Believe it or not (and despite my
constant protestations that I detest nature), I actually went to summer camp
twice when I was young (I even went camping a few times, but I think those
experiences only hastened my distaste for the out-of-doors). The first time was to a music camp, but I
remember learning very little there, and couldn’t tell you if I even got to
perform in the big concert that closed out the week. The second time was just a regular old summer
camp. Having seen too many films like Meatballs and Friday The Thirteenth and so on, I expected to either have a
raucous frolic of a time or be stalked relentlessly before being killed in some
horrifically graphic manner.
Neither actually occurred, as you might guess, but since I had a whole mess of pent-up expectations, they had nowhere left to go but into an over-anxiousness which led ineffably to unintended destructiveness and a tendency to act out. Thus did I find myself on the wrong end of disciplinary measures. Oh, no one hit me or molested me in any way, shape, or form, but I wound up being put into “time out” (at a time before “time out” was the first resort of authoritarians) for much of my stay. On the plus side, our cabin did a karaoke stage show (more like a Puttin’ On The Hits lip sync show) of Black Sabbath’s Iron Man (I got to pretend I was Bill Ward). Needless to say, we didn’t win the talent show. From this experience I can’t say I know what being sent off to a reform school is like, but you wouldn’t know it from the way I felt arriving home (I literally kissed the ground when I walked in my house). Naturally, they’re not the same thing, but try telling that to a twelve-year-old.
Neither actually occurred, as you might guess, but since I had a whole mess of pent-up expectations, they had nowhere left to go but into an over-anxiousness which led ineffably to unintended destructiveness and a tendency to act out. Thus did I find myself on the wrong end of disciplinary measures. Oh, no one hit me or molested me in any way, shape, or form, but I wound up being put into “time out” (at a time before “time out” was the first resort of authoritarians) for much of my stay. On the plus side, our cabin did a karaoke stage show (more like a Puttin’ On The Hits lip sync show) of Black Sabbath’s Iron Man (I got to pretend I was Bill Ward). Needless to say, we didn’t win the talent show. From this experience I can’t say I know what being sent off to a reform school is like, but you wouldn’t know it from the way I felt arriving home (I literally kissed the ground when I walked in my house). Naturally, they’re not the same thing, but try telling that to a twelve-year-old.
A very pregnant Kazue (Wakako
Chiara) writhes on the black, sandy beach, crying in torment. Young Rica (Rika Aoki) comes upon her friend
and discovers she has taken poison to kill both herself and the baby. Barging in on Kazue’s husband Hiroshi (Goro Daimon) having sex with
another woman, Rica delivers unto him his stillborn child, telling him to give
it a proper burial. Hiroshi and members
of the Tachibana Gang show up at Rica and her gang’s hangout, and she and
Hiroshi have a hand-to-hand duel. After
plucking out the man’s eyes and killing him, Rica is shipped off to reform
school, but her gang are attacked, raped, and kidnapped by the Tachibanas for a
purpose even more nefarious.
It’s amazing to me, the level of
subtlety actually at play in Ko Nakahira’s Rica (aka Rika The Mixed-Blood Girl aka Konketsuji Rika), considering it’s part
of a subgenre (Pinku Eiga or Pinky Violence, among other sobriquets) not known
for nuance. Rika plays the role rather
stoically, some would say woodenly, but it’s fitting to my mind for a character
who has had to toughen up fast. Rika
hasn’t had an easy life. She was an
unwanted child, and her mother (Kazuko Imai)
became a hooker after Rica was born. The
man her mother brings home (Sotoshi Moritsuka) not only rapes Rica (her first
sexual encounter) but also plays a sizeable role in the remainder of the plot. And there are also very light suggestions as
to themes of love versus sex. Rica has
no compunction about using sex to get information (and then maiming her
informant afterward), and she even dances and sings in her underwear at the
Tachibana Gang’s club (one of the highlights of the film), but she does it all
out of a sense of loyalty for those she counts as friends as well as for Tetsu,
the gangster who appeared out of nowhere to offer Rica assistance when she was
jumped by yakuza.
Yes, Rica has a heart, and she
does offer it up but only when the receiver has proved his worth to her. However, it is difficult to argue for female
empowerment in this and other Pinky Violence films. True, Rica is a capable young woman, and she
takes no guff from men. Usually she is
in charge of whom she gives her body to, and she makes conscious, fully-aware
decisions in that regard. By that same
token, Rica and just about every other woman in the film is sexually
objectified in the sleaziest manner possible.
If you’ve ever seen a film like this one, you know what to expect: the
men’s bulging eyes, the tearing off of women’s clothes, the clawing and gnawing
of men on women’s bodies (mostly the breasts, though the shoulders get a good
working out, too). So, for as strong as
any woman is in these films, I would argue they’re really only as strong as the
male audience is comfortable watching.
Like so many films coming out of
Japan at the time (and for a long time following) the plot of Rica is fairly random (or at least has
a strong feeling of randomness about it).
It leaps from situation to situation with no seeming regard for a through
line. It sort of has an overarching plot
that it follows whenever it damn well pleases, but the filmmakers appear to not
care how it actually turns out, so long as something skanky or bloody happens
every ten minutes or so (give Nakahira credit in this regard; he knows his
audience). There’s a circularity at
play, and it’s almost comical. When you
see Rica sit down and make a heartfelt plea with the head of one gang only to
get screwed over, and then see her sit down and make a heartfelt plea with the
head of another gang later (using many of the same camera angles and shot
framing), you can’t help but chuckle.
Plus, this woman has more hand-to-hand duels (replete with henchmen who
are told to stay out of it) in one film than in any ten Jean-Claude Van Damme
films. Yet characters appear for what we
assume is just a small bit only to disappear for long stretches and then
reappear later on as major players. For
as cohesive as the story is allowed to be, it also confounds said cogency. I’ll give you an example. Rica goes looking for her mother and tracks
her to a department store where she witnesses a crime which takes the film off
in a completely different direction, forgetting about her mother entirely until
she pops up later so coincidentally as to be absurd (though the ultimate payoff
of this discovery is pretty great). The
film hits the points it needs to, and it’s entertaining enough for them, but
the structure is so scattershot it makes it difficult to immerse yourself in
Rica’s trials and tribulations enough to care about what happens to her, her
gang, or her acquaintances. Am I
interested in seeing the other two films in the trilogy? Sure.
Am I in any rush to get there?
Not really.
MVT: Looking at 1970s Japan
from this gutter level angle captivates me.
The seedy side of the polished financial juggernaut intrigues me no end,
and just knowing that the Japanese fell prey to many of the same piss poor
fashion trends as the rest of the world (maybe even more), makes me happy
inside.
Make Or Break: The opening
sequence of the film is startling and compelling as all hell. It promises a level of depth and depravity,
but the remainder only really delivers on the latter. I defy you to come up with a curtain-raiser
more jaw-dropping and attention-grabbing than the one in Rica.
Score: 6.25/10
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