big man japan review - 10.14.09

Hitoshi Matsumoto’s directorial debut is a “mockumentary.” There is no better way to explain this film; but its comedic nature is not in the least bit surprising. Macchan, as he is more widely known, is one of Japan’s most famous entertainers. His on-air persona specializes in crude, often violent humor, and he is more often clumsy than clever. When I began watching this film, I anticipated I was in for two straight hours of slapstick. I was pleasantly surprised. The pacing and rhythm of the opening shots were quiet and unobtrusive. The camera panned along a small neighborhood street and into a tiny, dilapidated yard of a small residence. We were introduced to the main character cooking in a cramped kitchen with books and packages lining every available space. This was Japan at its smallest.

The literal translation of the film is, “Large Japanese person.” Although I appreciate the humor in the American title, I think it detracts from what Matsumoto attempted to convey. The main character, Masaru Daisato, comes from a long line of “big men” who are employed by the government to fight off invading monsters. Japan has a lot of them it seems; however, the work has dwindled over the last several years and it appears that Masaru is the last of his kind. He is a lonely man of indistinguishable qualities (save the ridiculously dated outfits he chooses to wear at times). Some people recognize who he is, but many more could care less. His wife left him and took their only child, his salary is laughable, and his house is constantly vandalized. In the beginning, the only thing grand about him is how terribly pathetic he is.

And then he gets a call. A monster is attacking. In order to grow large, Masaru must be electrocuted. The camera follows him to a downtrodden power station. He drives a small motorbike up a long, winding road littered with trash and signs calling him names and even calling for his death. His abilities have branded him a nuisance. Masaru ignores them all.

We are then introduced to the Big Man. His hair stands straight up and his body is tattooed. Although he looks somewhat imposing, his only weapon is a small stick. His opponents, however, rarely offer any notable resistance. Not because the Big Man is a skilled fighter, though, but because the monsters themselves rarely transcend the comic. There is one who likes to destroy buildings, but focuses a lot of his energy ensuring his comb-over remains properly set. Another monster holds a giant, retracting eye where his genitals should be. He throws it around, pulls it back…you get the idea.

The most intense battles, I would argue, are fought when he is a normal size. He is constantly arguing with (and losing to) his agent; he is fighting a custody case he cannot win; he is fighting off waves of depression, a drinking problem and his own insecurities. In every scenario, he loses. When confronted with his only real opponent (from North Korea we discover later), he flees. Arguably, this was his biggest defeat. But his sponsors and television ratings soared. Everybody wants someone else to lose. It’s the only way to win.

Things get markedly different from here. The final several scenes culminate into something wholly unlike the first 90% of the film that I feel a completely separate review might be necessary. Still, it was one of the most hilarious skits I have ever witnessed on screen. Purely Japanese. Purely Macchan. This was finally the film I expected (but to be honest was a bit disappointed arrived). To an American audience with no background in the comedic duo of Matsumoto and Hamada, I argue this final scene won’t even make sense. It shouldn’t, really. But it does somehow. And in that is precisely why Big Man Japan remains ultimately and unashamedly victorious. Most of the time.

SNIPSA - part two...thousand nine

I raced a 5K over the weekend. This was my 4^th official 5K race of 2009 and 9^th total in my short career.

The race benefits the Spay, Neuter, Inject, Protect San Antonio organization. They rescue dogs and cats that have hit bottom (via abuse, abandonment, etc.) and invest time, energy, and love in order to get them back to the top. It’s a good cause run by good people (literally in this case).

I ran the SNIPSA event last year in the midst of my IT band (illiotibial band…not computer geek heavy metal) injury/recovery nightmare. Although I dealt with pain during and after that run in 2008, it provided a string of “firsts”: first sub-21 minute 5K, first top 10 overall place, and first time receiving a physical prize (outside cheap medal or cheaper ribbon) for an age group placing. For second place in the 25-29 age group I landed high-end dog shampoo (for sensitive skin), a year supply of flea medicine, multiple discount coupons/gift certificates and some organic treats (unfortunately still for the dog). I want to believe I am a person whose soul cries out for all the abused pets in the world, but I’ll be honest -- a majority of the motivation behind this year’s race was because we were running out of doggie shampoo. Don’t judge me.

I showed up around an hour before the race and went through the normal race day registration procedure. I received my bib, pins, some Frisbee looking thing and my shirt. “We’re all out of sizes except medium,” the man told me. “OK. I’ll take one,” I responded. And I did, but I have no use for it. In fact, the 2008 version of the race shirt remained in my trunk until June of this year – I ran out of towels to dry my car one day and, well…

I threw the shirt in my trunk and pinned the bib on the right side of my tights. Right, I wear running tights for races. There are never any issues with chafing and I don’t have to worry about wind making my 3” inseam shorts any shorter. So the bib went on, my wind pants came off and I started my warm-up run. For a 5K, I like to run the entire course for a warm-up. I understand some will assume this defeats the purpose, but on most training runs 3 miles is roughly what it takes for things to start clicking. So there.

The course was difficult to follow. There were arrows marked with flour, other arrows marked with spray paint, and what appeared to be arrows from races past. Despite which direction I followed, though, the course was beginning to reveal its true nature – hilly. They were steep. Some were long. I was starting to grow genuinely nervous about my chances.

After I finished the warm-up and changed into my race gear (racing flats, singlet, etc.), I made my way over to the starting area. I saw quite a few people I knew were going to be there, but was surprised to see my cousin, Adam. This was his second 5K. He had logged a 23:36 the week before and was looking to lower that time here. I warned him to take it easy the first two miles, but that the second was net downhill – go nuts. He listened: 21:59 was his chip time. Very fine run.

I didn’t find Bob until right before the gun sounded. Bob and I run together a lot. At the 4^th of July race, we went out together, but he flashed his speed and dropped me at mile 2. Although I had been training a bit more diligently than he had recently, I didn’t fully believe him when he said he wanted to stay around 10 – 15 seconds behind me. Bob is a short/middle distance runner with explosive finishing speed and a penchant for downhill running. Anything less than 30 seconds on this course wouldn’t be enough to hold him off. Still, I thought, I was here to run my own race. We wished each other luck and took our starting positions.

After the patriotic shout out, the gun sounded. I started 3-4 rows back from the start for the first time ever in such a short distance race. I love getting out in front early; it helps me establish a solid pace without having to worry about running in/around people. Still, it’s hilarious how many people treat a 5K like a 400 meter race. So much speed, so many elbows flying. I hung back until I saw an opening.

It came on the first downhill. We were only 0.3 miles in or so, but I was already passing people who were breathing heavily. I was working my way through the crowd and when we hit the hill, I opened my stride like Bob had showed me. Gravity let me pick off another 5 or so runners. At the bottom of the hill I heard quick, long steps approaching fast. I knew it was Bob. “Hey,” he acknowledged. “What’s up?” I responded. A couple breaths later Bob mentioned, “I’m tired.” I laughed under paced breaths, because he didn’t sound tired at all. Regardless, he dropped back soon after. I heard him off my right shoulder for a while (his Nike shoes popped a flat recently and hiss air with every footfall), but lost him in the sounds of the race behind me not long after.

With ¾ of the first mile in the bag, I was running in solo 6^th. It appeared I had put some space between the runners behind me. Two runners were immediately in front of me and the 3^rd place runner, a woman, was about 20 yards away. I took care of business with runners 4 and 5 on the first uphill, dropping them fast. The woman, however, proved to be pretty strong. When I got closer, I noticed a tattoo of a beetle on her back. I remembered her (and the tattoo) from the July 4^th race. She was running in some pink Brooks Burn shoes at the time that I thought were cool. Today she was in the Launch, a shoe I also use for training. When I was close enough for her to notice I was there I mentioned, “Those are great shoes.” At the time I thought this was a valid comment to make. Upon writing it, however, it does sound a bit creepy. I’m not sure if she huffed and ignored me because she was deep in concentration, or because it was such an awkward comment to make during such a high-energy endeavor. Regardless, I pulled away and dropped her on the next turn feeling a little embarrassed.

Right around the time I turned the corner, a funny thing happened: my legs ceased feeling tired and my breathing became completely relaxed. In the midst of a hard, hilly 5K, I hit a runner’s high. For the first time ever. It only lasted for a couple of climbs and descents, but I was able to put some distance on the rest of the field. By mile 2, I couldn’t hear a single person behind me – no one was close. I didn’t help my pursuers, however, when I took the wrong turn. Instead of taking a left down the hill I went right and uphill. I stopped when I couldn’t find the arrows and turned on the following cross street. After running on this for a while, I came upon the course again – I had made the race roughly .1 miles longer and hillier. Sigh.

Still, there is nothing like getting lost to fuel the fire of urgency. I had given up around 10-15 seconds stopping and looking for the proper route, so I floored it. I had just around a half mile left to the finish and I was burning fuel fast. I saw the 2nd place runner making his way up the last hill. I was about 30-40 seconds out. That deflated the tires a bit, but I finished at a good clip. They took a picture of me right before the finish. I was tired.

Manu Ginobili handed me my award. The medal was nice and heavy, but the PR was worth gold.

18:25 - 3rd OA - 1st AG.