HAPPY HOUR (Happî
Awâ) A
Japan (317
mi) 2015 d: Ryûsuke
Hamaguchi Official
site
Brilliantly co-written by director Ryûsuke Hamaguchi, but
also Tadashi Nohara and Tomoyuki Takahashi, this more-than-five-hours,
expansive work may be among the best films ever written about women, where it
has a novelistic reach of Edward Yang, but also reaches into the revelatory,
searingly confessional outpourings of Jean Eustache’s The
Mother and the Whore (La Maman et la Putain) (1973), where characters
continually examine the depths of their souls, discovering they are
surprisingly unhappy with the limits of their expression, where they are given
no voice in modern society and are instead routinely ignored even by those
closest to them. More than anything, the film examines the failures
of conventional marriages, which in Japanese society also includes
traditionally arranged marriages from the prewar generation, where women are
expected to stay in their place, largely confined to the duties of home, while
their husbands, who control all the money, have the freedom to earn a living
and do pretty much whatever they please. Women are not expected to
raise their voice and complain, but to accept their place in society, as this
is simply handed down from ancient traditions, largely reinforced by religious
practices. This film is surprisingly resonant in the modern world,
as it reveals how well intentioned men, without ever meaning to do so, actually
choke the life out of their marriages due to neglect and psychological abuse,
where prolonged disinterest only makes matters worse for their wives, as they
haven’t a clue how to act any other way, as there are no societal examples to
draw upon, as the entire nation is promulgated on laws written totally and
exclusively by men, where there is no precedent to include the views of
women. While Kenji Mizoguchi is arguably the most fiercely critical
Japanese filmmaker, actively exposing the plight of women throughout his
legendary film career, where the oppression and subjugation of women are at the
center of nearly all his films, gender equality was never incorporated into
Japanese law until the postwar Constitution of 1947, which abolished the
previously existing patriarchal authority and re-established marriage
(including divorce) on the grounds of equality and choice, where women
consequently received the right to vote. Nonetheless, old habits are hard
to break, and divorce remains a social stigma in Japan, associated with a loss
of face and honor, where elite private schools are said to reject children from
single-parent homes, while many companies are reluctant to hire divorced women
or promote employees who have divorced. Among the more remarkable
statistics, only about 15 percent of divorced fathers in Japan pay child
support. From columnist Todd Jay Leonard, Divorce
in Japan varies greatly from that in the United States:
No upstanding family wants their
child to marry someone from a divorced family, as if it were something
contagious. So, they live in misery, putting on a happy façade until the
children marry, then they divorce. […]
Also, traditionally, with the
father working outside the home — often married to his career and spending most
days, evenings and weekends with work colleagues — the wife feels her personal
space is invaded when he retires and sometimes decides not to spend the rest of
her life serving him. So, she seeks a divorce from him. […]
In my opinion, women in Japan
certainly get the short end of the stick in divorces. There are a
number of derogatory terms used toward women, such as “demodori” which refers
to a woman who goes back to her parents’ home after the divorce. Another term,
“kizumono,” means “damaged goods” like those that are on a discount table
because they likely cannot be sold again — “seconds,” in other
words. A more modern term used for both men and women is “batsu
ichi” meaning “one failure,” like the English term “one strike.”
These terms are quite harsh, so it
is understandable why people here are hesitant to divorce — even those who
desperately need to — because of the stigma associated with them afterwards by
society.
Divorce remains a sticky issue in Japan, for families as
well as couples, as unless both parties consent, divorce proceedings are long,
protracted, and difficult, while women have a hard time getting alimony and
child-support payments. A woman’s financial dependence on her
husband is the most persuasive argument for continuing an unhappy
marriage. More and more, however, Japan sees in-house divorces,
called “katei-nai-rikon,” loveless marriages that often end in stalemate rather
than separation, where married couples continue to live under the same roof,
but separately, leading their own individual lives, having little to no contact
with the other. While Hamaguchi’s film is not specifically about
divorce per se, but it has an explosive impact on the lives of four women, all
in their mid to late 30’s who happen to be best friends, Akari (Sachie Tanaka),
the lone divorcée of the group, yet the most bluntly honest while arguably the
most outgoing, who works as a professional nurse, under considerable pressure
because of the grim realities of Japan’s large aging population, Sakurako
(Hazuki Kikuchi), a shy, in-home housewife raising her teenage son Daiki, with
her mother-in-law in the home, subject to the whims of her stoic, overworked
husband Yoshihiko (Yoshio Shin), Fumi (Maiko Mihara), perhaps the most reserved
of all, the curator of an art center named PORTO, living with her husband Takuya
(Hiroyuki Miura), a distant and emotionally unreachable literary editor, and
Jun (Rira Kawamura), a kitchen assistant who inadvertently sets the gears in
motion by revealing she is seeking a divorce from her husband Kohei (Yoshitaka
Zahana), an impassive yet overly rational biologist who specializes in
fertilized egg development, the kind of guy who can’t begin to understand the
complexities of his wife, yet insists upon having his way. While
these are the main characters who seem to appear before the audience like
revolving doors, each sequence providing more insight into their gradually
unfolding lives, the origins of the narrative actually began in twenty-three
theater workshops, much like the methods of Mike Leigh, where the cast is made
up entirely of nonprofessional participants, using improvisatory sessions to
flesh out the characters and their motivations, starting under the working
title Brides. Driven
by seemingly organic exchanges between characters, an extraordinary
authenticity is established by reaching profoundly personal depths of
discussion, often using question and answer techniques, where this is the truly
unique characteristic of the film, even more than the unusual
length. Premiering at the Locarno Film Festival in Switzerland,
Hamaguchi won a prize for Best Screenplay, while all four actresses shared a
prize for Best Actress.
The setting is the port city of Kobe, as the introductory
shot reveals the four women riding inside a tram heading up the side of a
mountain, as their destination is a gazebo picnic site overlooking the
city. While normally this is a beautiful panoramic vista, on this
particular day it is dismally cloudy, engulfed in a fog bank, where they can’t
see but just a few feet in front of them. “This resembles our future,”
Jen suggests, but overall the spirited group has too much fun together to take
the comment seriously, already planning their next outing. Fumi
invites her friends to an upcoming New-Age meditative workshop at her art
center, which turns into an exercise class in search of their inner
balance. Led by Ukai (Shuhei Shibata), a conceptual artist who made
a name for himself balancing large pieces of debris left on the beach from the
Tōhoku earthquake of 2011, he guides a class of about ten participants through
a series of group exercises designed to increase trust and understanding of
their own bodies in connection to the group at large, often partnering up to
enhance the experience, devoting an extensive amount of time establishing a
collective rhythm, reminiscent of the intricate detail established in Rivette’s
legendary Out
1 and Jacques Rivette R.I.P. (1971), itself a mammoth 12-hour
film, as both reflect the organic improvisatory rehearsal process as a lead-in
to discovering the true voices of the characters in the film. Shot
by cinematographer Yoshio Kitagawa, the intimacy of these scenes involves the
audience as well, setting the tone from the outset, identifying the characters,
sharpening their senses, eliminating all skepticism and negativity,
establishing the concept of a group dynamic as the central focus of the film,
acting as a gateway to a new and unique discovery, preparing for a different
kind of honesty, opening the floodgates for what’s to come, both literally and
symbolically. Ukai is an unusual facilitator, as outside the
classroom setting he’s a completely different guy, much more direct and
confrontational, asking blunt, even awkwardly personal questions, a trait that
is more in keeping with his personality, according to those who have known him
since childhood, which comes into play in a group meal after the classes are
over. Asked about their personal lives, it’s here that Jun reveals
to the group that she’s involved in a particularly grueling divorce procedure,
acknowledging having an affair outside the marriage, which comes as a surprise
to her friends, except for Sakurako, who has known her since childhood, so they
have a closer relationship. Akira in particular, who reveals her own
growing fears about legal liabilities in the nursing profession, is incensed to
have been left out until now, believing they shared everything with each other,
but Jun flatly states no one ever asked her before. This emotional
bombshell has a way of reverberating throughout their group for the remainder
of the picture, as they each have their own way of displaying understanding and
support, which, at least initially, isn’t fully
understood.
Hamaguchi, like Edward Yang, is interested in human
relationships and how narratives unfold in naturalistic settings, told without
a trace of sentiment or melodrama, with much of it having the feel of
documentary realism, edited in such a way as to allow a kind of clinical detachment,
as it never allows too much time with a single character, but clearly is
interested in delving into psychological realism through each evolving
character, as they are vividly better understood by the audience over time, as
what we know about them undergoes a transformation, where by the end each one
is in a substantially different place from the outset, largely developed
through shared experiences, intensive dialogue, and our ability to gain
psychological insights out of ordinary moments. What seems to set
them in motion is a court scene, as they support Jun in her “ugly” divorce
proceedings, but she is clearly on the losing side of the court battle, caught
up in a deeply sexist, male-dominated Japanese society, where Jun’s real intent
is to be free of her husband, not based on salacious details, as he’s never
been violent or overly hostile, but simply based on the oppressive nature of
the relationship, where she believes he’s all but killed her inner spirit
through a boring period of continual neglect and disinterest, where she needs
to be free of him to liberate what’s left of her spirit. The court
however, is looking for a different kind of evidence than simply breaking her
spirit, so it’s set up for the male partner to prevail, and he’s not interested
in divorce, but instead insists upon holding onto her, like his possession, as
otherwise he will be viewed with disgrace. So he’s worried about his
personal reputation, not the feelings of his wife. Try as he may,
the more he insists, the farther she wants to be away from
him. While the husband Kohei, the court system, and Japanese society
at large haven’t a clue why Jun would be demanding a divorce, as Kohei is an
accredited working professional, viewed by society as a success, it’s clear by
her personal testimony that she’s the harmed party suffering years of emotional
abuse, and it’s well past the point of reconciliation, yet that’s what the
court recommends. Each of her three friends witnesses the casual yet
derisive manner that Jun’s feelings are completely disregarded, where because
of her admitted affair the law remains on her husband’s side, but he’s too
insistent on getting his way to even care what Jun’s going
through. This forces them all to reexamine more closely their own
marriages and relationships, where things are not as they seem, as an
underlying tension is hidden in politeness and social
grace. Hamaguchi scrutinizes each one more closely, yet with
deceptive simplicity, where clearly he demonstrates sympathy for the other men
involved, yet when faced with a moment of truth, tested by a fierce wave of
feminine independence, they behave in an expected manner, unable or unwilling
to see beyond their own interests. This becomes the modern era
battleground, all taking place behind closed doors, but women are simply
speaking up for themselves, taking control of their own lives, yet it’s clear
men prefer their traditional muted expressions. Much of this plays
out with an extraordinary degree of tenderness, accentuated by astonishing
music by Umitarô Abe, which shifts from classical symphonic to traditional
Japanese to a gorgeously melancholic piano score, all lending credibility to
the achievement of sublime
moments.
Sometime later, the four friends take an overnight trip to
the Arima hot springs, given another layer of interest when Takuya decides to
drive them there, as he intends to meet with a budding young novelist who’s
only 25, a female writer he’s editing, Yuzuki Nose (Ayaka Shibutani), which
gives the others a chance to needle Fumi about her marriage, suggesting Takuya
looks more relaxed in the cute young writer’s company. In fact, they
all feel a new attitude about the solidarity of their friendships, discovering
something changing and anew, where each one faces the camera and re-introduces
themselves, with Sakurako, who’s known Jun since childhood, confessing, “ I’ve
known you a long time. But it’s like I’m meeting you for the first
time.” These personal shifts are a key to understanding the film, as
the film probes under the surface in revealing how the thoughtless and
self-absorbed behavior of men places such internalized pressures on women,
where it has an extraordinary influence on their existing relationships as
well, as women are forced to seek emotional fulfillment outside the bonds of
marriage. Interestingly, as if to prove this point, the other three women
return home but Jun stays behind, presumably to see more sights, meeting
another woman on a bus, who unexpectedly reveals her entire family history before
getting off, where this flurry of interior exploration comes to represent what
this film is all about, showing how easily our lives are affected by external
events. With that, reminiscent of Antonioni’s L’AVVENTURA (1960),
Jun suddenly disappears, never to be seen again, heading off into a network of
protected support groups where confidentiality protections prevent her husband
from locating her, though it’s not for lack of trying, literally stalking her,
as he hires a private detective in the process. But she’s also
missing from her friends, who probably suffer more severely than her husband,
as they rely upon her friendship in an everyday manner, as she’s important to
them. As if to mirror the earlier extended exercise session at
PORTO, Fumi’s art center, Yuzuki Nose gives a reading of her latest work,
introduced by Takuya, where she reads an extended passage about her experience
at the hot springs, which becomes a sensuous expression of nude body shapes and
repressed emotional longing, suggesting the unspoken object of her affection is
probably Takuya, which certainly makes Fumi, as well as the audience,
exceedingly uncomfortable. This leads to a series of random events where
Ukai resurfaces and reveals himself to be something of a snake, though he was
expected to lead a Q & A with the author, but his strange disappearance
creates a last-minute substitution, none other than Kohei, who goes on a
diversionary speech about his research into molecular cell division that is
excruciatingly off-topic, yet somehow he pulls it together to make a few cogent
observations about her story, which, by all accounts, is little more than a
shallow, coming-of-age story that seems fueled by feelings she’s afraid to
express. In an ill-advised dinner afterwards, Fumi and Sakurako are
placed in the awkward position of having to confront Kohei about the negative
impact he’s having on their lives, as his refusal to accept a divorce is
preventing Jun’s return, where her absence is a glaring omission, as she was
the one that brought them all together. Predictably, Kohei is
unmoved, thinking only of himself, where the dinner ends in disaster, reaching
extraordinary levels of tension. A chaotic series of events occurs
changing the trajectories of each relationship, mysteriously moving from
optimism to tragedy and back to optimism again, where the story becomes
increasingly fragmented into dark twists and detours that contrast against the
previously existing harmony, but has a transformative effect overall,
ultimately revealing how dramatically lives are changed, becoming an immersive,
intensely moving, cinematic experience.
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