#16: Samurai III—Duel at Ganryu Island

(originally published Mar. 22, 2010)

Sequels. Not a summer goes by without sequels buzzing around like thick, bloated horseflies. Some are become a part of the atmosphere, annoying but harmless, content to go their own way and to have you ignore them. Others insist on being noticed: flying in front of your face, landing on your food, zooming by your ear—in other words, begging for you to reach for the flyswatter.

Samurai III:  Duel at Ganryu Island should nominally be considered a sequel, but since it’s part of a larger work—the life story of samurai Musashi Miyamoto—it can be given a pass. The same goes with the Lord of the Rings trilogy. But how many sequels are conceived with a narrative arc that encompasses several films, and how many simply add on the Roman numerals like unsightly deposits of fat on their waistlines? Can anyone justify the existence of the Star Wars prequel trilogy?

When I was in high school, I was an avid reader of genre fiction—particularly of science fiction and fantasy. But I was lukewarm towards series, particularly the canonical ones. I took to some of them, but rejected others. Thus, I finished Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series but never got into Frank Herbert’s Dune series. I read through the first two trilogies of Stephen R. Donaldson’s Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever but stopped Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings midway through The Two Towers (too many damn songs). I hear Piers Anthony’s Xanth series continues even after his death. And V. C. Andrews has been writing via ouija board for years now.

In the shopping center near my high school, there was a small used bookstore that specialized in paperbacks. They offered a deal: trade in two paperbacks, take out one. When I could, I stopped there after school. Most of the shelves were packed with Harlequin Romances, the author names repeating in different shades of soft colors. But there was also a small science-fiction/fantasy section against the wall, still with a number of recurring author names, but with more fanciful fonts on the spine. I took my sister’s romance books—she had more than she needed, believe me—and traded them in for sci-fi novels. And more often then not, when I got home, I would discover that I had somehow picked up “Book 3 of 7” of a Series Fill-in-the-Blank.

Even after I learned to open to the “Also by this author page” and scan for the “Other books in this series” column, I found that it became increasingly impossible to find stand-alone novels. Everything seemed built around the franchise model. So I found myself drawn more and more towards short story collections and “legitimate” literature. But that doesn’t meant that I sometimes don’t still dream about cashing in on my as-yet-unrealized 10-volume fantasy epic. With any lucky, it’ll write itself after I’m dead. After all, it worked for Robert Jordan.

#15: Samurai II—Duel at Ichijoji Temple

(originally published Mar. 20, 2010)

After grad school, I worked at a movie theater in Colorado in Tamarac Square. Madstone Theater was a movie chain that also had aspirations as a movie production company as well. But the production end of the business folded (not enough naked Michael Pitt in its only feature, Rhinoceros Eyes, would be my guess) and took down the theater chain with it.

One of the last films to play at Madstone was Kill Bill, Vol. 2, and for months after the theater had closed, when I walked through the mall, I saw the Kill Bill poster from behind its plexiglass. If ever a samurai sword could seem forlorn, this was it. And now, Tamarac Square itself is slated to be demolished. Luckily, my favorite Indian restaurant in Denver, India’s, moved across the street to Tiffany Plaza, where it will be sheltered by the gargantuan Whole Foods, like an egg under a mother bird.

Tamarac Square was never glamorous or particularly noteworthy; it rose up in the early 80s heyday of mall-building and lingered like a weed in the crack of a sidewalk—unsightly, but still alive. Even when Madstone was there, half the mall seemed deserted: there was a Starbucks, an optician, an eccentric old lady accessories shop, a shop that specialized in spine-saving footwear, and, nearer to the end of Madstone’s life, a sari emporium. When malls die, they die slowly, one shop shuttering after another, the gated and empty storefronts like missing teeth in a smile.

I bring this up because Quentin Tarantino should pay Hiroshi Inagaki royalties. Tarantino is a notorious cinematic magpie, filching bits and pieces to build his own nest. But in this case, Kill Bill, Vol. 1‘s two most spectacular set pieces borrow directly from the two most engaging set pieces of Samurai II: Duel at Ichijoji Temple.

In particular: Kill Bill‘s duel between The Bride and Go-Go Yubari reflects Samurai II‘s opening duel, in which Toshiro Mifune pits his ni-ten-ichi-ryu against a chain-and-sickle wielding warrior. But while a chain-and-sickle isn’t quite as flashy as a bladed metal ball at the end of a flail (not to mention that Eijiro Tono can’t quite compete with Chiaki Kuriyama in a schoolgirl outfit), the general idea is the same.

Later, Toshiro Mifune must dispatch 80 or so Yoshioka-school disciples, much in the way Uma Thurman must dispatch 88 mask-wearing, Lucy Liu-worshipping disciples—only not in a rice paddy, with better lighting, and with copious arterial spray. Mifune realizes that discretion is the better part of valor, while  Tarantino, of course, would never have one of his protagonists back out of anything, but the truth for both of our heroes is that they need to survive—for the sequel.

#14: Samurai I—Musashi Miyamoto

(originally published Mar. 15, 2010)

I make no secret of my love of Chinese buffets. While in the hinterlands of Wyoming in January, not a week passed that I didn’t want to go into the Dragon Wall restaurant, next door to the Albertsons in which I bought provisions. On the way to the liquor store at the end of the strip mall, I’d peer in the windows, trying to judge what they might have bubbling in their steam trays.

And just this afternoon, on a trip to ShopRite, I noticed a sign announcing that Hibachi Sushi and Buffet had moved in. No one can resist the siren’s call of seven meat products (chicken, beef, shrimp, pork, etc.) mixed with seven possible sauces (black pepper, Szechuan, black bean, mysterious goopy red stuff). Five different colors of Jell-O! When the heat lamp hits the Jell-O just so, it almost looked like a stained glass window.

I also like the democratic nature of buffets. More than any other restaurants I’ve been to, you see what seems to be an authentic cross-section of Wilmington: African-American women still dressed in their church clothes, Hispanic clumps of men, Caucasian families—all of them served by brisk, smiling Chinese waitresses with nametags that read “Tina,” “Layla” or “Cherry.”

All-you-can-eat buffets are Papal dispensations for gluttony; what seems like a ridiculous amount of food at home becomes acceptable—no, a requirement. When I was younger, my parents would mentally keep track of how much food I’d eaten to make sure that I had at least made back the cover charge. Otherwise, that would have been a waste of money, somehow a greater sin than a waste of food. We ate until we had to slouch in the booths and undo the top button of our pants.

When my relatives from Oklahoma came into town, and the whole family piled into a restaurant like a ravenous horde of Vietnamese locusts (my dad sneaking in a bottle of nước mắm), my cousin Truong and I engaged in competitive eating, with a stack of empty plates bearing witness to the endless capabilities of our intestinal capacity, jaw strength, and metabolism. Though once, as we left the Hans Brinker smorgasbord in Denver, he had to stop on the wooden bridge beneath the windmill to vomit. I was elated. That meant I won.

My metabolism isn’t what is used to be. Must cut down on the coconut shrimp next time.

Samurai I: Musashi Miyamoto is somewhat of a Asian cinematic buffet. It has all the elements you could want, all steaming hot: grand war battles, samurai-on-bandit violence, crafty Japanese women, pursuits through green forests, totally passive Japanese women, wild renegades, wise monks, chastened warriors. And it’s all on one plate. Best of all, if you haven’t had enough, you can return for seconds. Thirds, even. Go on. You paid for it.