Spoilers
With a limitless medium in his hands and the ingeniousness to match it, Satoshi Kon produced some of animation’s most unforgettable work. In just nine years, the animator made four feature films, one television series and one short film — and though his life was tragically cut short in 2010, his stamp on the animation and filmmaking world had already been sealed. His films can be generalized by his fascination with fiction and reality, but Kon demonstrated incredible versatility in subject matter from internet-age voyeurism, found family and dreams and nightmares. His sophomore film, “Millennium Actress,” is an attestation to cinema’s quintessence to life. It’s Kon’s most emotional and celebratory work.
The film opens at Ginei Studios, a major Japanese film studio that is being demolished after seventy decades of business. In the wake of this, director Genya Tachibana decided to make a documentary about the studio’s most esteemed actress, Chiyoko Fujiwara, whom he has a deep admiration for. When Genya meets the legendary actress, now reclusive and unwell, he gives her a key (the MacGuffin) which unlocks her memories and sets the narrative in motion. Through episodes of Chiyoko’s life, it’s revealed that during the Second Sino-Japanese War, Chiyoko saved the life of a mysterious man who was on the run for political activism. The man, indebted to her, promises to meet after the war. It’s this promise that convinces Chiyoko to star in films with the hope that the man will recognize her.
Throughout many decades and many different film genres, Kon bleeds fiction and reality in Chiyoko’s life. In a handful of scenes, Chiyoko runs or calls out to someone who we suspect to be the mystery man. The emotion in her voice and the desperation on her face convince us of this, but the person is revealed to be a character in a movie. Kon accomplishes this by zooming out to disclose a camera crew or using the interjection of someone else, a scene partner. This interplay of fiction and reality is depicted in many other clever ways that would be too lengthy to describe, so, in short, it’s Kon’s atemporal storylines held together by rhythmic editing that maintains the plausibility. In doing so, Kon manages to capture an artistic truth: the inseparability of life and art. We know that Chiyoko, like all artists, projects herself and her lived experience onto her art. Kon connotes that film is just another level of reality.
Across all of this, Genya is never relegated to a passive player once the interview commences. In fact, in almost every one of Chiyoko’s memories, he’s present — from scenes of her unsatisfying marriage to the set of her films. In these film sets and sound stages, Genya humorously appears as characters who interact with Chiyoko. For example, in a Chanbara or samurai film (a homage to “Throne of Blood”), he plays the actress’ guardian, goofily proclaiming his duty to protect her. Genya and his wholesome enthusiasm are played for levity in a story colored by melancholy — it’s only later that his character gains another dimension and justification for his ardor. This happens when he tells Chiyoko that he worked on her films’ sets as an assistant, never quite reaching the ranks of director, but admiring from afar nonetheless. With this addition to his character, the documentarian becomes a proper surrogate for the audience and those who also dream of a life in film. Compared to the many films that concern the parasocial or thorny relationship between star and audience — Kon’s “Perfect Blue” revolves around this — it’s affirming to see one bound by reverence and wonder instead.
Many times in the film, people convince Chiyoko that her chase of this man is fruitless, mentioning how brief the two met or the severe punishment political dissidents faced during the war. We regretfully come to understand, just as much as Chiyoko knows intuitively, that the romantic dream is impractical — something like this only happens in movies. In the final minutes, after reminiscing about her life, Chiyoko accepts this. The actress understands that she’s spent so much time looking forward to that moment that she’s overlooked the momentous life she has lived. The ending can be initially off-putting by its briefness, especially after witnessing a lifetime, but as Chiyoko states in the killer final line: “After all, it’s the chasing after him I really loved,” demonstrating that it’s the journey, not the destination, that matters the most,
