In a similar way to <i>La Haine</i>, violence permeates every aspect of <i>Sonatine</i>. But where the metaphorical violence of <i>La Haine</i> was both the pervasive atmosphere of marginalisation, and a defiant, angry articulation of the rawness of life in the Parisian banlieues, violence in <i>Sonatine</i> simply is. For the men of the underworld in this movie, there is nothing in life beyond violence, the only way they know how to interact with the world around them. Consider the iconic scene of Kitano interrupting his men to play Russian roulette with him, or the startling nonchalance in which he pulls out a pistol to fire live rounds at his men in a battle of roman candles. This, Kitano seems to say, is the natural psychological endpoint of the Yakuza lifestyle. A lifetime of violence and (justified) paranoia has made these men, Kitano’s character most of all, completely numb, even in the face of threats/risks that would make others flee in terror. Faces stare blankly at the camera in response to absurd acts of brutality, a familiar comedic technique in Kitano’s oeuvre, here repurposed to illuminate the mental state of those who live entirely within this lifeworld. Kitano’s formal evolution, from his promising beginnings in <i>Violent Cop</i>, culminates here in the creation of an incredible atmosphere in <i>Sonatine</i>. Moments of playful banter and childish games while in hiding on the beaches of Okinawa unfold against restrained camera movements and quiet, meditative visuals, punctuated in-between by sudden spurts of intense violence (a juxtapositional technique he would go on to perfect in <i>Fireworks</i>), creating an almost dreamlike, uncertain effect. Perhaps this reflects an underlying tension, already present in the minds of these characters, who know that all this must end, and end poorly. Alongside <i>Violent Cop</i>, <i>Boiling Point</i> (and maybe <i>Fireworks</i>), <i>Sonatine</i> serves as an important work in a set of cutting-edge (for their times) commentaries on the conventions of the Japanese crime film in Kitano’s early filmography, building on the dramatic innovations of Fukasaku in the <i>Battles Without Honor and Humanity</i> series. Where Fukasaku provided a temporal deconstruction of the ideas of glory and honour in the antecedent Yakuza mythos, depicting fleeting ascensions to power before inevitable betrayals and falls, Kitano provides a spiritual one, revealing only emptiness and nihilism waiting at the end of the road.

There is a recurring character archetype in the works of Chingiz Aitmatov: the traditional, middle-aged man or woman who clings to the past in the face of Soviet-imposed progress, as can be seen in <i>The First Teacher</i> or <i>The White Ship</i>. It is no wonder, then, why Larisa Shepitko — herself preoccupied in her films with themes of past choices, regret, and change — chose to adapt this story by Aitmatov for her diploma film. Young Kemel, an idealistic Komsomol member, travels to the Kazakh steppe, where he is quickly put to work by the harsh and demanding Abakir. Abakir is the untiring patriarch, whose every word is law, the traditionalist old guard resistant to ideological and generational change. His dismissal of Sadabek’s reading habits or his annoyance at the villager’s gossip about new technologies reveal his unease with change. Through the eyes of Kemel, Shepitko carves out her own sympathetic interpretation of Abakir, as a man trapped by the past as the world around him changes. Much like Nadezhda in <i>Wings</i>, Abakir is haunted by his seeming obsolescence, although he cannot bring himself to admit it. In one scene, Kalipa, his much younger girlfriend, finds an old gift in Abakir’s sack celebrating him as the ‘Best Tractor Operator’. He quickly snatches it away, and tells her to get to work, unwilling to reveal to the others how his former glories still define him. Abakir’s pathological need for control, his abuse of Kalipa and his contempt for Kemel stems from the loss of control he feels fighting a losing battle against time and progress. His patriarchal, macho, front, like Nadezhda’s curated public image, has become a way for him to hide his fear of no longer belonging. Shepitko infuses her film with a sense of magical realism, depicting Kemel’s escapades on horseback with a mysterious girl as a way for him to find freedom away from Abakir’s demands. Kemel finds a similar release hitching a ride on a truck convoy manned by Russians, but when they reach the border, he gets off and turns back. Kemel is almost won over by the modernising currents, but is pulled back to his native land. In contrast, Abakir refuses to go far from his routines. He pretends to not know about a distant relative who is also a tractor driver - as if nothing matters to him beyond his immediate world. Shepitko finds tragedy in this contrast, in the mutual incomprehensibility between men of two different eras, and hence worlds. And, when Abakir finally walks away, we are left to wonder if this represents vanquishment in his one-man-crusade against progress, or perhaps a sign that he too, like Kemel, can find liberation from his own inner demons in the great expanse of the Kazakh steppes. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Shepitko displays incredible formal range for this being her debut work. Experimental without being too distracting. Lots of low angle shots and dutch angles. Close-ups and (oddly) tracking shots of faces that move during conversations. The climatic tractor confrontation between Kemel and Abakir is wonderfully shot, especially right before Kemel hits the brakes. Great compositions.