Near the end of March 2023, legendary Japanese composer and pianist Ryuichi Sakamoto died at the age of 71 after a long battle with cancer. In the final years of his life, Sakamoto lost the strength to perform live.
Shortly after his death, though, his estate announced he had filmed a final solo performance which would be released in theatres posthumously.
Opus, Sakamoto’s final gift, is a hauntingly minimalistic and utterly spellbinding summation of his art, captured beautifully in black-and-white by his son, filmmaker Neo Sora.
The career-spanning performance features compositions ranging from Sakamoto’s days with game-changing electronic band Yellow Magic Orchestra, his iconic film scores including The Last Emperor and Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence, and his recent solo work.
Like Sakamoto’s final solo album, 2023’s 12, Opus features only the composer himself on piano — a bare-bones set-up that coincides with the setlist’s minimalist renditions.
Sakamoto’s world-class virtuosity on his instrument keeps this engaging, as he explores the vast range of sounds and feelings that one man and one piano can create.
Taking advantage of the dead-silent studio space that makes the stage, Opus emphasizes the piano’s percussive quality as Sakamoto plays around with volume and tonality.
In one moment, his fingers dance across the keyboard with feather-light force. In the next — or, at times, the same — they crash down on the keys, filling the room with harmonic or atonal echoes. Sometimes his fingers rest on depressed keys, letting the sound slowly fade away. Elsewhere he urgently lifts his hands, violently cutting off a note before it runs its course.
From his use of dissonance and long pauses to his emphasis on the mechanical creaks and moans of the piano’s keys and pedals, the presence of Sakamoto’s inclination toward the avant-garde bleeds in everywhere.
In one particularly striking moment, he places metal clothespins and screwdrivers on the piano strings in advance of a piece. The result is a hypnotic, ethereal echoing sound that is simultaneously moving and chilling.
The physicality of Sakamoto’s performance is also deeply compelling and, given the context, affecting. While playing, he sways a free hand along as if conducting himself, tosses around his well-kept shock of hair and solemnly bows his head in a mixture of awe and satisfaction. Each movement feels pointedly intentional and born entirely from passion.
Knowing that Sakamoto was late in his battle with cancer at the time of filming, one can occasionally identify the welling up and shoving down of pain in his expressions. In reflection, Sakamoto admits he was struggling around halfway through the performance. But at times, the sublimity of his art seems to overwhelm his pain — moments of climax coerce a youthful smile on his face.
Opus’s tragic context is impossible to ignore, but the utter passion behind Sakamoto’s performance is evidence of an artist at one with his work and at peace with his legacy. Each second and each movement brims with spirit and intentionality.
Just as Sakamoto does with the lone piano, Sora’s keen eye explores a surprising range of formal possibilities in the film’s single location. This excellent craft is what elevates Opus from a mere recording of a great performance to a great film in its own right.
The most impressive component is Bill Kirstein’s black-and-white cinematography. Kirstein manages to squeeze a dizzying variety of visuals out of the barren studio space Sakamoto performs in.
Bright white tones from the walls, piano keys and Sakamoto’s hair, are contrasted against the dark black of the studio lights, the cables snaking along the floor, the body of the piano and Sakamoto’s boxy glasses. Kirstein delights in creating stark lines between the tones. At times Sakamoto appears cut off below the neck by the piano, and elsewhere he seems caught in a solitary labyrinth of cables, lights and cameras.
In one particularly breathtaking shot, Kirstein captures Sakamoto’s hand on the keyboard in the reflection of his glasses.
Takuya Kawakami’s selection of shots often coincides with the performance, both directly — matching the edits to the rhythm and growth of a piece — and more subtly.
Moments of particular euphoria are matched with shots where Sakamoto commands the space, confidently hammering at the piano. In moments of intense melancholy, we often see only fragments of the man, his movements tired and weary.
Impressively, Kawakami keeps an admittedly repetitive film visually fresh, without making the edits so busy and frequent as to distract from the powerful performance on display.
Thanks to the craft of this small production team led by Sora, Opus transcends the usual pleasures of the concert film. It is a striking portrait of an artist living through his art, and pouring all of his remaining strength into a legacy-enshrining final act.
The film ends on one of Sakamoto’s favourite quotations: “Ars longa, vita brevis.” Art is long, life is brief.
Indeed, Opus seems to be the composer’s final assertion of art as eternal spiritual life.
Featured image by IMDb
