Confessions opens with a scene depressingly familiar in contemporary Japan - 'classroom breakdown.' A teacher stoically maintains a teacherly disposition in the face of apathy and hostility from her 40-odd charges. They text, shout, fight, enter and leave the room, throw paper balls - and milk. Those splashes of white, slo-mo'ing through the grey-blue muted frame, are portents of a greater darkness to come.
The stylised rendering of this scene will fool some overseas viewers into thinking this is a heightened reality for cinematic aesthetics. As anyone who has talked to a secondary-level teacher out here will know, classroom breakdown is widespread and pernicious. Nakashima's visual rendering of this phenomenon in the opening 20 minutes seems unflinchingly accurate in capturing the dehumanization that mob rule engenders.
Social critique gives way to plot demands as the teacher's monologue reveals she is leaving, views her pupils with detached contempt, and has identified amongst them two killers of her own infant daughter. At this point the audience is wrong-footed into thinking the film will be a whodunit. Instead, we find out quickly that Naoki and Shuya 'dunit' (though who is the leader and who was led will throw up some intrigue).
The film then re-visits the scene of the crime Rashomon-style, offering up interpretations by the teacher/mother, both the perpetrators, and one of the perpetrator's mothers.
Nakashima seems less interested, however, in exploring the psychology of the child murderers, than in representing Japan's current social malaise in heightened, graphic terms. The 'reasons' given - striving for popularity amongst peers, lack of motherly love - are trite and hackneyed. Even the search for revenge by the teacher/mother is left unquestioned, serving as a motivation to drive the plot when it could be examined in more critical terms.
Perhaps, given the catalogue of matricide, patricide and random killings committed by juveniles in recent years, the very mundaneness and banality of such incidents is Nakashima's point. Perhaps, he seems to imply, the reasons are trite and insubstantial. Our incremental exposure to such amoral acts inures us to the next one.
The film achieves a balance in its representation of the horror and yet commonality of petty cruelties. The murder itself, while wicked, seems overtaken by the viciousness of the retribution dolled out by the classmates. When innocence and rationality assert themselves, in the form of Head Pupil Mizuho, the price paid for such naiveté is swift and brutal. This is a hard pill to swallow, but its resonance to greater concerns in contemporary Japan is undeniable.
Less of a success is the film's attempt to marry this to plot concerns. The teacher's partner died of AIDS (note the casual racism in pointing out that it was contracted overseas), a point thrown up merely to give the teacher a weapon to use against her tormentors. When Naoki, the pupil-murderer less vulnerable to the teacher's revenge, decides to turn the tables, he does so by constructing a highly sophisticated remote control bomb triggered by his own mobile phone. There are nation-states who cannot master such technology. There are enough genuinely terrifying acts of violence to be gleaned from the Japanese tabloids without resorting to such comic-book machinations. The social critique of the film is ultimately undercut by this 'stop-the-bomb' clichéd ending.
The blue-black-silver palette eloquently conveys the paranoia and social degeneration that classroom breakdown is the beating heart of. Unfortunately, Nakashima opts to eschew close-ups, a choice that distances us from any of the players. The still on the publicity shot is the clearest view you will get of Takako Matsu, who plays the relentless, chilling teacher. No doubt the lack of close-ups was meant to underline the dehumanizing effects of the actions portrayed, but cinematically it is less than satisfying. It is an annoying trope commonly found in contemporary Japanese film-making. I wonder if it is an aesthetic choice, or an element imposed by restricted budgets.
I usually despair of films where there is no one to like. However, there is something about Confessions that captures an ennui, a sickness current in Japanese society, and education in particular. Capturing that atmosphere is the film's main achievement. However, the dark frames and lack of close-ups ultimately meant I felt no emotional engagement with the characters. Lack of redemption I can live with, but these choices also imbibe the film with a lack of humanity that is less forgivable. Nakashima is a polished artisan, and he knows his society well. Based on this outing, I am less sure he is familiar with the human frailties of the people who populate it.
The stylised rendering of this scene will fool some overseas viewers into thinking this is a heightened reality for cinematic aesthetics. As anyone who has talked to a secondary-level teacher out here will know, classroom breakdown is widespread and pernicious. Nakashima's visual rendering of this phenomenon in the opening 20 minutes seems unflinchingly accurate in capturing the dehumanization that mob rule engenders.
Social critique gives way to plot demands as the teacher's monologue reveals she is leaving, views her pupils with detached contempt, and has identified amongst them two killers of her own infant daughter. At this point the audience is wrong-footed into thinking the film will be a whodunit. Instead, we find out quickly that Naoki and Shuya 'dunit' (though who is the leader and who was led will throw up some intrigue).
The film then re-visits the scene of the crime Rashomon-style, offering up interpretations by the teacher/mother, both the perpetrators, and one of the perpetrator's mothers.
Nakashima seems less interested, however, in exploring the psychology of the child murderers, than in representing Japan's current social malaise in heightened, graphic terms. The 'reasons' given - striving for popularity amongst peers, lack of motherly love - are trite and hackneyed. Even the search for revenge by the teacher/mother is left unquestioned, serving as a motivation to drive the plot when it could be examined in more critical terms.
Perhaps, given the catalogue of matricide, patricide and random killings committed by juveniles in recent years, the very mundaneness and banality of such incidents is Nakashima's point. Perhaps, he seems to imply, the reasons are trite and insubstantial. Our incremental exposure to such amoral acts inures us to the next one.
The film achieves a balance in its representation of the horror and yet commonality of petty cruelties. The murder itself, while wicked, seems overtaken by the viciousness of the retribution dolled out by the classmates. When innocence and rationality assert themselves, in the form of Head Pupil Mizuho, the price paid for such naiveté is swift and brutal. This is a hard pill to swallow, but its resonance to greater concerns in contemporary Japan is undeniable.
Less of a success is the film's attempt to marry this to plot concerns. The teacher's partner died of AIDS (note the casual racism in pointing out that it was contracted overseas), a point thrown up merely to give the teacher a weapon to use against her tormentors. When Naoki, the pupil-murderer less vulnerable to the teacher's revenge, decides to turn the tables, he does so by constructing a highly sophisticated remote control bomb triggered by his own mobile phone. There are nation-states who cannot master such technology. There are enough genuinely terrifying acts of violence to be gleaned from the Japanese tabloids without resorting to such comic-book machinations. The social critique of the film is ultimately undercut by this 'stop-the-bomb' clichéd ending.
The blue-black-silver palette eloquently conveys the paranoia and social degeneration that classroom breakdown is the beating heart of. Unfortunately, Nakashima opts to eschew close-ups, a choice that distances us from any of the players. The still on the publicity shot is the clearest view you will get of Takako Matsu, who plays the relentless, chilling teacher. No doubt the lack of close-ups was meant to underline the dehumanizing effects of the actions portrayed, but cinematically it is less than satisfying. It is an annoying trope commonly found in contemporary Japanese film-making. I wonder if it is an aesthetic choice, or an element imposed by restricted budgets.
I usually despair of films where there is no one to like. However, there is something about Confessions that captures an ennui, a sickness current in Japanese society, and education in particular. Capturing that atmosphere is the film's main achievement. However, the dark frames and lack of close-ups ultimately meant I felt no emotional engagement with the characters. Lack of redemption I can live with, but these choices also imbibe the film with a lack of humanity that is less forgivable. Nakashima is a polished artisan, and he knows his society well. Based on this outing, I am less sure he is familiar with the human frailties of the people who populate it.