Ryuichi Sakamoto: Opus is innovative in the elegant simplicity of its style and structure. It’s not a traditional documentary, lacking the voiceover narration, talking head interviews, and archival footage typically associated with the genre. Neither is it a concert film akin to Stop Making Sense or The Last Waltz; there is no cheering audience, no stage—merely a humble recording studio. For a little over an hour and a half, the eponymous composer just sits at his piano and plays some of his greatest hits (including excerpts from his scores for Nagisa Oshima’s Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence and Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Last Emperor)—a kind of minimalistic career retrospective made more poignant by the fact that the subject succumbed to cancer shortly after this final performance.
Despite this potentially macabre subtext, however, Opus isn’t a grim funeral dirge, but rather a celebration of a life well spent and a legacy worth preserving. It’s an intimate conversation between an artist and his instrument—and director Neo Sora’s visual language perfectly complements (indeed, even elevates) the musical dialogue. The rich black-and-white cinematography lends the imagery depth and texture, making excellent use of light, shadow, and reflective surfaces. Every shot is meticulously composed and immaculately framed, from the closeups of Sakamoto’s slender, dexterous fingers to the almost soothing inserts of such ordinary objects as a pair of reading glasses, a microphone stand, and the legs of a stool. The camera movements are fluid and graceful, drifting like a feather in the wind, with subtle shifts in focus guiding the viewer’s gaze. The editing is equally evocative; each cut is both delicate and precise, matching the quality of the notes that the maestro coaxes out of the keys—gentle as a sigh (or a caress), yet unwaveringly confident.
Opus is, in summary, a thoroughly delectable feast for the eyes and ears—sublime, transcendent, and profoundly beautiful.
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