A Man Vanishes (1967)
DVD9 | VIDEO_TS | NTSC 4:3 | 02:09:24 | 6,42 Gb
Audio: Japanese AC3 2.0 @ 192 Kbps | Subtitles: English
Genre: Documentary, Drama, Mystery | Masters of Cinema #113
DVD9 | VIDEO_TS | NTSC 4:3 | 02:09:24 | 6,42 Gb
Audio: Japanese AC3 2.0 @ 192 Kbps | Subtitles: English
Genre: Documentary, Drama, Mystery | Masters of Cinema #113
Director: Shôhei Imamura
Stars: Yoshie Hayakawa, Shôhei Imamura, Shigeru Tsuyuguchi
It is difficult to summarise Shōhei Imamura’s legendary 1967 film, the first picture produced by Japan’s countercultural Art Theatre Guild (ATG). Is it a documentary that turns into a fiction? A narrative film from beginning to end? A record of improvisation populated with actors or non-actors (and in what proportion)? Is it the investigation into a true disappearance, or a work merely inspired by actual events? Even at the conclusion of its final movement, A Man Vanishes [Ningen jōhatsu, or The Unexplained Disappearance of a Human Being] mirrors its subject in deflecting inquiries into the precise nature of its own being.
A middle-class salaryman has gone missing — possibly of his own accord — and a film crew has set out to assemble a record of the man and the events surrounding his disappearance. As the crew meticulously builds a cachet of interviews with the man’s family and lovers, their subject and his motivations become progressively more elusive — until the impossibility of the endeavour seems to transform the very film itself.
Long unavailable anywhere on home video, Imamura’s A Man Vanishes remains a unique and crucial entry in a provocative filmmaker’s body of work, daring as it does to ask the big questions: what is reality, and what is a man? The Masters of Cinema Series is proud to present A Man Vanishes for the first time on DVD in the UK, in an impressive new restoration.
It wouldn't be too much of a stretch to include Shôhei Imamura's A Man Vanishes (Ningen jôhatsu) among the greatest films ever made. And you'd certainly not receive any argument from this side of the fence. It's a bold, challenging work almost hidden behind more obviously laudable ones in the director's filmography. A Man Vanishes has a collection of extraordinary layers which make it a key film in any exploration of "truth" in cinema. There are elements that remind us of the cinéma vérité entries from the Maysles brothers, pictures like Salesman and Grey Gardens, and there are also somewhat more conventional techniques owing to the investigative nature of what we see. Most of all, A Man Vanishes emerges through the messy filter applied by Shôhei Imamura. It's a rather perfect distillation of some of the director's cinematic preoccupations while also acting as a rebuttal of sorts for others.
The film's surface is inviting enough but also misleading. We're sold an investigation into the sudden disappearance of a plastics salesman, 30 years old when he vanished and engaged to a woman named Yoshie. The man, Tadashi Ôshima, was also an embezzler who liked to drink to excess and had, according to those interviewed, very few redeeming qualities. Ôshima going missing fits with a larger phenomenon of several thousand Japanese leaving no trace and simply disappearing each year, known as jôhatsu. (Indeed, it was Imamura's original intent to document many different cases of these occurrences until he apparently realized the situation profiled here had plenty of intrigue and potential by itself.) This pretense is slowly abandoned as it becomes clear that Imamura develops other interests and has little concern for actually locating Ôshima. Attention instead turns to Yoshie, called "The Rat" by the filmmakers, and, on a larger scale, how complicating the concept of truth can be to cinema.
As A Man Vanishes progresses, the viewer becomes Imamura's accomplice, occasionally seeing what appear to be production meetings of some sort involving what path the film should take. It plays with us a little too, though, coloring our opinion of The Rat and her sister Sayo. With Imamura and company privy to things unseen by the audience, a certain trust is lent to them. The director also uses hidden cameras and microphones to capture more "natural" moments, placing rectangular boxes over the eyes of those who didn't grant permission in order to maintain some semblance of anonymity. The effect works as a furtherance of what is basically a facade - that A Man Vanishes is a documentary. Here, too, Imamura manipulates his audience by initially presenting the feature as a realistic account of Ôshima's disappearance and a gathering of facts as to why such a thing happened. The tune has changed considerably by the end, when a bravura collapsing of a studio set is followed by Imamura declaring that it's all fiction.
The actual "truth" is probably somewhere in between, in that A Man Vanishes contains a number of valid documentary aspects but also frames everything in a very particular, perhaps manufactured way. A good deal of the film's brilliance lies in just how muddled it leaves things. The utter lack of resolution is not only brave on Imamura's part but also indicative of the perpetual failure cinema generally has as a meaningful influence on society at large. It tends to only reveal personal truths rather than specific ones. When Imamura dismisses his entire undertaking as fiction, the implication could be that it's pretty much impossible to ever find truth in film. Any shadow of reality is quickly enveloped by a far bigger emphasis on the filmmaker's agenda and point of view. Actual objectivity is impossible and the images and words will always be molded in certain ways just as any other narrative feature would be.
If that sounds overly pessimistic, consider that Imamura himself actually entered the documentary fray following the terrible failure of his next feature, Profound Desires of the Gods. There was a period lasting over ten years in which he didn't direct a narrative feature for the cinema. When he did finally return to fiction filmmaking, for Vengeance Is Mine in 1979, Imamura made something that strongly adhered to a documentary's structure, feel and approach. It would even be fair to cite Vengeance Is Mine as more clinical and cold in the treatment of its subject than A Man Vanishes, an ostensibly more documentary-like project. In an odd way, Imamura is possibly more objective in his depiction of the serial killer at the center of the later film than he is of either Yoshie or Ôshima.
With any suggestion of actually exploring Ôshima's disappearance removed, Imamura is left to craft a different film entirely from either what was seemingly promised or what one might expect. A Man Vanishes becomes an exploration of fact and fiction, the perception of such, and the limitations of documentary, among other things. It's really a great number of things, all of those wonderful layers, and yet still effective as a probing inquiry into its main, shared target of Ôshima and Yoshie. We might not find out definitive answers but viable theories become reasonably clear and the entire concept of jôhatsu is at least brought to light as a troubling social concern.
By giving his audience this insightful experiment, Imamura blends truth with fiction and the perception of reality with the realization that everything we’ve seen is staged, to varying extents. It’s a brilliant and thought-provoking look at film as a medium unable to show unfiltered truth. The director’s patience to produce a nearly 130 minute exercise, where the vast majority of the running time makes the film look like an ordinary missing persons investigation, was a daring thing to do to his audience, who may feel unsatisfied by the lack of a resolution. While the time spent investigating Ôshima’s disappearance is never uninteresting, it’s the reveal near the end that catapults Imamura’s film from a curiosity to an essential.
Special Features:
- New high-definition restoration of the film
- New and improved English subtitle translation
- Original theatrical trailer for the film
- Exclusive new 18-minute video interview with scholar Tony Rayns
- 9-minute video interview with Imamura conducted by his son, filmmaker Daisuke Tengan
All Credits goes to Original uploader.
No More Mirrors, Please.
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