Inu-Oh: this Japanese musical animation doesn’t quite hang together
This adaptation of a recent novel based on a 14th-century epic combines historical accuracy with creative reinterpretation – but despite some vibrant set pieces, the film is only fitfully engaging.
The Tale of the Heike, a 14th-century Japanese epic comprising various stories of the struggle for control of Japan by warring factions, as told by monks accompanied by a lute-like instrument called the biwa, became an early touchstone of the nation’s Noh theatrical tradition. Over 600 years later, in 2020, the story was retold by Furukawa Hideo in his novel Tales of the Heike: Inu-Oh, introducing the character that gives Yuasa Masaaki’s subsequent film adaptation its name. The result is a film that combines historical accuracy with creative reinterpretation, a faithfully recounted story of Noh’s development – with a monstrous curse thrown in for good measure – counterbalanced by a wildly (and intentionally) inaccurate depiction of the art itself. Inu-Oh does what the original Tale of the Heike did in its own time, mixing history into myth. Where it struggles is in keeping harmony between the two.
Inu-Oh is a naturally gifted Noh performer, born with a curse that gives him a scaled back, one hyper-extendable arm and a three-eyed face. When he meets blind biwa player Tomona, they join forces to become a daring new Noh troupe, whose lively performances (comprising recitations of fallen Heike soldiers’ stories, which allow Inu-Oh to reverse his curse one body part at a time) feature dazzling set design and a sound closer to hair metal than to traditional Japanese music.
These shows are the film’s major set-piece moments, and they’re animated with the appropriate vibrancy and fast-cutting intensity, with the enthusiasm of the masked (and therefore expressionless) Inu-Oh represented by the incessant movement of his gangly limbs. The performances involve elaborate contraptions, from pulley systems to rope swings to magic lantern slides, and are depicted in such a way that we see both the beauty of the show and the work that makes it possible, making this a true celebration of the art, rather than a magical overcoming of its real-life limitations.
Off-stage, things are much less exciting. The animation is less vivid and dynamic, the bright flashes of colour from the Noh shows making way for beige interiors and a flat landscape. (One significant exception is the beautiful sketch effect, like pastel chalks on black paper, used to show how Tomona’s keen ear can create a radar-like image of the world around him.) The feudal exposition might be necessary for plot progression, but the overall effect is akin to when Glastonbury Festival organisers bring activists onto the Pyramid stage to make lengthy speeches between acts. They’re all well and good, but give us the music, please!