In his novel 'An Artist of the Floating World', author Kazuo Ishiguro wrote "When you are young, there are many things which appear dull and lifeless. But as you get older, you will find these are the very things that are most important to you."
While, seemingly basic and obvious in nature, this sentiment reflects our hastiness to move onward and upward, only realizing retroactively the significance of past events. In watching the Japanese short film 'The House of Small Cubes' directed by Kunio Katō I was reminded of Ishiguro's novel, not in setting, but in meaning, with the use of flashbacks conveying the protagonist's need to make peace with his past. While Ishiguro's portrayal is much more nuanced as he has a significantly broader canvas to work with, Katō's piece presents a simplistically significant portrait of a man diving both physically and metaphorically through his past.
The art of a short film, especially that of an animated piece, is an incredibly difficult narrative medium to strive in. Forcing depth of character, plot and overall atmosphere into a tiny bubble (in this movies case, 11 minutes) while also having to manipulate the audience into giving a damn about any of those elements is a nigh impossible feat without falling into typical artistic pitfalls. Katō effectively sidesteps this by presenting familiar themes and devices, such as flashbacks and solemn realisations, in an inventive setting and using an incredible art style.
The House of Small Cubes immediately draws you in with it's incredible art style which is vaguely reminiscent of the work of Australian artist and short-filmmaker himself, Shaun Tan, while boasting a grainy fluidity in its animation that I believe is unmatched by almost any other animated film I've watched. This charming and gruff hand-drawn style adds to the honest and close-to-home notion of its theme of personal reflection and is exemplified by Kenji Kondo's fantastic minimalist strings and keys score.
These beautiful stylistic choices all feed into the setting of this film; that of a flooded, lonely and, dare I say, floating world. The film boasts incredible landscape shots, showing remnants of a city with cluttered skyscrapers functioning as icebergian gravestones amidst a tide which seems to be intent on engulfing all of this civilisation. This inescapably lonely setting, which is merely the background for the main plot, has a potency of meaning that is almost unavoidable and could be interpreted as a metaphor for the passage of time or perhaps some very intelligently-placed environmental commentary. However, in the opening scene, Katō effectively casts this setting as merely the atmospheric framing and pathetic fallacy for the central character by opening first on a wall of photographs, effectively conveying that this is not the story of some geographical catastrophe, but of the emotional unearthing of a tired old widower.
This elderly man is propelled through his past after he drops his pipe through the hatch in his floor and into the submerged lower level. From here he ventures through the lower levels and the memories that lie within, with terrific juxtaposition of the warm and bright colours of the past and the cold and dark palette of the present. This comparison can be unmistakably tragic in its presentation, however a sense of hope and closure underlies even the most bleak of shots; that of a forgotten toast, as the reaction shot and the swelling music shows that this is not a man diving into depravity but of a man who is only now acknowledging and coming to terms with his past in a very touching way.
You see, through dwelling on these seemingly commonplace and domestic flashbacks, that Ishiguro's statement rings true as the character now lives his life contentedly in these memories, now realising how his life and his "house of small cubes" are products of beautiful and intricate memories. 'The House of Small Cubes' breathes life into the art of retrospective media and gives courage to those of us who wish to slow down on occasion and appreciate those seemingly dull and uneventful moments before our skin sags and the only outlet for this rehashing of memories are the ears of uninterested grandchildren.
- Sam D.
The art of a short film, especially that of an animated piece, is an incredibly difficult narrative medium to strive in. Forcing depth of character, plot and overall atmosphere into a tiny bubble (in this movies case, 11 minutes) while also having to manipulate the audience into giving a damn about any of those elements is a nigh impossible feat without falling into typical artistic pitfalls. Katō effectively sidesteps this by presenting familiar themes and devices, such as flashbacks and solemn realisations, in an inventive setting and using an incredible art style.
The House of Small Cubes immediately draws you in with it's incredible art style which is vaguely reminiscent of the work of Australian artist and short-filmmaker himself, Shaun Tan, while boasting a grainy fluidity in its animation that I believe is unmatched by almost any other animated film I've watched. This charming and gruff hand-drawn style adds to the honest and close-to-home notion of its theme of personal reflection and is exemplified by Kenji Kondo's fantastic minimalist strings and keys score.
These beautiful stylistic choices all feed into the setting of this film; that of a flooded, lonely and, dare I say, floating world. The film boasts incredible landscape shots, showing remnants of a city with cluttered skyscrapers functioning as icebergian gravestones amidst a tide which seems to be intent on engulfing all of this civilisation. This inescapably lonely setting, which is merely the background for the main plot, has a potency of meaning that is almost unavoidable and could be interpreted as a metaphor for the passage of time or perhaps some very intelligently-placed environmental commentary. However, in the opening scene, Katō effectively casts this setting as merely the atmospheric framing and pathetic fallacy for the central character by opening first on a wall of photographs, effectively conveying that this is not the story of some geographical catastrophe, but of the emotional unearthing of a tired old widower.
This elderly man is propelled through his past after he drops his pipe through the hatch in his floor and into the submerged lower level. From here he ventures through the lower levels and the memories that lie within, with terrific juxtaposition of the warm and bright colours of the past and the cold and dark palette of the present. This comparison can be unmistakably tragic in its presentation, however a sense of hope and closure underlies even the most bleak of shots; that of a forgotten toast, as the reaction shot and the swelling music shows that this is not a man diving into depravity but of a man who is only now acknowledging and coming to terms with his past in a very touching way.
You see, through dwelling on these seemingly commonplace and domestic flashbacks, that Ishiguro's statement rings true as the character now lives his life contentedly in these memories, now realising how his life and his "house of small cubes" are products of beautiful and intricate memories. 'The House of Small Cubes' breathes life into the art of retrospective media and gives courage to those of us who wish to slow down on occasion and appreciate those seemingly dull and uneventful moments before our skin sags and the only outlet for this rehashing of memories are the ears of uninterested grandchildren.
- Sam D.
