Luminous Woman (1987) – A surreal Japanese study of alienation, violence and societal corruption (Review)

Picture this: a hulking man advances, barefoot and wearing nothing but trousers and a fur jacket – one might easily assumed he’d skinned himself – through a dystopian desert with dirt, rubbish and waste spanning the entire frame. The very air is tinted with purple, as if the atmosphere itself is riddled with toxicity. A haunting female voice wailing opera to the tinkling of piano keys seems to drift from every angle, until the man stumbles across the source: another man playing piano for the vocalist herself, who stands upon a pile of trashed household appliances like a throne, as she sings. Moments later, we find out that the place our protagonist has been journeying through is not, in fact, a dystopian wasteland, but modern-day Tokyo. This is how the late and enigmatic director Shinji Somai establishes the tone for Luminous Woman, a little-known 1987 Japanese romantic adventure, and I am instantly hooked.

The story follows Sensaku, a large mountain man hailing from the forests of Hokkaido and portrayed by pro-wrestler Keiji Muto, on his journey through the outskirts of Tokyo in hopes of reuniting with his estranged fiancee, Kuriko (Nurami Yasuda), who has moved there to study accounting so that she and her future husband can eventually own a farm together. However, his goal will not be as simple to achieve as he believes, as the skeevy Shiriuchi (Kei Suma) agrees to help our hero find his beloved on one condition: Sensaku will compete in gladitorial wrestling matches in an underground nightclub. On his quest, we and Sensaku are introduced to a variety of intriguing characters who share his feelings of despair, such as Yoshino (Michiru Akiyoshi), the club’s opera singer who seemingly lost her voice under Shiriuchi’s tyrannical opression, and Akunama (Hide Demon), a fisherman drowning in a deep depression after his wife abandoned him for another man.

Everything about this film breathes collapse and decay – the environment, the society the characters live in, even the characters’ own mental states. The very few occasions we see anyone expressing any kind of joy is during Sensaku’s violent, to-the-death wrestling matches, scored by the very serene operatic soundtrack we were introduced to within the first seconds of the film’s opening. In a strange juxtaposition to the destruction we are witnessing, each defeat (read: death) of Sensaku’s opponents is celebrated gleefully by confetti and a parade of young people dancing in costumes that might remind one of circus performers, as the fighting sound effects are exaggerated and cartoonish. This ballet between violence and beauty is at a constant, as if violence is the only way anyone knows how to express themselves – especially, perhaps unsurprisingly, the men.

I cannot in good conscience talk about this film without discussing the prevelant misogyny. Almost all of the male characters, in particular Sensaku and even more so Shiriuchi, hold a belief of a strong sense of ownership of women, of being owed something by them purely for their gender: their bodies, their sexualities, their careers, their very lives. Now, this makes sense for someone like Shiriuchi, but when this type of behaviour is displayed by the man we are meant to be rooting for, it can make for some slightly uncomfortable viewing at certain points. Of course, portraying something in a piece of media does not necessarily mean it is being endorsed by the creator; this blatant sexism could be part of the very societal corruption Somai is criticising through this piece. It is, as always, up for the viewer to interpret what the intent is, but it is my personal belief that such a disconnect between the genders, wherein there is an extreme nation-wide oppression of women by lonely men who demand their attention, is a deliberate move from Somai, and one I would love to see discussed and analysed by more viewers online as I feel it remains a relevant subject outside of 1980s Japan.

Loneliness and alienation are other key themes Somai explores in this piece, and he does so achingly well: Sensaku looks entirely lost and out of place in the streets of Tokyo, standing barefoot in the middle of a busy road wearing his fur jacket, nonchalantly biting into an apple as cars blare their horns and swerve around him. Akunama copes with his wife’s abandonment through excessive drinking and destructive behaviour. A phone call between two characters is shot more like a stage play than something meant for the silver screen, with clever lighting techniques and innovative set design expertly used to portray the disconnect between them despite their literal telephone connection. With fluid ease, Somai has the audience craving for the characters to finally find some sense of love and belonging. One has to wonder if he also experienced periods of depression and loneliness throughout his tragically short life, he deserves praise for portraying it such humility.

This film will not be for everyone. It’s quite long, with the original runtime hitting almost 2 hours and the rare extended edition clocking in at 157 minutes, which may be hard for some to follow as a foreign-language film that requires you to be looking at the screen at all times to even discern what the characters are saying – couple this with the difficult subject matters of loneliness, sexism and violence, as well as the surreal cinematography and musical score, and you’re in for some very interesting viewing. I overall enjoyed the filmmaking style and techniques used, and I myself will be giving it a second watch in the future to reprocess everything I just witnessed, as it can be a little overwhelming and difficult on the first go.

Luminous Woman is set for a long-awaited 2k rerelease this week, and I do recommend you all watch it at least once and share your thoughts online, so we can resurrect this hidden gem, and with it, in some form, its late and great director.

Phoenix’s Archive – Luminous Woman (1987)