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Review by
Calvin
McMillin: |
Only
a few opening sequences in film history could rival
the pure shock value of Suicide Club’s bizarre,
gruesomely bloody intro. The film begins with an abnormally
large crowd of chirpy Japanese schoolgirls gathering
together at a subway station platform. In unison,
the fifty-four girls suddenly step beyond the yellow
line, join hands, and cheerfully plunge in front of
the oncoming train—with excruciatingly gory results.
To say the screen is “bathed in blood” would not be
hyperbole. After witnessing such a bizarre, truly
iconic sight, even the most jaded viewer will have
to ask, “What the hell was that all about?”
Well, that's exactly
what Detective Kuroda (Audition's Ryo Ishibashi)
and his police cohorts are asking themselves when
they learn of the brutal mass suicide. What would
compel fifty-four young girls—all from different
schools—to take their lives in such a grisly
manner? And what are they to make of the mysterious
bag left at the crime scene that contains a roll of
human skin stitched together? And how does this connect
to Dessert, the all-girl pop sensation whose music
is played incessantly throughout the movie, often
preceding each suicide?
Thankfully, the baffled
detectives receive a call from a hacker (Yoko Kamon)
calling herself "The Bat". Her cryptic tips lead the
police to a mysterious website that appears to be
posting information on the suicides before they happen.
And happen again they do. The initial subway deaths
are just the beginning of what seems to be a never-ending
chain of self-destruction. But why?
As the bodies start
piling up, Kuroda receives another call, this time
from an anonymous source who tells the detective to
lay off the case and just so happens to sound a lot
like a boy with a frog in his throat. The coughing
boy's message: "There is no Suicide Club." Undeterred
by the child's warnings, Kuroda presses on, with fatal
results. What follows is a tangled web of clues left
for the team of detectives—and ultimately the
viewers—to sort out for themselves.
Although an entertaining
ride, Suicide Club is a mixed bag to say the
least. When the plot is focused on Kuroda's investigation,
the film maintains a creepy edge that places it in
the same category as some of the better suspense thrillers
in recent memory. But the movie loses that edge when
it tries to be a social critique of mindless J-Pop-driven
culture. Unlike George Romero's horror film/social
satire, Dawn of the Dead, Sion Sono's Suicide
Club fails to merge its two objectives in a satisfying
way. If Sono would have employed just a tad bit more
subtlety and relied less on exaggerated dark comedy,
Suicide Club's barbs against mindless fads
would have been far more resonant. Instead, they jeopardize
the more straight-faced police procedural that dominates
the plot.
But still, aside from
the somewhat heavy-handed satirical riffs, Suicide
Circle makes for compelling, oftentimes daring
entertainment. The film takes a sharp turn at the
three-quarter point, with a bold double twist reminiscent
of Psycho and To Live and Die in L.A..
What immediately follows this twist is a deliciously
evil fake-out, involving the introduction of Genesis
(Rolly), a charismatic, Ziggy Stardust-meets-Charles
Manson character who claims to be the true leader
of Suicide Club. But just when the viewer thinks they
are getting the answers they've been searching for
the entire movie, the filmmakers pull a fast one:
Genesis is just a fame-obsessed red herring.
Instead of capitalizing
on this jarring revelation, the film then proceeds
to the head-scratching finale involving a cabal of
tiny, prepubescent cultists who may or may not have
psychic powers. Unfortunately, the final unraveling
of the mystery isn't explained in even a cursory way,
and is instead left frustratingly ambiguous. That's
Suicide Club's biggest problem: it spells out
the things that it shouldn't (the satire); yet it
remains unnecessarily vague about the things it's
required to reveal (the secret of Suicide Club).
Suicide Club
is at its best when it doesn't comment on the images
that it shows. One of the more intriguing aspects
of the film is the suggestion that what the boy told
Kuroda is correct: that there is in fact no Suicide
Club, that the initial mass suicide is an inexplicable
tragedy, and that the deaths that occured afterwards
are just one giant idiotic fad. But while some of
the suicides are shown to be rash, copycat actions
(and therefore ripe for satire), the film clearly
shows that a sweeping conspiracy exists—with
the blame placed squarely on some sort of secret "suicide
solution" messages hidden in the idiotic pop songs
of Dessert. But again, the question arises: why? How
is Dessert connected to the "masterminds" revealed
in the bizarre conclusion? Who are those mutant kids?
And why the hell is Dessert misspelled in numerous
ways throughout the film? Instead of using the dénouement
to give the viewer some explanation—or at least
a mild suggestion—of what Suicide Club is all
about, the filmmakers instead opt for more questions.
As frustrating as Suicide
Club may be, there is no denying that it does
succeed in hooking viewers with its highly original
concept. The film manages to establish a sense of
creeping dread; the anticipation of what lurks around
each corner proves far more terrifying than the cheap
scare tactics employed in other films. Ryo Ishibashi
exudes a sense of decency and commitment to his mission—qualities
that have a definite payoff later in the film. As
Kuroda, Ishibashi gives the viewers a solid protagonist
they can latch onto during the dark journey ahead.
The lack of clear answers
will frustrate many (this reviewer included) but what
Suicide Club attempts to say and do, coupled
with its success in executing some of those goals,
makes the film worth recommending. And even with its
baffling conclusion, there's at least one lesson to
be gleaned from Suicide Club: J-Pop may
be hazardous to your health. (Calvin McMillin, 2004)
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