I’ve spent this semester working as a teaching assistant for a course at my home university titled “World Cinema Today.” In addition to introducing students to the methods and language of film studies, the course is designed to expose them to films from a wide range of cultural contexts. Throughout the semester, teach that films can be vehicles for learning. Even while the narratives they present are fictional, they give their audiences a chance to understand something about the lives and struggles of people different from themselves. Right now, there aren’t any Japanese films on our syllabus, but if I were to suggest one to be included in the future, it would be Takeshi Fukunaga’s 2020 drama, Ainu Mosir.
The film is essentially a coming-of-age story that follows a boy named Kanto (played by Kanto Shimokura) as he grapples with his father’s death a year prior—a death which leaves him feeling isolated as he realizes he must decide for himself what it means to be Ainu in the 21st century. Throughout the film, Kanto is supported by his mother (played by Emi Shimokura, who is also the real-life mother of the actor who plays Kanto) and an older man from his community named Debo (played by Debo Akibe). While Fukunaga allows the story to linger on the everyday moments of Kanto’s life in the Akanko Ainu Kotan (a tourist village in Eastern Hokkaido), Ainu Mosir’s central conflict stems from Debo’s efforts to plan and carry out a once-in-a-generation iyomante ceremony. Despite assurances from Debo that his father had wanted to hold an iyomante before he died, Kanto struggles emotionally with the thought of sacrificing the bear cub (named “Chibi”) whom he had grown attached to over the course of the film.
If I were teaching Ainu Mosir in “World Cinema Today,” I would ask my students to consider two main points as they watched through the film: First, how does Fukunaga present interactions between Ainu and Wajin characters? Most of the film’s main cast is Ainu, but the tourists and journalists who come to visit Lake Akan are important exceptions. By focusing on these interactions when they happen, we get a sense of how Fukunaga feels the Ainu community is viewed by those on the outside. Second, how do Kanto’s feelings about the iyomante ceremony change throughout the film, and how do those feelings impact how he understands the importance of community? This question is particularly important to consider, since it serves to connect Ainu Mosir’s central plot to its most important themes.
It’s important to note that Fukunaga isn’t Ainu. He is a Wajin filmmaker who stated in an interview with Nippon.com that he was inspired to make a film centering his own country’s Indigenous people after traveling to the United States. Fukunaga realized that settler awareness of Indigenous cultural and political issues in the United States was much higher than in Japan and was inspired to make a film about the Ainu as a result. Even so, community collaboration was central to Fukunaga’s vision for Ainu Mosir. The film was shot on location in and around the Akanko Ainu Kotan and features a primarily Ainu cast (something that unfortunately can’t always be said when Ainu characters appear in Japanese media). The result is a film that oozes with the spirit of the Akanko Ainu community, so much so that the kotansometimes has the feeling of a character in its own right.
But Fukunaga’s portrayal of the kotan is complicated. At the beginning of the film, it seems clear that the atmosphere of ethnic tourism that surrounds Kanto is a major cause of his emotional insecurity. This idea is clearly communicated in one of the film’s earliest sequences: First, Emi is shown aboard a sightseeing ferry, dressed in traditional Ainu clothing and playing the mukkuri for an audience of vaguely disinterested tourists. The film then cuts to establishing shots of Lake Akan and the kotan before finally showing Kanto as he eats a simple breakfast in the kitchen of his family home, which doubles as one of the tourist shops accessible from the kotan’s main plaza. In this scene, Kanto is completely alone. His only company comes in the form of a pre-recorded message from the kotan’s loudspeakers that is clearly audible even before he steps outside—one that serves to welcome tourists and advertise the many Ainu products available for them to purchase. The way this voice from the loudspeaker intrudes into Kanto’s home suggests to the audience that for Kanto, Ainu tourism is an inescapable part of daily life. When he later expresses to his mother that he resents being made to “do Ainu stuff,” we as an audience understand that he does so with the context of ethnic tourism in mind.
But this is only the starting point for Kanto’s character, whose coming-of-age journey hinges on the realization that community and culture are generative and healing in ways that exceed the constraints of the tourist economy. As the narrative progresses, Debo teaches Kanto to appreciate the “Ainu stuff” that he once dismissed. Fukunaga shows this growing appreciation through both seemingly small gestures (like performing ongami before he enters Akan’s forest) and big ones (like joining the men of his community to send off Chibi’s spirit at the end of the film, despite his initial reservations about the iyomante).
I feel that it’s important that Fukunaga never attempts to bring closure to many of the ethical and moral issues that are raised throughout the film. For example, the film’s criticism of the tourist industry is never fully resolved. Some visitors to the kotan are shown to be naïve about Ainu life in ways that lead them to make unintentionally racist statements, and one scene depicting an interview between Debo and a Wajin journalist implies that the latter plans to make a public spectacle of the iyomante (something that Debo and the rest of the community would like to avoid). There is never a moment in the film where Kanto seems to set aside his negative view of Ainu tourism and embrace that aspect of life in his hometown. He also never seems entirely comfortable with Chibi’s sacrifice, though he does come to terms with it after realizing how much the iyomante means to so many of the people he loves. As a settler-scholar, I admire Fukunaga’s restraint in refusing to present uncomplicated solutions to these questions, which are ultimately not his or mine to answer.
I could continue for another several paragraphs to analyze the narrative, themes, and cinematography of Ainu Mosir (but I would rather encourage anyone reading this blog to watch it for themself). I could also give a straightforward review of the film, though I don’t know there’s much I could add to the glowing praise it has received since its release in 2020. Instead, though, I’ll conclude by returning to the context that led me to consider writing this post in the first place: teaching.
As I watched Ainu Mosir, I was struck by its cinematic beauty and the richness of its narrative, but also by its accessibility. Fukunaga makes sure that his characters take the time to explain complex topics and specific cultural practices in a way that still feels natural. This makes the plot clear and engaging even to audiences without prior education on Ainu culture and history. For example, someone who has never heard of an iyomante before hitting ‘play’ will still be able to understand the emotional stakes Kanto faces because Debo offers an in-character explanation of the ceremony early on. This accessibility allows audiences—including student audiences—to engage more deeply with the rich themes and complex questions Ainu Mosir raises, and is a big part of why I hope to someday be able to include it in a syllabus of my own.
