Live Action Short Film (Victoria Warmerdam and Trent)
Dedicated to Jessica.
Dedicated to Jessica.
Modern-day biographical films about musicians often embrace a "great man theory" of music. That is, like the great man theory approach to history, in which some believe we can understand who we are through the examination of "great men" (powerful, transformational individuals—usually men—who were immensely talented), in biographical films, music can be understood by the contributions of a few exceptionally talented and famous individuals. Unfortunately, this great man approach has become hackneyed. Yes, it's impressive to watch Joaquin Phoenix become Johnny Cash or Jamie Foxx become Ray Charles, but both films (though fine) were so predictable that they became low-hanging fruit for a parody like Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story.
Some films (like Love and Mercy or Rocketman) have tried to be slightly different to avoid those pitfalls, and they mostly worked (though neither are great films), which brings me to A Complete Unknown, the James Mangold-directed film about the early years of Bob Dylan's career. A Complete Unknown doesn't try to rock the boat, though it simultaneously evades a check-the-box approach to these kinds of stories. We do see the story of young Bob Dylan, a great man of music (arguably the greatest—no other musician has an Oscar, ten Grammys, the Presidential Medal of Freedom, a Pulitzer, and even the Nobel Prize), and we see Timothée Chalamet deliver yet another fantastic performance in which he looks and sounds just like him. Yet fortunately for us (and perhaps mainly because it's Bob Dylan and not a musician whose life was a little more destructive), there are no scenes of him struggling with drug addiction, no scene where he gets so rich and famous that he abuses people, and no inevitable fall and glorious comeback. The biggest conflict in this movie seems to be him wanting to play an electric guitar at a folk festival.
That moment, of course, is not a simple footnote (for some reason) but a moment contentious enough that it has its own Wikipedia page and has frequently been cited as one of the most controversial music moments in history. Mangold is a talented enough director that he keeps these moments intriguing, even if you know what's coming, and with an active camera that flies up and back to show us the practically rabid folk fans throwing things at Dylan and calling him Judas, all the while he's unfazed by it in the most Bob Dylan way, Mangold and his cinematographer Phedon Papamichael would make Martin Scorsese proud.
It's not simply Mangold and Papamichael who deserve credit for such a feat. Much of A Complete Unknown is a compelling watch because of its actors, especially Edward Norton as Pete Seeger, Monica Barbaro as Joan Baez, and of course Chalamet as Dylan. Chalamat in particular seems to be perfectly incapable of bad acting; in just this past year, he was the star of both A Complete Unknown and Dune: Part II, and the two films collectively have thirteen Oscar nominations this year. The last time Chalamet was nominated was seven years ago for Call Me by Your Name, and one could certainly make an argument that he should have won then. (He lost to a much more theatrical and make-up-intense Gary Oldman in Darkest Hour.)
Anyway, in A Complete Unknown, Chalamet, Norton, and Barbaro are all worthy of their nominations due to their very impressive singing and instrumental skills. Chalamet in particular gets that unique sound of Dylan's (what Jason Kelly described as a pinched Okie sound that mimicked Woody Guthrie's) and makes it all look easy. When he sings to a hospitalized Guthrie (played in the film by Scoot McNairy), it's moving in a sentimental way when someone meets their hero and it goes just the way it should; when he plays in the studio, his voice varies between reserved and liberated (based on the character's growing comfort and musical evolution). And maybe it was all in my head, but given that he's smoking in virtually every scene, it seems like he was able to incorporate the impact smoking has on the human voice in a way that doesn't come across as painfully obvious and forced (like Bradley Cooper was as Leonard Bernstein in Maestro). But Barbaro and Norton sure can sing, too, and the most charming scene in the film (or at least the one that doesn't involve Bob Dylan) is when Norton as Seeger leads his audience in a joyful rendition of "Wimoweh."
Based on Elijah Wald's 2015 book Dylan Goes Electric!, A Complete Unknown avoids some of the aforementioned pitfalls of the typical biographical film about the great men of music by just focusing on Dylan's rise from 1961 to 1965. It's all a very romantic view of a struggling musician; when we first meet Dylan, he's crossing over into New York from New Jersey in the back of a stranger's car, jotting away in his notebook some notes for songs. He does it again the morning after spending a night in the home of folk hero Pete Seeger's home. Heavily promoted by Seeger as the man who can bring folk music to the masses, Dylan struggles to break through, but once he does, the rest is history. He sings at the 1963 March on Washington, courts Joan Baez (Barbaro), becomes the voice of a generation, and struggles with accepting his new-found fame.
Dylan enthusiasts whose favorite Dylan period is those early years will likely be thrilled with what they hear. A lot of those beloved tunes are included: "Highway 61 Revisited," "Mr. Tambourine Man," Girl from the North Country," "Blowin' in the Wind," "It Ain't Me, Babe," "Maggie's Farm," "Song to Woody," "Like a Rolling Stone," and others are all there. Whether or not this film has much appeal to audience members who are not Dylan fans or musicologists or anything like that is something I'm not sure I can answer. Still, it has grossed about $100 million since it was released last December, and it has eight Oscar nominations, though (despite a superb performance by Chalamet) it is the underdog in just about all of them. One way or the other, it is a recommendable watch.
My favorite Bob Dylan songs:
Note: This list was compiled in 2020 during the pandemic. I suspect the order would be slightly different if I were to devote more time to reorganizing it these days.
The past fifty years have been an incredibly rapid rise and sustained run for Lorne Michaels, the man who went from juggling a thousand different problems in the hour running up to his iconic show's debut to telling Taylor Swift that he doesn't negotiate with terrorists as he tossed popcorn into his mouth after she demanded his staff cut a sketch making fun of her. Among the following problems Saturday Night Live creator and executive producer Michaels was dealing with way back in 1975 (according to last year's Saturday Night about the run-up to the first-ever episode of what was then called Saturday Night) are the following: the runtime was too long, his host (George Carlin, played here by Matthew Rhys) was snorting cocaine and angry about the sketches he was supposed to appear in, his actors were fighting (and one, John Belushi, played by Matt Wood, wouldn't even sign his contract), the network executives (mainly in the form of David Tebet, played by Willem Dafoe) were breathing down his neck hoping he failed, and even Johnny Carson (voiced here by Jeff Witzke) was making threatening phone calls warning him not to get ahead of himself. "It's my fucking network, it's my fucking night" the late-night icon hisses at him. Needless to say, this last one is one of the film's exaggerations.
Saturday Night, exaggerated or not, can all seem like a lionizing official portrait of the Canadian most Americans have adored for fifty years (or more like forty-five, since he had nothing to do with the show from 1981-1984), but who can blame director Jason Reitman and co-writer Gil Kenan? Just think of all the show has done: It has survived five very different decades through evolving beliefs about comedic taste (winning eighty-four Emmy Awards and three Peabody Awards along the way), it has implanted catchphrases into our collective pop culture minds and practically broken political stars (to the point where now, surely most Americans think that Sarah Palin actually said she could see Russia from her house), and it has launched the movie careers of dozens of stars. Ten years ago, just before the fortieth-anniversary show, Rolling Stone released their comprehensive list of all of the cast members in the show's history ranked (with Season 11 cast member Robert Downey Jr. coming in dead last). Just look at some of the names in the top twenty: future Senator Al Franken (played in Saturday Night by Taylor Gray), Maya Rudolph, Adam Sandler, Chris Farley, Kristen Wiig, Bill Hader, Will Ferrell, Dana Carvey, Chevy Chase, Gilda Radner, Amy Poehler, Phil Hartman, Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, Mike Myers, Tina Fey, Eddie Murphy (who, it should be pointed out, was a star during the Dick Ebersol years, not the Michaels years), and John Belushi. Lorne Michaels deserves all the praise by this point.
The story of the very early days of the show have been told to death at this point between various NBC specials and the highly recommendable oral history Live From New York: An Uncensored History of Saturday Night Live, and yet the anecdotes in the film still feel fresh. They're all there, like stand-up comedian and future cast member Billy Crystal fretting about the potential cutting of his number, Andy Kaufman's post-modern "Mighty Mouse" lip-sync, Jim Henson's muppets (the worst part of those early episodes—I don't think the audience laughed even once), and Chase's dreams of bigger things. (It's worth noting that both Kaufman and Henson are portrayed in very amusing performances by Nicholas Braun.) If you really know your SNL history, though, you also will know which ones they are exaggerating in the movie, like the physical fight between Chase and Belushi. Though there was a rivalry between the two, the real legendary fistfight actually broke out the following season between host Chevy Chase and the man who replaced him: Bill Murray.
Opening with the cast members' auditions (that is, the actors playing them), we meet the original players: Aykroyd (Dylan O'Brien), Belushi, Chase (Cory Michael Smith), Jane Curtain (Kim Matula), Garrett Morris (Lamorne Morris), Laraine Newman (Emily Fairn), and Radner (Ella Hunt). Lorne Michaels is played by Gabriel Labelle, whom you may have seen in The Fabelmans. Despite all the problems, Michaels can rely on the support of fellow producer Dick Ebersol (who ran the show in the early Eighties after Michaels had briefly left and who is played here by Cooper Hoffman) and Rosie Shuster, a writer for the show and then-wife of Michaels, who is played by Rachel Sennott. Also appearing in the film is Jon Baptise, who plays Billy Preston and who also scored the film.
The long takes, the rapid dialogue, the multiple storylines, and the high stakes can make the whole thing feel like it's from Aaron Sorkin, but Reitman and his team make it work. This is chiefly because it's so fun to watch the actors, especially J.K. Simmons as Milton Berle, a legend of NBC past (and present, circa the 1970s, I guess) who shows up and taunts those he views as beneath him, like Chase, who can't seem to not pick a fight with anyone around him. (Pretty true; read the aforementioned tell-all book and/or anything ever written or said about Chevy Chase.)
As for the other actors, the ones portraying the Not Ready for Primetime Players do an effective job of portraying those iconic figures without appearing to be a, well, SNL impersonation. Smith captures Chases's charm and comedic timing but also his arrogance and impertinence; Lamorne Morris demonstrates the exceptional talent of Garrett Morris (no relation) while feeling distant from his younger (and white) cast mates; and Wood, while showing us all those eyebrow raises and animalistic chaos, still gets across to the audience that this man was a superstar who unfortunately was destined for tragedy. The best performance, however, is the lead, LaBelle, who looks and sounds the least like the person he's playing among the cast but whose sincerity and drive really make one want to root for the debut show's inevitable success. Like George Lucas on the set of Star Wars, he's the captain of something truly great that apparently only he can see. As one crew member (Robert Wuhl as the director Dave Wilson) mockingly tells him, "I think I can speak for the entire crew when I say that this is exactly where we want to be on Saturday night!" In the script by Reitman and Kenan, everybody (for the most part) has something to do; it's not simply the Lorne Michaels Show. For example, Aykroyd wants a more specific type of gun for the sketch he's in, Belushi doesn't want to wear the bee suit, and Jim Henson can't understand why everyone is putting his muppets into compromising (and violent) positions. This is all with just an hour or so to go.
One likely problem is that while it's a fun watch, it's not particularly funny. There are a few decent one-liners that may make one chuckle, but that's it. This is ironic given that it's about one of the funniest shows of all time. It also will not have the staying power of Saturday Night Live. On a budget of about $30 million, it didn't make even half of that at the box office last year, despite it being a film about a show heading into a highly anticipated fiftieth anniversary (which is only a few hours away as of this writing). Still, it's a must for those who have any memories of the show, especially those who were around in 1975 to see it from the beginning. For younger viewers who know it mainly for its viral moments (like "Black Jeopardy with Tom Hanks" or "Sean Spicer's Press Conference"), it could serve as proper education for anyone who doesn't have time for a lengthy oral history or a Vulture subscription.
"Jangle" is a Middle English word that means to "talk excessively or noisily, squabble." This definition cannot be applied to our protagonist in Jingle Jangle: A Christmas Journey, the 2020 Netflix Christmas movie written and directed by David E. Talbert. When we meet Jeronicus Jangle, he is a toymaker on top of the world and is played in the opening scenes by Justin Cornwell. There is nothing he cannot invent, and his toy shop is the wonder of the world. Things can change so quickly, though, and by the time we see him again, he is alone, bitter, and disconsolate. In these scenes, he's played by Forest Whitaker, and he's anything but an excessive talker.
By now, Whitaker is of course one of our most treasured actors, but Jingle Jangle: A Christmas Journey is unlikely to be one of his most remembered roles, even though he sings fairly well in it. Part of that might be because the film seemed to come and go without much of a wintry splash; released on November 13, 2020, the film received positive reviews but not much chatter, even if it was during the era of everyone staying home and watching other Netflix programs like Tiger King. Be that as it may, it is currently ranked seventeenth on Rotten Tomatoes' list of the best Christmas movies ever, right in between the anime film Tokyo Godfathers and Edward Scissorhands. (Forget about the debate over Die Hard—is Edward Scissorhands really considered a Christmas movie?)
Whitaker may do a fine job (though he leans in too heavily towards a mumbling persona), but many of the others in this Christmas fantasy do not, supplying acting that can only be described as forced, awkward, and overly theatrical. It doesn't help that the songs (written by John Legend, Philip Lawrence, Davy Nathan, Michael Diskint, and others) come across as energetic yet stale and are unlikely to remain in one's memory unless one has heard them repeatedly. They simply exist to provide only (and I mean only) the inner thoughts of the singer and nothing else. They don't move the film forward, they don't dazzle, and they certainly don't entertain.
Jingle Jangle is a Christmas fable reminiscent of The Nutcracker; it even aspires to be E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial and WALL-E at different points, but it fails. In the story, Jangle's inventions (namely an animatronic and animated miniature matador voiced terrifically by Ricky Martin) have been stolen by his apprentice, Gustafson, played in most scenes (including his big musical number) by Keegan-Michael Key. Since the theft, Jangle has fallen into despair, turning his imaginarium into a pawn shop where he struggles to pay the bills. His daughter has grown up and moved away to raise her daughter in a cottage; they have not kept in touch.
One day, however, Jangle's granddaughter, Journey (played in a very charming performance by young Madalen Mills) is sent to visit her grandfather, whom she has never met. Jangle is not thrilled, and initially insists that she cannot stay. Eventually acquiescing, he forbids her from touching anything, even though she soon proves that she's just as much a genius as he is, though the topics that they are experts in are things like the "second derivative of sensational" and the "square root of possible."
There are worthy aspects of the film, like its wonderful animation, sets, costumes, and other technical aspects, that are top-notch, and despite its weak start, the film does get more charming as it progresses, with the snowball fight (offering a glimpse of Jangle loosening up a bit) being a highlight. Children, in particular, could be quite captivated by it, especially as characters literally start to fly. To many adults, however, flying characters still don't do much to make the film feel fantastical. Despite these admirable qualities, I cannot recommend this film to most viewers. It checks a lot of boxes for a Christmas movie with all of its pageantry and magic, but it drags on for thirty minutes too long and can be a bore. I should also admit though that I initially couldn't stand Elf, and yet I now appreciate it much more with every viewing. Perhaps I will say the same one day about Jingle Jangle: A Christmas Journey.
Return to Oz is not a sequel to The Wizard of Oz. It shares considerably less of the same DNA than, say, the new hit adaptation of Wicked. Viewers will recognize this almost immediately because within seconds, there is an obvious melancholy that might strike some as peculiar (if their only reference of this world is the famous 1939 MGM musical starring Judy Garland). Curiously, despite some calling it a sequel and the fact that it's a Disney movie, it's not even a musical. Who knows if they would have even helped.
This 1985 fantasy directed by Walter Murch and written by Murch and Gill Dennis is considerably grimmer than The Wizard of Oz, Wicked, or just about any other adaptation of the famous story you can imagine. For the film's noble defenders, such as Harlan Ellison, who commented that the film "ain't Judy Garland, it ain't hip-hop, but Return to Oz is in the tradition of the original Oz books," this is a good thing. For those who want Oz to be devoid of any dark fantasy, this isn't the movie for you. I didn't mind one way or the other when I saw it as a young boy, though the only concrete memory I have from my first viewing was of Jean Marsh abruptly opening her eyes, signifying a considerable amount of danger for Dorothy Gale, and becoming the stuff of nightmares. Unfortunately, I was a lot more bored watching it as an adult.
Dorothy is played here by Fairuza Balk, who was about ten years old during the filming. She's the only fantastic part of Return to Oz, effortlessly capturing the character's curiosity, kindness, fear, and bravery. Dorothy is back in Kansas in the year 1899, six months after the tornado whisked her from Kansas and into the magical Land of Oz, and yet she's different since before the storm. Kansas here isn't a sepia-toned sound stage but a muddy real location. (The live locations, as well as the sets at Elstree Studios, further help demonstrate the superiority of The Wizard of Oz.) Dorothy is being treated by a doctor who promises her family to cure her of her sleeplessness through electric-shock therapy. Inevitably, she escapes and winds up all the way back in Oz, this time not joined by her dog, Toto, but by a talking chicken from her farm named Billina (voiced by Denise Bryer). Oz, however, isn't how she remembers it. The Scarecrow is not the king anymore, and the land is ruled by the menacing Nome King (Nicol Williamson), who hates chickens for an unexplained reason. Dorothy's other friends, like the Tin Woodsman and the Cowardly Lion, are all frozen, and she's chased by a cackling group of hooligans called the Wheelers (who look kind of ridiculous).
Fortunately, there are some allies and adversaries who make the film at least somewhat interesting, such as Tik-Tok, a mechanical soldier voiced by Sean Barrett, and Jack Pumpkinhead (voiced by Brian Henson, the son of Jim Henson and the current chairman of The Jim Henson Company), both of whom try to fill the void and protect Dorothy on her adventures. Williamson as the Nome King isn't as intriguing as one would think he would be (he was once called the greatest actor since Marlon Brando, after all), especially as it is eventually revealed that the king curiously has stolen the ruby slippers and wears them on his feet, flaunting them to Dorothy before her. However, his henchman—the Nome Messenger (cleverly animated on a rock wall and voiced by Pons Maar)—is a neat touch and the only villainous character who works here.
It may be unfair to keep comparing the two, as most adults should hopefully be able to recognize that this is not a sequel. Before the public domain reforms of the early 1990s, works remained under copyright for fifty-six years, so The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, the 1900 book in which writer L. Frank Baum first introduced his readers to a a young girl from Kansas and her whimsical friends in the Land of Oz, entered the public domain in 1956, almost thirty years before Disney took its own shot at Baum's stories. There is no Baum book called "Return to Oz," but the story mostly takes its inspiration from the second and third entries in the series: The Marvelous Land of Oz and Ozma of Oz. However, the filmmakers did try and establish a few links to the 1939 films, mainly the fee Disney paid MGM to use the ruby slippers, which were the intellectual property of the latter studio and not in any Baum story (and therefore not in the public domain).
Return to Oz must have seemed like a winning ticket for the studio, and they spent massively promoting it. It didn't matter. Return to Oz was a critical and commercial flop, earning only half of its budget at the box office and further signifying Disney's lowest point before their renaissance. It might be permanently forgotten if not for those who are just now discovering Baum's characters through Wicked, which is one of the highest-grossing films of 2024. These new fans might eat up all the Oz they can get. Return to Oz might not be hip-hop or Judy Garland, but it's not much of anything else, and only those who love all things Oz and/or prefer this darker, probably more faithful tone would enjoy it. For everyone else, they can continue belting out "Defying Gravity" to their hearts' content.
Aisha is often in a difficult place. She is a young refugee from Nigeria trying to persevere through the tedious refugee process of the Republic of Ireland. Ireland is an interesting country when it comes to migration. For the first time since 1851 during the Great Famine, the population of Ireland exceeded five million people, largely because of migration. Ireland has also had an enormous increase in refugees (a 749-percent increase from 2021 to 2022, the year the film Aisha was released in Ireland). Aisha is one of 81,256 refugees in Ireland in 2022. The system has come under further strain because a post-Brexit Britain (at least under the previous government) endorsed policies that directed refugees from Africa back into the EU through Ireland.
These facts might help one appreciate just how much of an uphill battle she has in front of her. The film, directed by Frank Berry, is not concerned with statistics but the human condition, in which characters have little interest in such statistics but instead are simply trying to survive. Aisha, played by Letitia Wright, is one such character. She is seeking refugee status in Ireland while her mother is back home hiding in Nigeria. The film, which is also written by Berry, is patient with how much of Aisha's story is told and even the aftermath of certain moments. This is not to say the pacing is laborious; its pacing is mostly appropriate. One thing, though, is irrefutable, and that is that she is dealt one rotten hand after another in her struggles.
Viewers might expect a certain type of film with certain tropes and certain character arcs that can be predicted. They are unlikely to find it here. In weaker hands, this is the kind of film where the difficulties Aisha faces would be gratuitously displayed with great theatricality. Instead, in the film she witnesses more micro forms of racism in her everyday interactions with locals. At one point, for example, she is told by a customer she's tending to that her English is good. (English is the national language of Nigeria.) She's told she's lucky; she doesn't respond. True, there are some examples in the movie of more in-your-face varieties of discrimination and racism, especially from the immigration officers. One staff member who does display kindness towards her is named Conor (Josh O'Connor), the night guard at the center. Conor is a recovering drug addict and former prisoner who is now living with his mom. One might get the impression that he is a guilt-ridden and possibly sleep-deprived individual through some of the subtle choices O'Connor makes as an actor. For what it's worth, O'Connor, a Brit who was brought up in Gloucestershire, apparently does an impeccable Irish accent here, with one viewer on Reddit claiming he couldn't believe O'Connor wasn't Irish.
Wright's performance in Aisha is her best yet. Known internationally mainly for role as Shuri in the Black Panther movies, she successfully utilizes the rich opportunity as the title character to show what she can do. There's a lot of restraint in her acting; she is playing a character who is frustrated, anxious, depressed, helpless, guarded, disappointed, and not at all in control of her situations. Wright is challenged with exemplifying all of this in a measured, realistic way, as the film is not one to indulge in hyperbole, all the while the camera spends considerable time focused on her face. Wright and O'Connor are both commendable in the film, but Berry also deserves credit for including the real voices of actual refugees here to share their stories. Their descriptions of the pain of deportation, memories from their homeland, and other critical details lend further legitimacy to the undertaking of those involved in Aisha.
The friendship between Aisha and Conor (predictably) evolves into a flirtatious and romantic one. Conor even calls in sick to be with Aisha once she is moved to a different center farther away. The only time Aisha appears happy in the film is when she is with Conor. There's an obvious crush between them. These are moments of joy that give Aisha and the audience a break from the grim reality of her struggle to remain legally in Ireland.
Aisha is a recommendable film mainly because of what Berry, Wright, and O'Connor demonstrate in their work. Ideally, the three of them will continue to excel with future projects as realistic and honest as Aisha.
Nobody Knows, a 2004 drama written, directed, produced, and edited by Hirokazu Kore-eda, is not. This is a film that pivots away from an all's-well-that-ends-well conclusion of many famous Japanese motion pictures in favor of the bitter reality of the human condition. How could it not? The film is, very regrettably, inspired by a true story known as the Sugamo child-abandonment case. I also wish I could say that child abandonment is incredibly rare, but it is obviously not. There are no monsters here, but real-life consequences when normal people do discreet yet cruel things. In the first scene of this film, the young boy who serves as the main character has longish hair and a tattered shirt; this will serve as a reminder throughout much of the film's two hours and twenty minutes that these children are in for the long haul of waiting for a provider who will never show up.
In the film, Yuya Yagira plays the young boy named Akira. At the beginning of the story, Akira and his mother, Keiko (You), seem to be a normal mother-and-son pair, delighting their landlord and landlady with a gift upon their first meeting. The landlord mentions it's good that Akira is in middle school, because a lot of the other tenants complain about too many noisy young children running around the building. No problem, according to Keiko. Well, there is a problem: three other children. Two have been hidden in their luggage that soon arrives via delivery. Their names are Shigeru (Hiei Kimura), the youngest boy, and Yuki (Momoko Shimizu), the youngest girl, who is only five. Akira later goes out to pick up his other younger sister, Kyōko (Ayu Kitaura), the second oldest in the family, at the train station. Between the two of them, they handle most of the responsibilities when their mother is away. There is no father figure in the family; all of the four children have different fathers.
Why did they move? Apparently, Shigeru was too boisterous, and it's implied that they were evicted or their lease wasn't renewed. Hence, hiding two children inside pieces of luggage and sending a third by herself on the train to catch up is their solution. Are Japanese children too noisy, and are Japanese adults too intolerant towards them? I lived in Japan for thirteen months, and I wouldn't say Japanese children are any more or less energetic than their counterparts in other nations. I also can't speak as to whether or not Japanese people detest loud children, but I do know that there is a website detailing the noise of children in Japanese neighborhoods, warning others of children who play too noisily or scream, and that four children is not normal in Japan, with the country recently seeing a record low birthrate of 1.26 children per family, continuing a downward trend. In recent years, the Japanese government has tried to remedy this by investing $25 billion dollars to support families who may want children. But this bill was passed late last year—surely there was less of a concern back in 2004, the year of the film's release. Unlikely, because the total fertility rate in the country then was 1.29, only slightly higher than what it currently is. What about in 1988, the year in which the terrible incident that inspired this film took place? 1.66.
It would be important to note here that Kore-eda does not make films that judge others. As he did in later films like After the Storm, the Palme d'Or-winning Shoplifters, and last year's Monster, his stories are of ordinary people caught up not necessarily in unordinary situations but those that one wishes simply did not exist. It might be impossible not to be angry at a person like Keiko, who not only later abandons her four children but in the early part of the film doesn't seem to be in much of a rush to actually get her two youngest ones out of the luggage that they themselves describe as "super hot." Not much information is explicitly revealed about her. Instead, the dialogue, how the children react around her, and You's performance fill in the gaps.
You seems to inflect an exaggerated, childish tone and pitch to her character's voice, suggesting that Keiko was never going to be mature enough to take care of four children. The children characters, though, often are tolerant towards her, perhaps because she rarely scolds them or makes them eat vegetables (or even go to school), with only two instances of them losing patience with her: when Kyōko whispers to Akira that she reeks of alcohol and when Akira finally confronts her for being selfish and not looking after them or letting them go to school. Thus, they all have to grow up very quickly. Akira, in particular, becomes the father figure, budgeting on the spot while shopping and cooking curry for the three younger ones while teaching himself math at night. One morning, though, there is a note that their mother has gone away for a while. Now, the growth of his parenting skills really needs to accelerate.
The four actors portraying the children (as well as Hanae Kan as a young school girl who frequently skips class to hang out with them) all give remarkably naturalistic performances in a way that film companies, casting directors, and directors should take note. One would be very hard-pressed to find a director who can work as well with children as Kore-eda does. Using discreetly placed cameras and providing minimal specific directions, he was able to capture the four of them naturally going about their business as any young child would. This is especially evident in the performances of Kimura and Shimizu. Yagira's performance is especially praise-worthy. For his role in the film, he became the youngest winner of the Best Actor award at the Cannes Film Festival in the festival's history. He was unable to attend, however—he was back home studying for exams.
If there is to be a message in the film, it may be a condemnation towards the conditions that resulted in such a tragedy, namely of adults' making. It's not simply the mother figure who abdicated her responsibilities, but a whole host of others who may be at fault: a child welfare system that separates siblings, a government that can't or won't help families who are financially struggling, absentee fathers, and well-meaning adults who simply look the other way. It's enough to depress the viewer, especially if they've seen the three aforementioned films from Japan, ones that celebrate the nation's abundance of color, spirit, and even superior toilets. In Nobody Knows, Kore-eda is not interested in such fairytales; it's as if his film screams in the opposite direction that things are not as perfect as they seem. But as Roger Ebert once said, no good movie is depressing; all bad movies are depressing. Nobody Knows is certainly worth a watch on its twentieth anniversary, especially for its extraordinary acting.