#39: Tokyo Drifter

(originally published May 28, 2010)

If Tokyo in reality were anything like the ways it’s portrayed in Seijun Suzuki’s films, here’s what I’d expect: 1) yakuza gun battles on every street corner; 2) betraying, murderous and ultimately doomed nymphomaniacs; 3) non-stop go-go dancing teenagers; and 4) nightclub singers who only know one song.

But if that’s the image we get of Japan from watching films alone, then I dread to imagine what Japan thinks of the US based on our films. Though, really, there’s no need to imagine: in Toyko Drifter, Suzuki sets a rollicking set piece in a bar (“The Western”) frequented by American servicemen. And—true to form for a Western—there’s a mad brawl: broken bottles, abuse of innocent wooden furniture, inebriated sailors lining up to get conked on the head by gleeful bar girls. Is this how the Japanese see Americans—militaristic, drunken, boorish?

This reflexiveness is inescapable when you’re in a foreign country: how do people see me? How do I see them? How do I see myself? When I went to Vietnam in 1998, I had a run-in at a Saigon gay bar. After a round of vigorous dancing, my friends and I retreated to the second level. Below us, the gay Vietnamese gathered around the white Westerners, who were outnumbered ten to one. It reminded me of the children who came up to tourist buses, divvying up passengers, clinging to their target, selling soft drinks or knick-knacks or, if need be, begging and crying. Foreigners are encouraged to tell them đi, đi (“go, go”), but they are not easily shaken off. They have to be tenacious—it’s their livelihood.

Two Frenchmen stood somewhat apart from the dance floor. They mouthed to each other: “Lui?” “Non.” “Lui?” “Non.” They pointed out boys, casually deciding which one to take home, as if window-shopping.

As I watched, an older man in white seersucker put his arm around my shoulder.

“I very much like your dancing,” he said. His accent sounded Dutch.

“I try my best.”

He seemed surprised. “You speak English very well.”

“Thank you,” I said, but I sensed grudging anger from the other Vietnamese in their looks. The Vietnamese have word for it: liếc.  It’s dismissive and disdaining at the same time.

When my friends and I left Sam Son, we had planned to go to another bar in Lam Son Square. As we passed the fountain of algae-green water, the round, modern sculpture of a mother and child, a motorcycle rumbled behind us. I thought nothing of it, but then, someone screamed, “Stay away from my boyfriend!” and I turned in time to see a guy swinging his belt. The buckle clipped my collarbone.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, but my friends closed ranks around me and hustled me away.

“Tell him to watch out,” my assaulter said, in Vietnamese. He pointed at me. His mouth twisted, as if his words were getting tangled. “Make sure he knows,” he said, driving off.

I had a small bruise for the next few days. I can only imagine how large the bruise would have been if he had used a real Versace belt.

#38: Branded to Kill

(originally published May 25, 2010)

In an interview with Seijun Suzuki about Branded to Kill, the director explains that the No. 3 Killer’s penchant for sniffing rice was merely a statement of his Japanese identity. No subtext, no deeper meaning. It would be odd, Suzuki says, to have him salivate over a T-bone steak. But rice—that’s something every red-blooded Japanese man can get behind.

True enough, but having a rice fetish doesn’t necessarily indicate ‘Japanese.’ It could just as easily signify ‘Chinese’ or ‘Korean’ or ‘Vietnamese.’ Pick any Asian country, you’ll find rice. If the sizzling heart of the American family is the barbeque grill, then the rice cooker is the steaming heart of the Asian family.

I didn’t learn many cooking skills from my parents. Tips on defrosting and microwaving, mostly. Acceptable additives to instant ramen noodles. Most nights, my mother handled the meal preparation, so I never worried about having a hot meal. (As to what I was eating, however, this remained a point of contention in my upbringing.) My father taught me how to prepare a simple concoction of sautéed onions and hot dogs, with a sauce made from ketchup and a few shakes of Tabasco. But this was for those rare times when I was left on my own—as uncommon as it was.

But making rice—this was something I mastered early, before I was tall enough to use the stove. My parents bought rice in 50-pound increments, which we kept in the basement. The bag sat on the floor like an abandoned throw pillow. Once, I saw a kung-fu movie in which the hero strengthened his arm by thrusting into a bag of rice. He practiced every day until he could thrust all the way down to his shoulder, and at the end of the movie, during the climactic fistfight, he punched straight through his opponent, his knuckles dripping with viscera on the other side. I never achieved that level of strength, but I did manage to coat my hand with jasmine-scented dust.

I measured out rice with a dented tin cup—three scoops for the family—and I rinsed and drained it, using my hand as a sieve. I picked out pebbles, the grains that hadn’t escaped their husks. And, when I was ready, my sister taught me the secret to perfect rice: the proper amount of water—one knuckle from the top of the rice. Forget cup measurements and the markings on the side of the pot—an index finger was all you needed.

When the scent of rice drifted throughout the house, it was an olfactory announcement of dinner. My father woke up from his nap; I turned off the television. When I uncovered the rice, it sighed a plume of steam, and I stirred it with a bamboo paddle to prevent clumps. And there in the kitchen, we ate dinner: my father at the head of the table, my mother next to him, then my sister, and me at the far end, finishing every last grain.