivalents, but more often then not offer an experience far more exotic than you could ever imagine.

So whether you are a longtime appreciator of the likes of Kurosawa and Ozu, have seen a few works of their contemporaries and are intrigued as to what else is on offer, have stumbled across some Hollywood remakes and are wondering where such films actually originated, have enjoyed Japanese anime or manga and are curious about their cinematic counterparts, or are simply stepping in for your very first look at Asian cinema. Welcome.

The imaginary realities of Iwai Shunji

Love will fade if held too tightly.
Love will fly if held too lightly.
Lightly, tightly, how do I know
Whether I'm holding, or letting love go?

I first read those words, many years ago, quoted in a small town newspaper article reviewing Iwai Shunji's first feature length film to receive wide acclaim - Love Letter (1995). It was not something I thought to discover in such an unlikely location, and it left an indelible impact. I remember finding myself wondering what could elicit such words from the largely unsentimental and relatively dry critics. I told myself that I had to see this film.

And so I did.

It is carried by the masterful performance of Nakayama Miho in dual roles and the haunting cinematography of Shinoda Noboru. It invites the viewer to curl up by the fire, with a warm blanket and a hot cup of cocoa, and become completely immersed in the frozen winter landscape of Japan's northernmost island of Hokkaido.

After viewing the film, I found the words that I first read resonating ever more truly in my mind. They encapsulated, in simple verse, the feelings of fleetingness and regret created so eloquently by Love Letter - and what I would eventually come to learn - the majority of Iwai Shunji's films.

I think we all have regrets. They are inevitable. A necessary consequence of the human condition. We retain a sense of nostalgia for a place and time that never truly was - although we believe, beyond all doubt, that it must have existed. They say memory is a wonderful thing, if we do not have to deal with the past. And life is all about good byes...

I was captured by Iwai Shunji ever since the final scene of that first film came to its inevitable close. Almost immediately, I found myself having to watch it over once again. So if you will forgive me, their may be a tinge of sentimentality in the discussion to follow.

Serving as both writer and director for the majority of his films, Iwai Shunji evokes a melancholic air and recalls a fleeting ennui. The mood sombre and subdued. Cinematography unobtrusive, but with flourishes of brilliance. His palette restrained and dialogue earnest.

His later works, April Story (四月物語, Shigatsu monogatari) (1998) and Hana and Alice (花とアリス, Hana to Arisu) (2004), are perfect examples of this signature style of film-making that first captured me so completely. April Story in particular, with its simplcity and earnestness almost feels like a film student's final thesis, from which the progression of the eventual director's sense of style and personal voice traces its trajectory.

Fried Dragon Fish (1993), from the early stages of Iwai Shunji's career, is perhaps the most extreme and arguably least palatable of his forays into "arthouse" indulgence. But his later works: Swallowtail Butterfly (スワロウテイル, Suwarōteiru) (1996) and All About Lily Chou-Chou (リリイ・シュシュのすべて, Rirī Shushu no Subete) (2001) are far more polished efforts in which he succeeds in melding his intent and eventual outcome in a more audience-friendly manner. His films touch on issues and themes not only of personal value, but relevant to (Japanese) society at large.

Iwai Shunji also has an inclination towards documentary film-making, which perhaps helps in his creation of the everyday reality where the majority of his fictional works exist - although skewed ever so slightly in a way that makes them entirely Iwai Shunji's vision. Even the films where he did not have a hand in directing, but only served as a (co-)writer (occasionally under the pseudonymn Aminosan) and/or producer - such as Rainbow Song (虹の女神, Niji no Megami) (2006), Hotai Club (包帯クラブ) (2007), Halfway (ハールフウェー, Harufuwei) (2009) and Bandage (バンデージ、Bandeiji) (2010) - retain an underlying sense of Iwai Shunji's indelible style that ties his overall body of work together. It's a style impossible to fully explain and give justice, but is instantly recognizable all the same. You will always know when you are watching an Iwai Shunji film.

Once you have found the hidden path into the imaginary realities of Iwai Shunji, you will be left with an undeniable sense that this a film-maker who meticulously crafts each individual scene, and angle, and turn of phrase. A master of silences, naturalistic dialogue and long, lingering shots. Perhaps the only persistent negativity I have heard voiced in regard to Iwai Shunji's films is that "nothing" really seems to happen. But I think that is missing the point entirely.

The shell of a real story, albeit simple, is always there. Yet narrative urgency and a step-by-step progression towards a neat resolution, is not what ultimately drives an Iwai Shunji film. If you are looking for an action blockbuster with countless explosions and heroes with guns blazing, taking names, then you had best search somewhere else, for you will be sorely disappointed. But if you find value in more simple stories and the everyday slices of life that we sometimes take for granted, or fail to value at the time - the last days of high school, the initial forays into university life, the stumbling awkwardness of first love, the catharsis found in the eventual acceptance loss – then you are in the right place.

To truly experience an Iwai Shunji film, you must immerse yourself in the world he creates, and become lost in the landscape to which he invites you. For you might not pass this way again – at least not in the same shape or form that you are now. If you commit to the journey and embrace it wholeheartedly, you will be infinitely rewarded. So be sure to hold on tightly and do not let go lightly...

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