『見えない質感』を求めてIn Pursuit of Invisible Texture

The reaction against excessive digitalization has made a significant trend of returning to analog formats—vinyl records, film cameras, paper books—particularly pronounced over the past decade, representing a critical spiritual turning point for a new generation yearning for a lost era, a kind of “pre-digital nostalgia.” Whenever I walk around urban areas myself, I frequently encounter people capturing images with old film cameras or tourists “digging” through vinyl records, scenes that bring to mind a particular Japanese film I deeply cherish, To Sleep So as to Dream (夢みるように眠りたい).

This film was released in 1986, just a year after the 1985 Plaza Accord set the stage for Japan’s bubble economy. At that time, Japan had achieved astonishing economic growth from the ashes of World War II, had transitioned from rapid economic expansion to a period of stability, and was experiencing, for the first and perhaps only time, widespread prosperity among its population of over 100 million people. It was an era characterized by a unique energy, driven by a generation vividly recalling Japan’s extraordinary rise, a time when virtually everyone believed that Japan was destined to lead the world. Today, few remember this period, given the stark contrast with the present, but back then, many of the world’s leading corporations were Japanese, and Japanese capital was buying up overseas real estate at an ever-greater pace. The result was a stark reversal from the pro-Japan sentiment epitomized by Harvard sociologist Ezra F. Vogel’s influential 1979 book, Japan as Number One: Lessons for America, triggering intense backlash known as “Japan bashing.” To curtail Japan’s growing dominance, the U.S. pushed for the Plaza Accord.

Against this backdrop of exuberant economic dreams and underlying anxieties, filmmaker Kaizo Hayashi, then 29 and virtually unknown, masterfully captured the shifting sentiments of people caught in the whirlwind of rapid economic growth and vividly depicted their underlying nostalgia. Notably, Hayashi was largely self-taught, driven solely by his deep love for cinema, yet possessed exceptional sensitivity in grasping the essence of his era. His film offers insight into the uniquely ephemeral energy of late 1980s Japan, a period marked by fleeting pleasures and hidden despair, as people were forced to live within a “future without a future.” Born in the 1990s, I could not experience that era firsthand, yet Hayashi’s cinematic messages deeply resonate with me and allow profound reflection.

To Sleep So as to Dream, released at this pivotal historical juncture for Japan, holds a special place among Japanese films for me personally. Though perhaps not widely known today beyond dedicated cinephiles, at the time of its release, it generated considerable acclaim both domestically and internationally despite being an independent production. Because it was not a commercial film, viewing opportunities were severely limited for a long time, and it acquired a reputation as a “phantom film.” This situation changed relatively recently in 2020, when a digitally remastered version was created from the original negatives under Hayashi’s supervision. For the first time, the film became available on Blu-ray, and revival screenings took place the same year—coinciding suggestively with the global pandemic.

The film’s defining characteristic is how it cleverly “remixed” past and present at a time when Japan’s bubble economy approached its peak, providing Japanese society—and not just its film industry—with perspectives on a new future that no one else had envisioned. Employing a nostalgic aesthetic approach, the entire film was shot in black-and-white, mimicking a silent film, and even maintained the standard aspect ratio (1.37:1) common to classic cinema. Every detail reflected the strong intentions of a young filmmaker determined to revive the aesthetic “texture” of vintage Japanese films.

Understanding this “invisible texture” sheds light on the mindset of the era. The concept of “invisible texture” deeply resonated with the sensibilities of mid-1980s Japanese people and aligns fundamentally with today’s global analog revival trend. Vinyl records, film cameras, paper books—all these symbolize psychological pursuits of tactile authenticity and a profound yearning among contemporary people to reclaim something precious. This emphasis on “invisible texture” echoes Japan’s traditional aesthetic principle of mono no aware (もののあはれ). Masterfully capturing this sensibility, Nujabes laid the foundations for the global boom of Lo-fi Hip Hop in the pandemic era.

Countless interpretations can be made about To Sleep So as to Dream (夢みるように眠りたい), but to illustrate one example: in dialogue scenes, the actors’ lines are presented through intertitles reminiscent of silent films rather than spoken aloud. This represents a gentle attempt to restore for Japanese viewers—already beginning to relinquish autonomous thought—the experience of cinema as something to be “read,” rather than a form of mass consumption simply “watched.” However, since modern audiences would struggle to engage with a completely silent film, music and sound effects are skillfully interwoven to support scene transitions and emotional dynamics, providing a sophisticated approach that enables even those unaccustomed to silent cinema to stay engaged until the end. Notably, the film also incorporates recordings of narration by an actual katsudo benshi (活動弁士), performers who, during the silent film era in Japan, narrated stories live beside the screen. The inclusion of recorded narration by Shunsui Matsuda, an authentic figure from the silent film era, brings an additional layer of realism and nostalgic depth to the work.

In the mid-1980s, an era dominated by color cinema, To Sleep So as to Dream deliberately embraced monochrome, employing a silent-movie aesthetic with intertitles for dialogue, yet cleverly integrating ambient and sound effects. This innovative method appealed directly to audience sensibilities, allowing them to re-experience the texture of vintage film screenings while simultaneously incorporating a contemporary sensibility. Such cultural fusion—combining traditional elements with modern techniques—is something Japanese creation has long excelled at, and here it serves as a subtle antithesis to the bubble economy, implicitly asking viewers to pause and reflect amidst the illusion of endless economic growth.

Though director Kaizo Hayashi was deeply nostalgic for black-and-white cinema, his approach was far from mere retrograde sentimentality; instead, he actively embraced contemporary technology and aesthetics. His ability to boldly deviate from conventional filmmaking techniques was largely due to his youth and the passion that drove his self-taught methods. Moreover, the 1980s in Japan was still a period open to embracing young people’s ideas, enabling talented individuals to rally around Hayashi’s vision and contribute to the film’s production.

This film unfolds as a detective story structured around three motifs: “silent cinema,” “Asakusa,” and “phantom film.” Set in Tokyo’s Asakusa district in the 1950s, the narrative begins when a private detective is commissioned by an elderly woman to find her kidnapped daughter. As the story progresses, however, reality and time begin to blend, unveiling the existence of an unfinished silent film from Japan’s Taisho era (1912–1926), titled Eternal Mystery (永遠の謎), censored and consigned to oblivion. Although Eternal Mystery is entirely fictional, the film references a real 1918 Japanese silent film, Radiance of Life (生の輝き), considered the first Japanese film starring an actress, adding a layer of authenticity by suggesting that an earlier film starring a fictional actress, Sakura Tsukishima, was censored into obscurity. This blending of fact and fiction forms an intricate homage to Japanese film history itself.

The real-life director of Radiance of Life, Norimasa Kaeriyama (1893–1964), was known for pioneering narrative-driven cinema at a time when Japanese films mainly consisted of documentaries and recorded kabuki performances. Active from 1919 to 1926, his works survive today only as still photographs and scripts; none of his films have been preserved. Notably, Kaeriyama’s film career coincided precisely with Japan’s Taisho era.

The Taisho period, serving as the historical backdrop for To Sleep So as to Dream, was a complex time marked both by a dynamic new generation resisting the increasing militarism after the Meiji Restoration, and by the unsettling atmosphere arising from the military’s growing control. Hayashi’s sharp insight into this distinctive period atmosphere is evident through carefully selected details such as the subtitle font, authentically styled after popular Taisho-era typography, and meticulously curated set designs.

The film’s casting also deserves special attention. Fujiko Fukamizu, who portrays the elderly woman Sakura Tsukishima, was a real actress active since before World War II. The art direction and cinematography were entrusted to seasoned craftsmen deeply versed in traditional filmmaking methods. Moreover, consistent with Hayashi’s fondness for detective stories, cryptic messages are embedded throughout, holding particular resonance for those familiar with early Japanese cinema. For instance, M Pathé Shokai (Mパテー商会), key to unraveling the plot, references the historically significant film company established in Meiji-era Japan in 1906 as the Japanese branch of the French film corporation Pathé Frères. Another pivotal element in the latter half of the story, Asakusa Denki-kan, was an actual cinema opened during the Meiji era by figures such as Kisaburo Kobayashi, president of M Pathé Shokai, pioneering Japan’s concept of cinema-dedicated theaters.

The philosophy of Hayashi, whom I would call a genius, is vividly embodied in these motifs, making To Sleep So as to Dream an exceptional masterpiece in Japanese cinema history, carrying profound and timely commentary. This film, crafted as a quiet antithesis to the excessive bubble economy, represents a collaboration of talents resonating with Hayashi’s ideals. For me personally, the film symbolizes a critical turning point—the end of Japan’s high-growth era and a gentle transition to a new age. At the same time, it marked the final era in which Japan embraced youthful ideas, foreshadowing a subsequent shift toward nostalgic authoritarian tendencies contrary to Hayashi’s original intentions. After this film, Japanese cinema entered a steep decline, becoming insular in technology and expression, swiftly ceding global prominence in music and film culture to neighboring South Korea.

I primarily watch Japanese films from the late 1930s to the early 1970s, but To Sleep So as to Dream is an exception, a work I revisit frequently. I encourage readers, if given the opportunity, to watch this pioneering work anticipating today’s analog revival. In doing so, you may discover within it a deeply complex sensibility that defies simple verbal expression.