by Nel Dahl
In Gakuryu Ishii’s mercurial sci-fi feature film August in the Water (1995), an accomplished young female diver has an accident during a tournament amidst eerily prescient heat waves and an epidemic, which transforms not only her life and perspective, but the very fabric of existence.
Screening for the first time since its North American premiere over 20 years ago, a rare 35mm print of the film is playing at Japan Society, as part of their 2024 JAPAN CUTS festival. To mark this occasion, I spoke with Ishii on the film’s inspirations, its eerie electronic score, the difficult shoot, and the film’s burgeoning cult status. We also discussed his latest film, The Box Man (2024), which is an adaptation of Kobo Abe’s tale of isolation and voyeurism, and his perspective on some highlights of his unrealized projects.
What was the impetus for you to write and direct this film?
One of the main reasons I was drawn to this film was my fascination with the high dive. I often found myself wondering if it was possible to capture the sheer beauty and dynamism of this sport in a feature film. Unlike the colossal rockets that defy the earth’s gravity and soar into space, a high dive is a feat performed by a human being, a flesh-and-blood individual who launches into space, descends under the earth’s gravity, lands in the water, rises to the surface, and resumes breathing. To me, this is the most exquisite and awe-inspiring sport in the world.
The other reason is that when I was stuck in a situation where various film projects were not going smoothly, I took a trip to Thailand and Indonesia, where I had always wanted to visit. In Yogyakarta and Bali, my final destinations, I felt that something fundamental to me, indispensable and absolute, exists here and now. It was very similar to the vibrations emitted by the environment and colors that had always existed, as a matter of course, in the back streets of the seedy urban corner where I was born and raised, a corner of the city where it went unnoticed. I wondered if it would be possible to create a film as a way to genuinely question, ‘What was the true nature of this vibration?’
Another reason is that around the time I was trying to make this film, the Aum Shinrikyo, a murderous cult in Japan, were causing severe incidents. In my previous film, Angel Dust (1994), I sent out a warning about the critical atmosphere surrounding Japan and Tokyo. I was shocked and hurt to see that it had become a reality. I could no longer bear to watch bleak expressions, and I strongly felt that I had to express myself through a film to purify people’s souls.
How did you and your team initially envision and develop the visuals? Was it difficult shooting the striking scenes with harsh weather, the underwater scenes, or the scene with the lead actress wading into water at night?
Shooting this film was challenging. The people in my hometown, where the production took place, had helped us free of charge, which meant a lot. I arrived there with my family six months before the shoot, and the crew and the main cast tackled it as if they were in a training camp. To my surprise, this was an extraordinary summer, and just like the setting in the film, the entire city was in a drought, and water for daily use had to be stopped and rationed. It finally rained on the last day of the shoot. Both the rainbow and the rain clouds rushing in are real.
The rest of the ingenuity and details result from the steady efforts and wisdom of the crew. A good crew knows that the god of cinema resides in the details. The main crew, led by the cameraman, were members I trusted completely, and I am very grateful to them for their willingness to participate in this hard work.
How did you work with composer Hiroyuki Onogawa on this film to make its distinctive score? In an interview, he discussed how you “always wrote a scenario thinking about the soundtrack” and “used to think what tune could match the particular lines.” Did your experience directing concert films and films about musicians inform how you pair sound/music with the visuals for August in the Water?
First of all, the music for this film is a collaboration between Hiroyuki Onogawa, Kenjiro Matsuo, Hiroyuki Nagashima, and Tenzan Utagaki. Onogawa composed the main theme, Matsuo’s music was used during the end credits, and Ugaki composed the high dive scene. Since this was the first time Onogawa and Matsuo had composed music for a film, the three of us spent several days, 24 hours a day—as if it were a training camp—finishing the music to match the finished film. This was the only time I had such an experience.
Between the production of Burst City (1982) and The Crazy Family (1984), I played in a rock band and made a full-fledged studio album, which was beneficial for my film directing. Everything in this world, in its smallest field unit, is made up of waves. Naturally, it’s true for lights, environment, matter, and all movements and sounds. All the elements that should be expressed in a film may have different forms on the surface. Still, they cannot have the power of collaboration as expression unless there is a rule or structure that allows the waves of each element to resonate in accordance with the theme of the work. If one felt that Onogawa’s music was beautiful and synchronized with the images, it means that he was creating music that resonated deeply with this film’s world.
At one point in the film a character says, “Humans do nothing for the earth.” The film has a modern resonance through its many intensifying heat waves and the mysterious epidemic that lacks proper response measures. Characters don’t take Izumi seriously. This scenario seems contemporary in 2024, with climate change regularly causing record-breaking heat waves and the recent global pandemic. What do you think about this?
The phrase, “humans do nothing for the earth,” is not a statement made by Izumi, but by her high school biology teacher. This is also my message.
The Ainu people, who were the original inhabitants of the northern part of Japan, had a standard rule that if, for example, they caught three salmons, they would give one third to God, one third to the bears they coexist with and who would return it to the earth, and their share would be one third. I think we are forgetting the rules and wisdom that are very important for us to live on this Earth we’ve been blessed with.
There are many thought-provoking films across genres that depict themes of “ecological horror.” One film, Toshiharu Ikeda’s Mermaid Legend (1984), is playing alongside August in the Water in Japan Society’s festival this year. Are there other ecologically-themed movies that speak to what you touch on in this film and were there any that provided inspiration to you?
There is no particular film that has influenced me. I think this film is a result of my search for a way to build a cyberpunk sci-fi world that I really adore without borrowing Western design (both visually and dramatically) and realize an original world that only I can create. My first attempts at this were short films The Master of Shiatsu (1989) and Heart of Stone (1993). I am, of course, interested in ancient civilizations, petrography, cultural anthropology, shamanism, and inner space science fiction, etc.
What was the initial reception like for this film? By contrast, have you felt that moments like this screening selling out almost immediately signifies a new growing interest in the film, especially from younger audiences?
Unfortunately, this film was not a hit in Japan and is little known outside of a few ardent supporters. Therefore, it has not been possible to make another film like this, except for a few small, personal, independent works.
However, I know that I have many enthusiastic followers worldwide. That is very gratifying and encouraging to me. If the number increases and interest grows, creating another film in this vein may become possible.
Your latest film The Box Man is based on Kobo Abe’s novel. Abe had granted permission for you to adapt this. What was it like speaking with him and what did you talk about? Did he mention what it was about your work that made him think you were suitable to adapt his?
It was me who asked if I could adapt his novel The Box Man into a film and requested to talk to him about the rights. Mr. Abe had already seen my directorial film The Crazy Family and my arthouse music film, 1/2 Mensch (1986), and said both were interesting when I met him for the first time. I think he liked my fresh sense of imagery, vigorous dynamism, fusion of black humor and surrealistic satire of modern society, and offbeat modernity. He said, “I’ll leave it to you to make it into a movie.” The only thing he requested was, “If you adapt it into a movie, make it entertaining,” which I didn’t expect. This was a huge responsibility for me, but also a desirable one.
Back in the 90s when you were first working on this, what was it that made you want to adapt this supposedly “unfilmable” novel out of his various works?
Because I liked The Box Man the best. The theme and essence of Abe’s expressive activities are assembled with extreme precision, with a reversal of ideas, bizarrely and mysteriously, in a simple setting. The fact that it is a love story with many twists was also appealing. All of the previous film adaptations of Kobo Abe’s novels and screenplays by Hiroshi Teshigahara, with the exception of Pitfall (1962), have the same elements. The original story is full of ideas that can be made into an ambitious film, even with the tight budget of Japanese cinema. It is an experimental novel that can be interpreted differently by each reader, but I did not think it was an impossible task to make a live-action film.
The initial adaptation slated in the 90s had its funding cut the day before shooting. What reopened the possibility of this project for you? Are there aspects to this new film you’ve made decades later that differ from how you would’ve adapted it back in the 90s? You’ve said, “I feel that we’re all box men now. Abe’s novel was a prophetic book that anticipated the information society of today.” Can you elaborate on the ways in which you see the contemporary relevance of this character and this story?
When the project was abruptly canceled 27 years ago, I was very depressed, and it took me about two years to recover. However, since I decided to resume the project, I have never given up on the adaptation. As a result, it took me 27 years, during which time I worked on the story and rewrote the script many times. So, I think the structure of the drama, the details of the characters, and the specific tastes have changed completely, but the fundamental themes have remained almost the same. Ultimately, it was important to make the film an actual film about the present, not a film about the past.
The protagonist abandons all self-identity and shuts himself into a cardboard box, living in the blind spots of the city. Usually, he would be an outcast, but through a hole in the box, he unilaterally peeks out at others and the world. With this minimal act alone, the hierarchical position in society is reversed, and he gains superiority mentally. This extremely cheap and delusional philosophical box-man character is a terrific invention. People of all backgrounds live empowered lives, are subject to society, and follow its rules by interacting with others in some way. Still, many people are fundamentally annoyed by these boundaries, wanting to escape them. The Box Man achieves this endless fantasy of liberation with a trashy cardboard box and a peek-a-boo window. He willingly falls out of the social frame. During the day, he blends in with the cityscape, and he dissolves into darkness at night. However, this existence of triumphant absence becomes an object that increases the hatred and malice of those who are aware of it and are jealous of it, and layers of dangers and traps descend upon it. I thought this was an anthropological subject neither Hollywood nor other countries can depict. Also, as an individual living in a corner of a Japanese city who continues to struggle with the subconscious chaos of intense introspection and eruption vectors, isolation, and coexistence, I am the only one who can direct this film.
This film’s history shows your ongoing struggle to get films made because of frustrating hurdles like funding. Another author, William Gibson, described a film you almost made together as his “coolest project that never happened”. You almost did a film with him starring Nick Cave, Peter Murphy, and Blixa Bargeld. Can you elaborate on these? Are there other collaborations that you’ve wanted to do, or would still be open to doing if the opportunity arises, as with the long-delayed The Box Man?
I have worked with William Gibson on two film projects. One was The New Rose Hotel, based on his novel, for which he also wrote the screenplay. This was adapted into a film later on with a completely different plot, but when Mr. Gibson approached me, the plot was based entirely on the original story, and it was a cyberpunk story set in a cyber scam in the canal-like area somewhere around Haneda in Tokyo. The producer was someone I respected, but because I had no interest in the proposed lead actor and wanted to work with Mr. Gibson on something original if I were to collaborate with him, we decided to develop a new project, but sticking to the cyberpunk theme. The project was tentatively titled Cyber Carboy, an electronic noir action film set in Kowloon City in Hong Kong. Although I met with Mr. Gibson in Hollywood and did location scouting there, the scale of the project was too large for my ability and position at the time. Unfortunately, we could not raise enough funds, and the project faded away.
I think it is probably the same for all ambitious Japanese directors. Still, especially in my case, projects I planned to direct, and even those I printed the script for, very few have been made into movies. This has been the case for a long time. I honestly cannot keep track of films that did not happen due to financial problems. In Japan, where government and fund support are almost nonexistent for films, ambitious projects are made with minimal collaborative effort between producers, directors, actors, and other important people. In Japan, magic is required if one wishes to create an ambitious and exciting film to an extent and to make it a success.
I have tons of collaborations I would like to realize, but we must not get caught up in the past or our delusions, and firmly focus on the solid reality in front of us and move forward steadily without neglecting the necessary efforts as an ordinary person. Otherwise, time will fly by, and our lives will quickly fall apart.
Nel Dahl is a writer inspired by horror and genre cinema. She’s based in the Pacific Northwest with her Russian Blue cat. [Twitter]
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