Takashi Miike
Visitor Q

Some works of the seventh art should die in the carnal relationship between eyes and screen, because the baggage of symbols, scents, scars is not transferable from the subcutaneous tidal wave to the bucolic still morning of the conscious. It is a crime, therefore, to translate the tsunami that has traversed us along the slide of the back and gifted us with the autumnal scorched-funereal-noise-unmemorable fall of the leaves; the vault of living gold is sabotaged by critics in love with Bruno Pizzul, wrapped like mummies by the art commentary. "Attention, Visitor Q passes the ball to the protagonist, troubled childhood, social issues, here the protagonist stands out in the penalty area, necrophilia, black humor, backheel of the incestuous daughter, attentionnn...goooooolllllllll gooooolllllll gooooolllllll, scores in the 54th minute, the viper son who beats the mother to a pulp. Ragasiii Ragasiii go go go go go go goolllll, du brasiuuu".

Translating jaw-dropping video images into paper or radio format is committing an involution and Chernobylian practice. What would Pelé's overhead kicks be only blended with mere description: nothingness, just as no one will ever remember "Ehh yes in 1954 I heard a commentary on a match that stuck with me to this day, masterpiece"; this is what great art has as opposed to trivial information that brings everything into comprehension: the gift of classicism and timelessness, of the non-place.

Takashi Miike's films will go down in cinema history, and every little critic that pops from them will fall dead like a mosquito with a DDT fetish. The Japanese Master with 70,000 dollars (in a week) unleashes on the world this massive invective against the status quo, against the massification of desires perpetrated through TV and newspapers, against the egg-carton instructions to reach orgasm. The Japanese family in question cannot find their own center of gravity in moral habits and staggers in a choppy sea of prostitution, heroin, humiliations, masochism, prank, rampant violence; all of this is seasoned with a remorse imprinted on the body indelibly like the prints on the asphalt of Hollywood stars. The non-acceptance of one's own animal instincts has imploded their very own Hiroshima inside each of the demons of Visitor Q. The key is something typically Miike-like: playing. As Tadanobu Asano, the standard-bearer of the sado-masochist in Ichi The Killer says, "In the end, it's all a game", thus in this classic-modern filmmaker there is a total surpassing of morality and the will to find one's own center of joy in any aberrant (for the community) personal impulse. The vital journey is too short to neglect oneself and impose large chastity belts and reins on the imagination. Professional K.O. critique to this silly television world that wants us to be mono-orgasmic beings and cooks us univocal recipes for happiness.

The cocktail of sex, money, fame, and success is dismembered by something more real that the protagonists grasp with proud acceptance. Miike has eternalized himself nicely and all we are left with is the religious contemplation of his work and his freedom.

^_^