It is 1185, and the war for control of Japan between the Heike and Genji clans has reached its climax.
In a strait by the village Dan-no-ura, the Heike are betrayed by their own general, and suffer a devastating defeat. In their final moments of desperation, samurai are slaughtered, or commit suicide. Clan regent Taira no Tokiko throws the Kusanagi sword, one of the three Imperial Regalia symbolizing the Emperor’s authority, into the water. And then she takes her grandson, the six-year-old emperor Antoku, and plunges after it. Their bodies come to rest among the Kusanagi sword and the remains of countless warriors. As legend goes, their restless souls remain unpacified after the violence.
This tale, recounted in the Japanese epic poem The Tale of the Heike and subsequently adapted into novels and anime alike, is the subject of director Masaaki Yuasa’s latest film Inu-Oh. More accurately— the telling of the tale is. This iteration centers on the boy Tomona, a diver from Dan-no-Ura, who is blinded after recovering the Kusanagi sword from the waves. Chasing the tales of the Heike, the boy joins a traveling troupe of blind priests playing a type of Japanese lute known as the biwa. As he meets his creative partner and develops his own sound, his determination to tell those stories in an unheard of way produces rippling consequences for both him and his friend. Ultimately, Yuasa’s tale is a creative feast for eyes and ears alike, and more than earns the label ‘rock opera’ it’s frequently tagged with. But Inu-Oh is not all bombast: layered in it is a meditation on memory and storytelling, on the intersection of art with history and power, that gives the movie a fascinating thematic weight.
The story really kicks off when Tomona—renamed Tomoichi upon joining the biwa priests— has a chance meeting with a person with an unusually long arm, scuttling crablike legs, and gourd masking his deformed face. This unnamed figure has been soundly rejected by others for his monstrous appearance. Thankfully for him, Tomoichi doesn’t care—he’s blind, after all. Instead, the two connect over Tomoichi’s revolutionary musical style, and the deformed person discovers that he’s surrounded by the spirits of countless samurai. This unknown person christens himself “Inu-Oh” (Japanese for “King of the Dogs”), swearing to use music and dance to make the tales of the Heike warriors come alive again.
Their show starts simply. Tomoichi—now Tomoari, after starting his own troupe—serves as an opening act, drawing the local audience with his biwa, backup band, and flame-blowing performer. And then Inu-Oh takes the stage. He is audacious, physical, bombastic. He soars through the air on a harness, orchestrates eyecatching light and shadow shows, dances in front of bursts of fire and elaborate props. He invites the audience to clap their hands, stomp their feet, repeat the lyrics he sings. In short: he transforms into a medieval rock star. And people are obsessed. They flock to his concerts, forming massive mosh pits of fans that sing and scream and cheer, and even the Shogun himself wants in on the action.
Capturing the sheer presence and atmosphere of a great concert could be a challenge for any animator. But in Inu-Oh, these sections are electrifying to watch. The film as a whole is fluidly animated, sure, but these sequences showcase the creative team’s explosive range of creativity and bombast. The sheer physicality and detail of the concerts is impressive, from the accuracy and smoothness of Inu-Oh’s dancing, to the massive scale of his stagecraft, even down to the spit flying off Tomoari’s teeth as he sings. The audio landscape is also great: If you love music that blends modern and traditional sounds, you’ll dig Inu-Oh’s tracks, which seamlessly melds electric instruments and rock-style beats with traditional Japanese instruments.
To be clear, however: Inu-Oh is not a concert movie. Only around a third, perhaps, of the runtime centers on performance. Make no mistake, this is a story-driven film. And it’s chock full of moments that frequently veer into dark, and even gory and disturbing, territory. (Not just ‘occasional splashes of red’ gore—we’re talking disembodied limbs, smooshed joints, the whole 9 yards). In this sense, it’s at times reminiscent of the anime series Mononoke (not to be confused with Miyazaki’s Princess Mononoke), which also blends Japanese folklore, modern influence, and a more mature atmosphere its narrative.
The darker scenes in Inu-Oh have purpose, though; they’re intimately tied to the film’s thematic landscape. The original story of the Heike is far from pleasant. It’s a tale of power and violence, of dominance and struggle, interwoven with Buddhist themes of impermanence and the inevitable fall of the powerful. In this sense, Yuasa’s decision to explore the creation of a performance about the Heike—including all of the politics and repercussions that brings— over telling the original story outright is particularly smart. Unfortunately, a deeper dive into this would require numerous spoilers. But to put it simply, this metafictional approach allows Yuasa to play with the themes of the original poem and explore fascinating questions: who preserves a story? Who tells a story? More than that, as times change and rulers rise and fall, how are these tales lost?
Inu-Oh is commonly described as a rock opera. In truth, however, that doesn’t quite encapsulate everything the movie is. It ignores the many modes of storytelling at play, from the songs of biwa-playing monks to the dance, both traditional and modern, that characters practice. It doesn’t capture the visual impact of the film, nor its critical lines of spoken dialogue. And it misses the symbolism and themes, deeply rooted in history and folklore, that permeate the entire narrative. Overall, Inu-Oh is a multifaceted, engaging, and complex experience, giving the viewer plenty to chew on well after its final encore.
Inu-Oh is currently playing in select theaters nationwide courtesy of GKIDS
Inu-Oh is a multifaceted, engaging, and complex experience, giving the viewer plenty to chew on well after its final encore.
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GVN Rating 8.5
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