Writing about a documentary like Ryuichi Sakamoto: Opus is tricky because, for one, it’s not exactly much of a movie – at least not in the traditional sense. Directed by Neo Sora, the subject’s own son, Opus is a stylistically spare concert film that consists of the legendary late Japanese composer performing 20 songs from his decades-spanning career. Each of these compositions, including themes from The Last Emperor; Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence and radically reinterpreted versions of Yellow Magic Orchestra numbers, is performed by Sakamoto, who sits pensively at a piano, set against minimalist lighting that shifts gradually from day to night and back. The film is captured in crisp black and white, only occasionally betraying any visible activity behind the camera. In these moments, Sakamoto will pause, ask to restart or reshuffle some pages in mild frustration. “This is difficult,” he mutters at one point, but it’s the only time his performance betrays any sense of struggle behind the pianist’s masterful touch.
Sakamoto passed away in 2023 after a lengthy battle with cancer, so Opus operates both as a concert film and as a eulogy to his work. Sora’s direction, austere as it is, invites the viewer into an almost meditative state, allowing his father’s work to speak for itself rather than letting the film speak for it. Perhaps this conceit will be more tempting to audiences already well-acquainted with the composer’s oeuvre, which encompassed films, electronic music, production work and even an anthem for the opening ceremony of the 1992 Barcelona Olympics. The project will be more challenging for those who come in knowing nothing at all — though, in that case, why are you watching a film like Ryuichi Sakamoto: Opus in the first place? Indeed, this lack of drama can be a bit boring, but it also feels like the best way to honor what is, in essence, Sakamoto’s final musical gift to the world. From beginning to end, a mournful melancholy haunts each of Opus’s patient frames, reminding us of the mortality of the artist, but also of the timelessness of his music.
From a technical standpoint, the music sounds fantastic, and the camera moves with a delicate grace that mimics the flow of his compositions in distinct ways. Especially in a theatrical setting, the reverb that echoes through the piano’s body when Sakamoto’s fingers press down on the weighted keys is gorgeously tangible. It’s a more intimate experience than one would receive in a live concert, as cinematographer Bill Kirstein frequently chooses to place his lens just inches away from the composer’s face or hands. Unique microphone placements ensure that every auditory detail, from the rustling of papers to Sakamoto’s breathing are clearly captured, producing moments of extended almost-silence that are among the film’s most mesmerizing passages. Citing his inspirations, Sora has mentioned the works of Yasujiro Ozu (Late Spring, Tokyo Story), and Béla Tarr (Werckmeister Harmonies, Satantango), both of whose work emphasizes the passage of time, especially in relation to the understated struggles of everyday human experience.
Opus is a meaningful work, if not a particularly enthusiastic one. Most concert films aim to elicit the amped-up feeling of being in the same room as the artist (think the recent phenomenon of Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour), recreating the feeling of a particular show or even functioning as a time machine to iconic musical events of the past, such as the Talking Heads’ Stop Making Sense tour. But apart from the Yamaha piano, there’s not much to glean about the space in which Sakamoto plays. Similarly, there’s no sense of unpredictability when every movement has been planned meticulously in advance. Such as it is, Opus is whatever you want it to be, whether you choose to appreciate it simply for Sakamoto’s performance or view it as a poetic final statement of an artist contending with his own mortality. Either way, the title says it all, an impressive expression of a life lived through music.
Photo courtesy of Janus Films
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