Opus

Words by Lisa Bussi

As I meekly trudged behind three middle-aged men into the IFI, having no idea what to expect of Neo Sora’s film about Ryuichi Sakamoto, I only remembered what I did know of the Japanese composer. I knew that I had looped one of his most renowned songs, ‘Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence’, over a two-week holiday period and frowned at my phone when I saw he had passed away last year. Aside from having one of the most suave haircuts I’ve ever seen, I didn’t know anything else about him. 

Pictured sitting at a glistening piano with glistening white hair, Sakamoto plays twenty of his most cherished songs from across his almost fifty-year-long career. The cinematography has a gentle and easy flow as it captures every angle of the studio space he is situated in, and the black and white filter nods to the colors of the piano and the colors of Sakamoto himself who is in an all-black suit with the (again) all-white glistening hair on his head. 

I find the hands of piano players are most fascinating to watch when they perform and, with this semi-live concert that Sakamoto was offering, it was a delight to be able to so closely watch them raise, falter and hang in the air according to the piece he was playing. His facial expressions also drew intrigue given that he was virtually mute. He would smile, purse his lips and frown at intervals which, given my lack of musical background, seemed random; as if this private world of his he was showing was a joke only he understood. 

Ryuichi only says a few lines throughout the entire hour-and-a-half film: “Let’s go again”, after he makes a mistake, and “I need a break. This is tough… I’m pushing myself” at the half-time, after which he keeps going for another forty-five minutes or so. Although the purpose of the film was not to interview the man or provide insider-scoop on him, I found myself wanting to hear him play less and talk more. The transition between each song became less and less apparent as the film went on; whenever you thought Sakamoto would stop, he’d just keep punching at the piano keys with a relentless fervor. I found myself unable to decipher between the 20 compositions and sustain my attention. This was also felt by one of the middle-aged men sitting next to me who fell asleep 30 minutes in. 

Did I think this film was poetic, cinematic, and special? Yes. But did I also think this is mainly because it was released only after Sakamoto’s death? Also yes. Unless you’re a musical connoisseur or a long-shot-loving freak, I’m not sure the film would leave you feeling as nostalgic and gratified as a lifelong fan might feel. I think my viewing experience would have benefitted from longer pauses between each song and more words from Sakamoto, although I recognise the beauty in not having him indulge in himself, or talk just for the sake of talking.

Regardless, the last shot, which shows a piano playing itself, is a beautiful way to end the film. It signals the mortality of Sakamoto in contrast with the immortality of his music, which will keep playing, like ‘Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence’ on loop on my phone.