Review: Cloud

[The following review contains MINOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Kiyoshi Kurosawa is often described as a “J-horror” director, to the extent that casual fans could be forgiven for believing that he works exclusively in that particular genre. This assessment is, however, rather reductive and inaccurate; his actual filmography is significantly more diverse than his reputation (especially in the West) suggests, displaying an impressive degree of narrative and stylistic versatility. The pervasive misconception can probably be attributed to the fact that the vast majority of his movies, from the absurdist comedies to the political dramas to the comparatively traditional supernatural thrillers, share the same oppressively bleak, unnerving atmosphere—the sense that the medium itself is haunted in some intangible, inarticulable way. His latest effort, Cloud, is no exception; indeed, it may be the quintessential example of his trademark tone: a relentlessly cynical satire that depicts capitalism as a corrosive, corruptive disease—a moral decay that infects and perpetuates ad infinitum, gradually eroding one’s very soul.

The protagonist, professional reseller Ryosuke Yoshii (alias Ratel), personifies insatiable greed and unquenchable materialism. The opening scene quickly and efficiently establishes his ruthless, borderline predatory modus operandi: after buying out the surplus stock of a failing business (for far less than what the products cost to manufacture—he refuses to haggle, knowing that his suppliers are in no position to negotiate), he posts the items for sale on the internet—at a substantial markup, of course. Obviously, this trade is akin to gambling—consistent profits are hardly guaranteed, and consumer demand fluctuates unpredictably—but the rewards are lucrative enough to justify the risks, and he navigates the inherent volatility of the online marketplace with remarkable skill and finesse.

In this regard, his apparent lack of empathy is his greatest asset. From his perspective, his fellow humans are simply resources to be exploited for financial gain. His meager handful of acquaintances—former schoolmates, his manager at his day job—are, as far as he’s concerned, peripheral figures, orbiting his life, yet kept at a distance lest they jeopardize his ambitions. He even treats his nominal girlfriend as a mere prop—a glorified maid that happens to occasionally sleep in his bed (despite his frequent protestations to the contrary; he declares his intent to marry her with all the emotional conviction of a forgetful husband promising to stop at the grocery store on his way home from the office). He is, in summary, the archetypal egocentric loner, callously draining and discarding his customers without any consideration whatsoever for the suffering left in his wake, wearing the relative anonymity of the digital age as a suit armor against potential retribution—blissfully unaware that the consequences of his innumerable transgressions are actively pursuing him.

The subtle environmental details of story’s setting elegantly reflect these underlying themes. Yoshii, for instance, initially inhabits a cramped, cluttered, sparsely furnished apartment; he owns few personal possessions, instead surrounding himself with haphazardly organized cardboard boxes and other assorted shipping materials—a bluntly concrete symbol of his obsessive devotion to his enterprise (he never listens to music, watches television, or reads novels; he just stares blankly at his computer monitor, impatiently awaiting the telltale chime notifying him of a successful transaction). And then there’s the spectacular climax: a deliciously suspenseful game of cat-and-mouse between our hapless antihero and a bloodthirsty posse of his victims, which unfolds within the shadowy, cavernous interiors of vacant warehouses and abandoned factories—a hellish industrial landscape strewn with the rusted debris of a crumbling economy.

Darkly humorous, profoundly insightful, and surprisingly action-packed (by its creator’s usual standards, at least), Cloud constantly reinvents itself as its labyrinthine plot unravels, challenging the audience’s sympathies (reminiscent of Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange) and subverting expectations with each new twist (evoking Bong Joon-ho and Park Chan-wook)—yet it remains pure Kurosawa throughout, epitomizing his unmistakable voice and vision right down to its foundation. Modern and timeless in equal measure, it is another thoroughly compelling masterpiece from an auteur seemingly incapable of producing anything less.