The story is that a budding Japanese filmmaker flew to the US with just a 16mm camera to record a life in the day of Puerto Rican boxer Jose Torres, silver medalist three years before in Melbourne. This is while he was still puzzling about sculpted cinematic narrative, what his father had been doing with flower arrangements.
The actual story is that there is no story.
We have just a few visual brushstrokes, with only some of them about boxing. The form is raw, embraces spontaneity and imperfection. We spend a lot of time in recollection, be it in training or kicking back afterwards with a game of cards.
Normally, a thing like this would lead up to the 'big fight'. It culminates here with the sight of the deserted boxing ring after, the floor strewn with ticket stubs and upturned plastic cups.
There is nothing more here than a few days lived, a little bit of time unspooled. You can't afford to miss this if you want to know Teshigahara.
The actual story is that there is no story.
We have just a few visual brushstrokes, with only some of them about boxing. The form is raw, embraces spontaneity and imperfection. We spend a lot of time in recollection, be it in training or kicking back afterwards with a game of cards.
Normally, a thing like this would lead up to the 'big fight'. It culminates here with the sight of the deserted boxing ring after, the floor strewn with ticket stubs and upturned plastic cups.
There is nothing more here than a few days lived, a little bit of time unspooled. You can't afford to miss this if you want to know Teshigahara.
