Director: Tsukasa Kishimoto
Writer: Tsukasa Kishimoto
Cast: Akina, Yoshito Kobashigawa, Misuzu Maeshiro, Yoko Oshiro, Shun Koutoku
Running time: 1hr 59mins
Originally constructed in the 14th century, Shuri Castle in Okinawa has lived many different lives. Between 1429 and 1879, it was the palace of the Ryukyu Kingdom. Later, it was used as a military barracks, a Shinto shrine, and a university campus.
But for Shuri Castle to rise and rise again in this way, it has also had to die multiple deaths. The building has been destroyed on five separate occasions. After it was rebuilt following the battle of Okinawa in 1945, its main hall was reduced to ashes again in 2019.
As Shuri Castle prepares to recover yet again, with construction having commenced in 2020, it serves as a fitting backdrop to Tsukasa Kishimoto’s bitter-sweet comedy Wings of the Phoenix. A blend of sincere social commentary, introspective filmmaking, and wonderfully off-beat humour mean that the 119-minutes speed by – as Kishimoto’s story follows two artists looking to rise from the ashes in different ways.
First, after giving up on acting, Naoshin Shimoji (Yoshito Kobashigawa) returns to his hometown. His rebirth is about much more than his failure to conquer the theatre circuit, though. When we are introduced to Naoshin, he is a thoroughly unlikeable individual. A spoiled and pushy individual, he barges unapologetically into his sister’s house, and immediately attempts to dictate how she lives as though he is the centre of the universe.
Having forced his way into her apartment, dodged questions on his previous exit – where he arrogantly insisted he would never have to return to his roots once he made it as an actor – and found himself free lodging and food, Naoshin proceeds to insult his sister’s partner. While he has been away, she has come out, and now lives with her girlfriend. Whenever the pair try to show each other affection, Naoshin is lurking in the background, sneering that they should only do such things in the privacy of their bedroom – rather than the privacy of the house he has invited himself into.
Kishimoto’s script provides his protagonist with ample opportunities to see the error of his ways, fortunately. Invited to a dinner with his aunt, where she insists the sister should keep her sexuality to herself, out of consideration for the family’s reputation, Naoshin sees his own bigotry reflected back at him – and he does not like what he sees.
Through the determination of his sister to stand up for herself, Naoshin also learns the importance of fighting for something – rather than folding the moment things become difficult. Suddenly, he finds himself inexplicably obsessed with saving an old cinema he used to frequent, from angry debtors.
His involvement in the cinema leads to a beautifully written moment between Naoshin, and another of the regulars – both underlining the way human experience can challenge someone’s deepest ideological grudges, but also nodding to our experience – and how the power of cinema can do something similar. The woman tells Naoshin she loves movies most of all because they introduce such a diversity of new characters to her life – not all of whom she likes or agrees with, but all of whom help her bring fresh perspective to her own life.
Naoshin has overtly lived this, through the interaction with his sister – and he has changed for the better. But we have also been through this process; by spending time with this man who we first assessed as an irredeemable prick, our cynicism relating to human nature is challenged. People can change – through experience and social engagement. And when they do, new and exciting worlds can open up to them – while they may get a second shot at the opportunities their former, closed-minded selves once missed.
In the film’s second part, we completely relocate to a different set of characters – this time centred around Kanade (Akina). A young woman who has recently completed a divorce, she returns to her mother’s home in Okinawa. Like the first story, this set-back sees her sever her ties to her previous passion – packing up her saxophone, and abandoning it to her bratty cousin.
When people bring up her leaving behind of music, she laughs the questions off, from behind teary eyes. But it is clear that the music is not actually the thing she is looking to give up.
Finally forced to get a job by her mother, she takes on a role at the local Zuisen Distillery – which brews using spring water from the overlooking Shuri Castle. Here, she re-connects with her childhood friend, Kaoru, who has abandoned her own dreams of filmmaking. Deaf, and only capable of communicating through sign-language, she has become isolated, and lapsed into depression. Kanade and her co-workers soon find themselves enlisted into a collaborative film project, as Kaoru tries to reignite her passion – a story centring on emotionally inverted aliens, who can only express sadness or pain through laughter.
Though the film does not work out in the end, it does result in rekindling the passion both women have for their chosen art forms – and helps them to address the reasons why they left them behind at all. The production prompts another of the other workers to learn basic sign language, and finally introduce themselves to Kaoro as a friend. Realising that what might have been lacking from her earlier work – and her life – was authentic communication, Kaoro returns to film-school.
But on top of this, Kishimoto piles another layer of introspection. Kanade only has her own great revelation when she is positioned as one of us – a viewer of the footage of Kaoro’s doomed film. As she watches the charming VHS footage of the budget sci-fi, and the alien she played chuckles next to a disaster, she recognises her own laughter as a cry for help; a reflection of her own emotional state, even after she had distanced herself from music – something she did as a means of distancing herself from the grief of her collapsed relationship.
Again, the story shows both how human interaction can help people recover their world view. But also how art – and particularly cinema – can play a role in challenging our own assumptions, too. As Kanade finally recovers her saxophone to play a beautiful solo, it is a wonderful bringing realisation of all these themes – brought together by the film’s standout actor. Akina – who is also an accomplished musician in reality – delivers a stunning performance, with impeccable comedic timing, balanced with emotional depth. And her acting also presents cinematographer Kazuhiro Kobashikawa with a plethora of opportunities to pick out acute details with his lens that add emotional depth to some generally stunning visuals.
The film itself is not always so good at bringing its two sides together, though. Cramming two almost-features into one film has left it so there does not feel like there is really enough time for either. The resulting difficulties with pacing mean that at certain moments, the comedy feels a little misjudged, or out of place. Meanwhile, some of the deeper emotional beats struggle to feel earned, as the script hurries them on with awkward moments of convenient exposition.
It is incredibly rare that I would ask a filmmaker who sent me a movie pushing two hours to extend their run-time. But I could have honestly sat through a third-hour of Wings of the Phoenix – especially if that gave me time to explore these wonderfully observed characters in more depth. Even so, the fact that the film left me wanting more, not less, is a clear sign of the abilities and vision of its cast and crew – and I hope to see and hear more from them in the coming years.