In the northeast of Tokyo, there’s a neighbourhood called San’ya. It’s famous for not being on any maps, nor any road signs, nor any guide books. It’s also famous for being the city’s prime location for the homeless, the elderly, the impoverished, and the burakumin – the traditional lowest caste in Japanese society. In San’ya, day labourers are regularly injured or placed out of work due to staff cuts from high wages, and many old and lonely Japanese wander the streets drinking and smoking their allowances away. It’s a place that is firmly ingrained into the cultural mainframe as the exact location one never wants to be in, yet this year’s Palme d’Or winner, Kore’eda Hirokazu’s poignantly blissful Shoplifters, presents an entirely new approach to the storytelling of the types of wanton folk whom San’ya is notorious for. A warm, genuine film; Shoplifters is teeming with quiet detail and engaging social commentary, it stands out as one of the most refreshingly frank films to be released in recent years.
Shoplifters is the story of a sort-of family, living in a sort-of house, living a sort-of life; haphazardly brought together from troubled pasts, each of the characters in the film operate as a unit based not only on a sense of friendship or love, but – perhaps the film’s most blunt admission – through convenience. There is little Robin Hood or Fagin in Lily Franky’s cheekily devious Osamu, nor is there a particularly doting mother or working-class heroine in Ando Sakura’s straight-talking Nobuyo, but as a couple they assemble a crack team of skilled petty thieves and welfare swindlers to live a life of half-comfort in their grandma’s house (played by the effortlessly wisecracking Kiki Kirin). What begins as a film seemingly in the vein of Ozu Yasujiro’s family dramas quickly takes a turn for the sardonically observant, as we learn that the family’s money-hungry, on-the-fringes way of living is driven primarily by the need to survive in expensive, consumer-driven, post-economic slowdown Japan; a society which in recent years has drawn attention for its aging population, growing income inequality and workplace inefficiency, and a populous driven increasingly inward by the unrealistic demands of work, school, and romance.
Shoplifters, while full of celebratory spirit, is certainly tinted with cynicism; the dialogue is sharp and witty, often raucous in its brash delivery. Kore’eda touches on a range of unspoken Japanese social issues – child abuse, media manipulation, the ineffectual police force, and sexism – and treats them with a playful, yet meditative critique, as if to highlight how farcical Japan’s hush-hush nature surrounding the taboo often seems. Every actor in this film delivers a stunning performance, my favourites being the youngest, Jō Kairi and Sasaki Miyu. The cast imbue their characters with layers of emotional depth, beyond the hackneyed loveable rascal or smooth-talking criminal, each one of them ultimately does not want the life they have, and their decision making is often out of step with what is expected from a typical family drama, building to a dramatic and melancholic conclusion. In this way, Kore’eda is perhaps more indebted to the Prokino movement (please Google it!) and the social critique films of Mizoguchi Kenji than he is to the idyllic Ozu; what makes Shoplifters such a profound film is its oft-uncomfortable truths, and in particular, the warm, friendly way it approaches them.
The film is gorgeously shot on blissfully golden 35mm film, with a pulsating, gentle soundtrack that echoes shots of bamboo in the rain, trains running along apartment buildings, and the crashing of waves on a grey beach under grey skies. In a country often idealised for its perfection, Kore’eda and his fantastic cast take pleasure in its many funny missteps, while keeping a keen eye on its darker side. Shoplifters is a joy to watch for this reason, it revels in those moments of imperfection and relishes the humour and poignancy of this tragicomic life we lead in our broken world.
Unsurprisingly, the Japanese have a term for this: mono no aware; an empathy of the beauty of things lost, and a transient, gentle sadness at their passing, and the reality of time.
Dylan (18)
Shoplifters
Melbourne International Film Festival
Sydney Film Festival