When people think post-war Japanese cinema, they automatically think of Akira Kurosawa. His exported samurai epics have done a good job creating a sense of history, nobility and grace among the art cinema crowd. Yet arguably more important to Japan's unique cinematic history during that era, are the humanistic war stories brought to life by the likes of Masaki Kobayashi, Nagisa Oshima and Kon Ichikawa. Comprising a portion of the Japanese New Wave, these war dramas challenged their viewers head-on, illustrating the ugliness of war in all it's absurdity and horror. These movies were noble in their own way by angrily confronting the attitudes tolerated by Japan during it's peak nationalist period. Fires on the Plain is just as incendiary as it's title would suggest and serves as a prime example of such a film. It may also just be the most engaging and accessible war tale Japan has ever produced.

Set during the closing days of Japan's dominance in the Philippines, our sick, fatigued and jaded hero, Private Tamura attempts to survive the on-coming slaughter. Tamura is forced out of his unit due to tuberculosis; if he's not well enough to dig trenches than he's useless according to his superiors. He treks to the hospital just past the hills only to be rebuffed by the hospital who tells him if he can walk, he's not sick. Before he can return and presumably commit suicide via grenade, Tamura's unit is wiped out in a fierce battle with allied forces. He then wonders aimlessly through the countryside staving starvation, fatigue, death and worse still, fellow brothers in arms.

If Kurosawa is considered the Spielberg of Japan than director Kon Ichikawa is it's Martin Scorsese. Known less for an all-permeating thesis that seeps into his oeuvre, Ichikawa gives his work an idiosyncratic style and a visceral veneer. Throughout his career Ichikawa was known for taking on all popular genres, all of which balanced his knack for realism and expressionism. His worlds always have a beautiful wholeness and lets the pathos from each situation dig into the audiences cranium through all sides. Sometimes he accomplishes this with shock, other times with a mischievous sense of humor. One such iconic moment happens in Fires on the Plain when a platoon of soldiers march upon a pair of jungle boots. One soldier swiftly puts them on and discards his own, the next soldier takes the previous soldier's boots, and so on and so forth until Tamura looks down on the tattered remains of the last guy's boots, takes his off and keeps walking barefooted.

There are many more scenes of contradicting sentiments occupying the same earnest frame. We as the audience must decide whether we should laugh or cry or both yet we never feel the need to look away. There's a dark sense of realism that makes Fires on the Plain stand out from other contemporary works such as The Human Condition Trilogy (1959-1961). The realism, tinged with an expressionistic flare keeps us engrossed; pensively hoping Tamura and his fellow soldiers don't do the unthinkable.

As things become more desperate and deprived on the island of Leyte, the true intentions of the film start to soar with devastating economy. The film was adapted from Shohei Ooka's novel of the same name. Much ado was made at the time about Ichikawa's radical ending change which is surprisingly antithetical to the traditional Hollywood ending we're all so drearily used to. With Ichikawa's ending however there is no absolution, no completion, no sigh of relief. Much like All Quiet on the Western Front (1930) the film's resolution comes with a simple message about the inhumanity of war.

Fires on the Plain is a frightfully good film that tells it's story through imagery both stark, maddening and sublime. Powerful in every sober sense, Ichikawa should be on everyone's short list of most important Japanese filmmakers. He's got a style full of contradiction yet permeating with an excess of feeling. I promise that once you've seen this provocative, bleak, heart-wrenching picture, you won't soon forget it.

I got this movie out a week after the death of Ichikawa Kon - I suppose if there is one way to mark the passing of a great director, its to raise a glass of wine to him while watching one of his greatest movies. Ichikawa had one of the finest careers in Japanese film, but as he never had a distinctive style or theme he often seems to be overlooked compared to his near contemporaries such as Ozu and Kurosawa (he was a little younger than them, but not by much). He is one of those directors who defies auteur theories - its likely that his wife (who wrote the screenplay for this and many other of his movies) was as much responsible for the quality of the movies as he was. But at his best, he was as good as any Japanese film maker at the time. In particular, he had great technical skills, allowing him to tell complex stories in an accessible manner. But in terms of theme, this movie could hardly be simpler - war is hell. No really, its seriously hell.

Fire on the Plain doesn't follow the normal war genre rules. There is no real beginning - we start as the wretched Tamura, who is a regular private (although it is implied he is more thoughtful and educated than most of the others - at one stage it is shown he understands English, but he clams up when the others ask him how he knows it) is ordered to hospital, as his unit is already in an appalling state. The soldiers are defeated and starving to death. They are no longer an army, just a rag bag group of refugees - hunted by the locals, and pretty much ignored by the Americans, who have bigger fish to fry. Hunger and despair is driving the soldiers to the edge and beyond of madness.

In typical Ichikawa style, its not all just grim - its oddly funny in parts (a very black humour of course).

The high points of this movie to me are the outstanding performances from the leads and the vivid photography. The characters, in all their humanity, but also their complete loss of humanity, are all too believable. This is that rare film - one which will refuse to erase itself from your head, even if you want to forget it.

Kon Ichikawa had lived through world war two, and saw what its effects it had on his people in Japan. But so did novelist Shohei Ooka, whose book was the inspiration for Ichikawa's film, Fires on the Plain. It's a film about the men in this war, or perhaps more universally in wars in general, who lose their humanity. The soldiers trudging along through these fields and jungles of the Philippenes in this story are almost completely without hope, if not already just that. It makes Stone's Platoon look like a picnic: at least they had certain things, like food, after all.

They have little to no reserves or supplies or ammunition, no back-up, no sense of anything going their way in this combat that they've been thrust into. They can't even get some proper hospital care, unless if they can no longer walk at all or have lost limbs (for example, say, if you have TB, you're on your way). But its really through the prism of one soldier, a private Tamura, that we get a full sense of the futility of war, both in its bleak scenes of nothingness and boredom and decay, and those flashes of intense and brutal violence.

In the film Tamura just wants to get some medical care. This is right at the start, and his told by his superior officer- already he is with eyes that stare off and an expression that has been drained by years of battle- that he will die if he doesn't find a hospital. He doesn't, really, but does end up in with some soldiers: at first with a platoon that seems to sort of have their act together, but is really led on by a power-hungry brute who just wants Tamura's stash of salt, and then later with two other stray soldiers who are part of a group that had previously been ambushed while crossing a road at night.

The story isn't entirely a straight line, but it doesn't need to be. Tamura's path in Fires on the Plain is told in vignettes, little stories like when he comes upon a seemingly deserted enemy village. Two of the populous comes back to get some supplies, and Tamura sneaks up on them. It's an excruciating scene, since so far with Tamura we haven't seen him do anything outright *wrong*, but he does so in this scene, not even so much out of evil but out of fear and desperation (this is also, without spoiling it, how he gets a stash of salt). Little scenes build up so brilliantly and with devastation, like a simple task of finding a pair of walkable shoes, which there seem to be none. Or when Tamura, later in the film, discovers his teeth are becoming torn apart and falling out from lack of total hygiene. So much for food, so it goes.

It should also be mentioned that this is a hauntingly realized film from Ichikawa, shot in a stark black and white view of the fields and woods, the cinematography filling everything we see in black-blacks and white-hot white. Ichikawa also makes sure to get everything authentic from his actors, not simply emotionally but with their own emaciated look and looks of desperation right on them. It's as if Ichikawa has to have them all surviving the film as well as characters surviving out in the wild; by wild, by the way, I mean also cannibalism. The shock of this is two-fold; first is the way that a soldier says half-jokingly early on about eating other soldiers to Tamaura, who asks if it was true and only in response getting a "don't ask" word of caution, and the second with the depiction of cannibalism itself, from the crazy starving man on the hill who pulls out guts out of his lap and says with a straight face to our hero that "You can eat me when I die."

This makes thing especially more brutal when it comes to the director filming the brief 'action' scenes. These are, I would argue, more brutal than 'Private Ryan' in their depictions of violence in battle, the carnage that is completely random. A scene I would point to, and that contains just a shot that is excruciating to watch, is when from a high angle we see a group of about twenty soldiers walking slowly along, a hail of gunfire comes that kills only four or five, but it just happens so fast, and the soldiers just keep walking along at the same crawl. This isn't the only shot of horrible carnage that's shown - when needing to be bloody its there, but splashed across the screen like something completely of the macabre - but it drives the point completely.

All of the acting is staggering (Funakoshi especially, who looks to be both most at peace and most horrified by what he sees in the subtlest of looks most of the time), all of the major set-pieces provide something else to the gruesome experience, and it all amounts to the ultimate question with an anti-war film: how can, or why, do people fight in wars like these? It's almost too depressing to put into words, and so Ichikawa pushes our noses right up into the muck and filth and blood and demands for us to take it in, so maybe, some day, it will never happen again. Or one can hope this, by the end of such a bleak and great film as this.