The first Battle Royale. High School kids, ambushed like a mob of guerillas, better yet, like a pack of unearthly animals. Sent to confinement, forced to carve out their own souls, and eat them. This is their crime, but some have yet to commit, but it's safer to risk innocence than to play with contrition. Their little brains, a temple of thoughtless ideas, a surplus of ignorance, and they dare to raise their voices to the system that taught them about honor, justice, and self-respect. But it's not over yet, the teachers have been pushed to tyranny, and just like how they can give students that little halo of hope, they can strip it all away in an instant, spilling their virgin aspirations onto the cold pavement; such as this frozen tundra, where you plummet down onto your hands and knees; this shock is your reality, your classmate drags a metal object out of your side; it's like a bone that isn't too happy to move. It's content with your pain, and giggles with the contents of your pathetic flesh as it slides out in the smallest centimeters. You both cry in useless unison, she confesses her pre-adolescent crush for you, there is no chance of her being rejected. She comes down hard with all her final regrets into that outstretched neck of yours, the knife gets stuck halfway. You were forced to kill each other, all forty of you. This was the best solution.



The second Battle Royale. High School kids, ambushed like a mob of guerillas, or better yet, a mob of gorillas; sent to battle a war that no man would want to risk their precious lives to fight, so instead they pass the handguns to you, the kid. Your mission is to kill the survivors of the previous Battle Royale. Let me repeat that. You and your classmates, now have to kill the survivors of the previous Battle Royale (uh....what?). And to do it promptly, you have to go in while their weapons are sleeping; wait for that rousing, salacious yoke of pasty napalm to salivate downward, panicking that smoke below, the bitter gloom of imminent contact with the morbid blob will force the cloudy fabric to tear itself apart and flee into the enslavement of confined space. The vapor, now a galore of aeriform wings, coolly prances its awakened spirit, like an angel with classic curvatures awning its head. And this is when you strike. When Life is still young and beautiful, inhaling its first-ever breath, you make it swallow bullets instead, filling its esophagus. A horizontal storm of scorching rain suffocates the room, lungs escape out the doorway. The mangling horror limned the walls with little caves, holes of all sizes connected in a pattern-less anarchy. The artist smokes upon finishing the job. His bullets, savage fireflies packing extra flame in their tails, raged in from a distance; swirling in front of your eyes, attempting to follow some odd and barren choreography. They move recklessly, with no thought or reason, ripping the air diagonally, and flashing with an unrestrained excitement; like a new-born light that lacks discipline. It grasps at anything that can be an asset to entertainment. Sadly, human reaction isn't fast or smart enough, and it catches your preoccupied brain; your forehead becomes its playground. Then reality comes charging in, blindsiding your idiotic fantasies. You weren't focused on the situation, and now it's too late; in front of you appeared a bleary shape of a steady hand, patiently waiting for your eyes' undivided attention. It hung breaths away from your face at eye level, rigidly holding a wooden handle with a small silver rod protruding from it. You figured that it was the cause of the sudden and searing misery severing inside your head. You can’t tell if it's trying to push in further or to pull out completely, but you do feel the acuate pressure intently applied to the sharp object. It's lodged in your head, your eyes become permanently locked, unable to move. You’re stuck looking at what is directly facing you, an unstable smile of a mouth trying to restrain itself from losing into scolding laughter. Shock befalls upon the last of your thinning emotions, for you recognize the face, it's the one of your teacher, or at least it used to be. But now, you don't know anymore, and there is nothing to know. He jerks his hand backwards with strong momentum. The knife comes out, your Life slipping off the edge. You were daydreaming, and there is no dozing off while the teacher's talking. Your mind shouldn't have taken that damned vacation, shouldn't have left behind the present. Shouldn't have dispersed into a million thoughts. Now it's over, like wings without a host body, you fall down...you stop blinking.




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That was the first twenty minutes of the film, presented in fine caricature of course. The allure of that carnage and mayhem just seizes, captures, and pins the story under the disheveled chaos, catapulting everything and anything on top of this confusing randomness. This, to my careful acclamation, was a definite and decent imitation of the opening moments in the previous Battle Royale. The students, the little ants trapped in a box, scurrying to the four surrounding surface-less walls, attempting to form any link of friction that can hope to carry them over the barricade. But the vain heroism only had them falling backwards in raging chagrin, and their limbs punctured with purple bruises. Finally, they come to a submissive stop after knowing that there is no solution, they pile up at the center of the room, leaning and hugging, relying on each other for protection as last resort; waiting pensively for their set of instructions. The leader now walks in with his overgrown yakuza jacket, casting a shadow of pure empathy and dominance over his prisoners. His authority, a marathon of menacing howls, barely resembles any kind of distinct words or sentences. He pulls out a dagger, wields it in the air, as if summoning some unknown power, and dares anyone to challenge him right then and there. No one was brave enough to even breathe. A gashing smile lashed across his face. He then goes on to explain the rules of the game. His arms flails and batters in delightful madness like a cheap animation gone wild. Everyone steps back with careful caution, giving him an even wider area for his deranged promenade. He crosses boundaries, living away these last deciding days with no consequence. He gets in his students' faces, spitting threats in their ears, playing the harassing bully in the classroom; being bashful, talking out of his mouth, nose, and ear at the same time, as if grinding to some untimely melody layered with a multitude of creaky instruments. The horror descends upon us like a mist hiding behind our heads. My father's ulcer acts better. But that's beside the point. The main concern is that it works, only if temporarily. The cult leading man Riki Takeuchi made a charitable effort, to make his role as the sadistic teacher excessive and interesting, even if his acting was completely blind to the already-visionless direction that was stuck on one route, one path.



Only a bare and fatuous force would repeatedly drive this infant rationale of what they called a concept up against this dead-end, its stubbornness reeking beyond measure. This is merely an idea with no brain, a plot with no idea, twisting on the ground like some dying fetus. That's when the fiery darkness arose, and stepped on it, again and again. And then the moon fixed itself in the center of the frozen sky, bringing a quiet order, taming the hurricanes. The increasing air of intimidating silence fans down that steaming human hydrogen, still wilding out in that room, calling attention upon himself. He eventually cools, and comes to a restful halt. He makes his way back to his cage; the old beast was done feasting. He just sat at his assigned desk popping pills, contemplating his war of men against children, power against freedom; with milligrams of amphetamine crumbling in between, nerves turn into wires. And then, lightning struck. The warning for the abomination that is bound to arrive, the amaranthine atrocity that no man or God can prepare for; the rest of this two-hour long damnation.




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The students gather, and squeeze themselves into a topless water tub, heading towards the forbidden garden. The bags of munition, Halo vests and armor were shoved in their tiny chests, regardless if they want it or not. They hesitantly put them on, scared to death of the flying view that's in front of them. A battalion of fireflies lit aflame, mosquitoes and killer bees zipped by like little missiles. The ocean screamed, the water was blown open with holes, splashing waves hitting the faces of classmates. A spraying haze of blood and bodies sinks down below. When the ship made it to shore, half the students were dead. Their names headlined the screen, and I didn’t feel as much as a tingle. Who were these teenagers? What were their hobbies, talents? What were their dreams when they slept? What did they dream of when they woke up? What games did they play? What books did they read? There was nothing given, nothing was even wasted. And there was so much to give, so much to waste. And none mattered, other than those gorgeous dismemberments, those beautiful shrapnel stuck in faces, those cute eyes getting gouged out, heads getting blown in, bombs going astray without censor, taking numerous lives. And somewhere God just killed a kitten. The leader of the group, punk rocker Taku, miraculously feints bullets with his bony and crooked frame. The snipers were lenient enough to look to the side, and miss with purpose. He gets far enough to reach the target, wanted terrorist Shuya, a survivor of the last Battle Royale. They met in bouts of uncertainty, and the apex of vengeful anger. But their guns won't comply, not against the enemy of your enemy which is, of course mine enemy and your friend at the same time. They just stare at candles for hours, eyes masturbating to the naked flame stripping, dancing; and at bedtime, they relate their abhorrence and disgust towards the society and the founders who betrayed them. This means world wide war, kids against adults, the chosen against the corrupt, our plight will be their downfall, makes absolute perfect sense. The opposing hands finally clutch each other in brothership, eagles fly overhead. Wind rustles the fallen autumn leaves, in the bushes you can hear the cynical laughter.



A big joke is within, over, and at the same time beneath this film. A bad one at that, so embarrassing that you don’t know if the proper action is to fake a smile or just nod one's head, letting the annoyance pass on and fade by itself. It's just that it takes two hours for it to pass, and fifteen more minutes for it to completely exile the vicinity. Takeshi Kitano breaks down this pitiful gag in a minute short cameo. He enters his daughter's room, finds a spot of comfort to sit in, and hoping to have a cooperative conversation between them. He decides to take her out for a father-daughter night of fine dining, but he's just opening up his chest for more of her scolding remarks. They fire into him, since he forgot his daughter's birthday. He was late. In succumbing to her non-acceptance, he walks back to the door, and turns towards his daughter, stretching out his index finger, erecting his thumb, and slowly raised his hand to his temple and asks:




"Is this better? Shiori?"



As for this film, hell yes Mr. Kitano. Hell YES.




Sadly, the Kitano cameo was the last and only scene filmed by director Kinji Fukasaku before he died of cancer. His son Kenta took over the project immediately after. But one has to always wonder, did he really die of cancer?




The first Battle Royale film was a marvelous piece of controversy, it had a thirst for affection, meaning, and it wanted to be understood. But this had nothing but wonderful confusion, and it will only have Kinji's holy spirit revived as Onibaba searching the streets like a Tokyo zombie, haunting his son for a long, long time.






Recommended: No

Suitability For Children: Not suitable for Children of any age