“If my solitude were a fish, what would it mean?”
Traditionally, heroes and villains are all, to some extent, definable by their past alongside their hopes for the future; this definition gets taken one step further in Yoshihiro Nakamura’s 2009 cult hit, Fish Story — a universe where heroes are immovably bound to generational chain reactions.
Adapted from the novel written by Kotaro Isaka, Fish Story possesses a hero of many shapes: most notably in the flattened form of a paranormally-charged punk-rock record titled: “Fish Story”. After its flop release in 1975, the tune creates a rippling, multigenerational domino effect, becoming the Earth’s unlikely last line of defense 37 years later against none other than an Armageddon-style meteor obliteration.
Spending most of its time undulating between four different time periods, the film peers into the ostensibly inconsequential lives of four sets of characters. In 2012, during the hours leading up to the meteor’s pending impact, a music-shop owner (played by Ichi the Killer’s Nao Ōmori) claims — in part sage-foreshadowing ability and part Power-Rangers exhortation — that “champions of justice will save humanity.” The timeline then rewinds to 1975, where Gekirin, the unloved punk band responsible for “Fish Story”, resounds woefully ahead of their time.
From here, we travel seven years forward to 1982 to find Masashi: a timid, unassertive driver, who is sick of being treated like a doormat. And finally, the last sequence takes place in the year 2000, where the aforementioned “Champion of Justice” thwarts a seemingly unrelated Y2K terrorist group’s attempt to hijack a ferry.
Evidently, the use of multiple loosely bounded timelines and characters is an audacious risk, but it can also be conducive to a vividly exciting viewing experience, with new bits of information around every corner. The dangers of experimenting with such an unorthodox structure are enormous; more than that though, they signal a director’s faith in their audience. In hopes of receiving a reciprocation of this trust, Fish Story neglects any sort of over-explanation, instead thrusting its viewer into a world of chance and luck: one that resembles the Magnolia-esque logic of cosmically interrelated strangers.
The one thing all of these improbably linked characters have in common is that they all lack direction in life — a common occurrence in a world without any tried-and-true guidelines or safety nets. Thus, Nakamura, in the spirit of a relentless but well-meaning puppetmaster, strings his ensemble up in only the most crucial turning points of their lives, offering nowhere for them to turn other than right to the tiresome question: “what are you doing?”
The cast is sent on a voyage of existential questions, wandering through the fog of uncertainty in search of a sign, a reason to keep moving. For Gekirin, it is the cursed pursuit of critical success, while simultaneously maintaining enough financial stability to continue experimenting with their sound. The “Champion of Justice” tries reclaiming the years of his childhood so that he might prove to be more than just a canvas on which his parents painted their desires. For Masashi, it is the simple act of standing up for himself, disrupting the forces of other people that are blowing him around, like a helpless leaf at the mercy of the wind.
It is at this moment where Fish Story generates an engine of serendipitous coincidence, aiding its characters with droplets of luck as they trudge through the unknown. The tone is one of spirited, life-affirming connectedness; bounding hopefully between decades, it seeks out the type of individual acts of virtue that go largely unnoticed.
The hero of this apocalyptic tale is not an augmented superhuman, but a moment. It’s one that doesn’t exist without the help of individuals who made their marks on the near 40-year-long period preceding the meteor’s entrance into Earth’s orbit. Through this, Fish Story advocates for a collective society, showing just how intrinsic our actions truly are to the planet’s survival.
Nakamura brings attention to the small, but vital contributions of past lives. There is a tenderness for what unfolds in the peripheral flowing potently through the lifeblood of this script. Fish Story is a paean to insignificance and uncertainty; to slogging through the fickleness of transitory purposes and meanings.
If the film aims to illuminate one thing it is this: whether it is a martial artist smacking some terrorists around to protect civilians, or a band ahead of its time making a piece of music that no one will listen to — purpose is something we actively choose. It may obscure itself from time to time, but it’s never out of our hands. It can be chosen on a daily basis, or even an hourly one. One day it could be falling asleep at every given opportunity, the next it could be making calculations to blow up a meteor and save humanity.
Thanks to a partnership between Third Window Films and Arrow Films, Fish Story was released on region-free Blu-ray for the first time on August 10, 2020. Special features include a behind-the-scenes documentary, Q&A’s, and a couple of rare live performances by Gekirin.
