And as the moon cascades into its slumber and the sun perches itself on the thinly veiled horizon, a new figure emerges. Under the pitch-black headgear and ghoulish red frames, the wolf reverts back to its original form. The predator is gone, leaving a man in its place. This is the tale of Jin-Roh. The tale of a lone wolf.
Like an urban mythos being brought to life, Jin-Roh wisps the viewer up and sends them jettisoning into the unknown. A place where alternative Japan find itself in a state of civil unrest. Tension builds, tempers flare and riots break out in the damp decrepit streets. In an endless pursuit of unattainable justice, the people has had enough and violence is the only ultimatum that would voice their grievances. But standing between them, the bureaucrats that dip their probing fingers into their pockets and the satisfaction of unadulterated vengeance, are the Kerberos Panzer Cops: an elite counter-terrorism group tasked with oppressing and carrying out capital punishment against any individual or organized body that threatens the stability of Japan's government.
With swift precision and unwavering conviction, they descend upon the detractors. Giving no time for pause and leaving no room for sympathy, once their fangs sink in, there's no letting go. No pleading for mercy. No hints of empathy. Just the transparent hand of the pack delivering the gavel with a devastating blow.
But despite the atrocities committed by this unit in the name of justice, when their impenetrable armor is removed, what's shown are people that turn out to be surprisingly human, sober in their awareness of their cutthroat methods and expected duties. And it's this unmasking that introduces us to Kazuki Fuse; a man who isn't completely unified under the pack's objective, and the one we follow after an incident brands him with a hellish memory that he cannot erase — witnessing a girl taking her life by self-detonation right in front of his eyes. He could wash away her blood stains but he can't rinse away the permanent scar left on his psyche. And so the wolf is ousted from the pack, shedding his animalistic tendencies in search for answers far greater than himself and for a truth far crueler than the actions his pack partakes in.
More often than not, the best stories of fiction tend to be the ones that tell universal truths. These are the stories embellished with themes and life lessons that beckon back to real world scenarios. They adhere to primal instinct and timeless constants, making them tales with longevity beyond the topical comings and goings of contemporary media. Fairy tales are by far the most elementary example of these kind of stories. Originally starting out as a form of storytelling intended for listeners of all ages (as its original German term of "Märchen" meant "little story"), it's only in recent centuries that they've been narrowed down to being featured primarily in children's literature. And while not very common anymore, we still get rare cases of fairy tales being aimed towards a much older, intellectual crowd. Jin-Roh is one of these rare occurrences. It took the basic structure of the folktale, Little Red Riding Hood, and retrofitted it into a gripping tale of betrayal, yearning desire and fulfilling one's purpose.
But the movie is about much more than that. It's about coming to terms with the choices you have to make. Forgiving yourself, even when doing so only serves as self-pity for the defendant. It's a story about humanity's sins and how we go about dealing with it. But perhaps more important, Kazuki Fuse's sins and his willingness to carry that cross, even if it means discarding what little humanity he has left in the process. And in an almost ironic twist of faith, Fuse find himself coming face to face with a woman bearing a striking resemblance to that of the suicide bomber that set him on his journey to begin with. And so begins the warped tale of their uncanny relationship and the dreaded path they're destined to follow.
Originally intended to be a live-action film from Mamoru Oshii's Kerberos Saga manga, it was later decided that it would undergo the animation route instead, with Oshii hiring, who was at the time, an up-and-coming key animator and future frequent collaborator, Hiroyuki Okiura, in what would become his directorial debut, to help see Oshii's vision through. This decision to switch from live-action to animation was perhaps the best move that he could have taken for the project, as it allowed the movie to flourish in ways that only the boundless freedom of anime could allow. But since the screenplay was intended for the live-action treatment, we're given techniques and refined storytelling that's often reserved for that medium in particular. Jin-Roh, as a result, was an animated film that took the best of both worlds.
This was immediately noticeable with the hyper-realistic anatomical structure of all the characters introduced, the dark hues and lush layered color of the matte paintings that loomed in the background, the meticulous attention to detail to even the most minuscule of objects that found itself littered throughout each scene, and in the movement of the shifting environment that our characters find themselves traversing across. All of these attributes placed Jin-Roh in a realm rarely achieved by other animated features. It's a lived-in universe independent of the viewer's gaze and awareness of it. An almost tangible form that's just out of reach.
Scattered with motifs that beckon back to the classical Red Riding Hood folktale and other parables that were gracefully interwoven between these time-stamps of unkempt tranquility, Jin-Roh rides the thin line of heady content, while still being an enthralling thriller planted firmly in the realm of theater. It walks this tightrope effortlessly, stringing us along with it. And with the violins slowly creeping into the mix and the unnerving thump of drums that echoes the heartbeat of the city, the time spent here becomes symbiotic with our living quarters. Immersion that blurs the line of augmented reality and the screen that keeps us staring through the looking glass.
But the truly memorable moments blossoms when everything else takes pause, leaving the audiovisual cues and actions on screen to do the legwork. It's the mechanical thud of the Brigades' footsteps ringing out in the distance. The heavy breathing and frantic staggering of the prey, feet sloshing through the echo chamber of the sewage canal. Wind interspersing between follicles of hair, faint glimmer of cold sweat hanging off the chin. Beady eyes jutting frantically at its final glimpses of color, right before the thunderous clap of gunshots ring out, metal slugs tearing into the soft tissue of an unwilling participant. These are the moments that Jin-Roh becomes more than just a movie; it becomes an experience. Moments that keeps us under its spell, only to find ourselves snapping out of it when the credits begin to roll and our reflection enters the frame.
In-between all of this, we're given several stories meshing together into one cohesive piece. One of which is a game of cat and mouse carried out by several law-enforcing agencies within the government. Fuse finds himself caught up in the power struggle due to his connection with the Wolf Brigade — a secret subsidiary of the Kerberos Panzer Cops. Each of these agencies partakes in this charade of comradeship with fingers crossed and daggers pointed at each others' backs. But the Public Security division gets more than what they bargained for when their prey bites back. Political subterfuge is met with bloodshed and Fuse find himself at a crossroad that will forever alter his course.
A decision rests in his hands. Forbidden love or the special armed garrison that makes up his pack? Would he challenge the narrative, that red thread of ill-fate that binds the wolf and red-hooded woman? Or will he succumb to the natural flow of the world and snuff out the warmth he's found? And here we're forced to stand, in the ironclad boots along with Fuse, as the weight of his decision presses down on his shoulders. Hard-body wrapped around the soft, warm embrace of fragility incarnate. Time is up. An answer must be given. And we're all held hostage to hear the final verdict.
Jin-Roh never lets up, it keeps the viewer entrenched in the underpinnings of its universe. No stone is left unturned. No emotion is left unaccountable. It presses forward, taking us down every avenue along the way. By the time we're met with our final destination, every nook and cranny make itself known unto us. The world of Jin-Roh shows its hand without so much as flinching in its decision. We're left mentally exhausted but amply rewarded. And while there's no comfort assured to us at the end of the journey, there's a feeling of finality that gives us a chance to exhale burden-free.
But that blessing isn't extended to our man-at-arms.
Despite his best efforts, Kazuki Fuse will always be an outcast. He could walk upright, intermingle with the faceless masses, carry on trivial conversation and be just another sheep guided by the invisible hand of bureaucratic meddling. But when all the masquerading is over and the sun retires for the moon's return, Fuse finds himself facing the truth once more. The sheep's clothing is tucked away, blood-lust coats his throat, and his true nature, the wolf, is revealed once more.
Jin-Roh stands as one of the most visceral and haunting viewing experiences I've had in all the years I've spent consuming titles in the anime medium. There are moments here that still leave me with goosebumps from just reminiscing about it. Oshii's prowess for strong, uncompromising storytelling and Okiura's dedication to seeing it brought to life, made this a pairing on par with the unified work of other established duos in the medium like Yoko Kanno and Shinichirō Watanabe. It was a cerebral experience that knew when to land the emotional punches and when to rein it back to let the impact settle in.
And as far as an anime goes, Jin-Roh's shadow dwarfs the efforts of most animated films I've seen up to this point. There are even moments that I believe outshines Oshii's magnum opus, Ghost in the Shell. It's truly impeccable craftsmanship. A title that won me over with its opening sequence alone.
"We are not men disguised as mere dogs. We are wolves disguised as men."
Haunting, relentless and often contemplative, Jin-Roh brands its viewers with an unflinching look into the hidden folds of humanity's perpetual sin. It's a powerful romanticizing of a classic tale but done so with a modern twist. With powerful imagery that becomes ingrained into your subconscious, and a potent message that opens up the channels for meaningful discussion, Jin-Roh will go down as an unsung classic that will be appreciated by those fortunate enough to experience what it has to offer.
