THE NAKED ISLAND

No man, woman or child is an island, perhaps, but in Kaneto Shindo's 'The Naked Island' (1960) the implied suggestion of the seemingly simple parable is that many people are exactly that: islands, and that in our own isolated microcosms we contain the same fragile elemental eco-structures as nature itself, moving through the seasons and in many ways enslaved by them. Simply put, the 'naked island' of the film could be seen as a metaphor, for not only Japan, but planet Earth. In this sense, Shindo's incredible film might be described as realism meets science fiction.

A dialogue-free movie, it is the gentle, rocking rhythm of the film that hypnotizes the viewer into joining the characters in the beautiful tyranny of their existence as its simple music soundtrack plays almost on a continuous loop, matching the endless cycle of life, death and rebirth throughout the uncomplicated tale. The ebb and flow of the water surrounding the tiny island also reminds us of the transient uncertainty of human lives going about their daily routines, stuck in the toil of relentless suffering until death.

There is an interdependency between the isolated island and the mainland where the family get their freshwater from each day but it also a stark reminder of the contrast between the past and the future as the family who inhabit the lonely outpost maintaining their land seem to almost represent everything that came before the 20th century with its television, industrial genocide and nuclear bombs.

Some critics have alluded to the notion that 'The Naked Island' is a veiled commentary about the traumatic effect of Hiroshima on the people of Japan, the rebuilding of simple things from total obliteration and the surreal illusion of modernity amongst the ruination. I could certainly apply that lens watching the film knowing how Shindo himself was a native of Hiroshima.

What I love above all else with the film is its musical quality that seems to set its own time signature from first scene to last and stick to it unwaveringly, providing the audience with the cinematic equivalent of a tone poem by Debussy, Ravel or Takemitsu.

In fact, the more I think about some of my favourite films, the more I begin to see their success being partially down to having an almost symphonic structure to their stories.

And besides, music, like water is the ever-elusive reminder of the transience of life, where notes are like tears falling into the vast ocean of samsara.

In the archipelago of all our naked human islands, we are connected by both.