With enough intertextuality to rival an Angela Carter novel, Takashi Miike blitzkriegs his way into the traditional American western, blasting through its chest to lacerate lungs, spleens, livers, pancreases, hot-pumping blood-frothing black and white hearts, leaving enough blood viscidly slithering in its reels to satisfy legions of cinophiliatic sadists, masochists too, craving construction, conflagration, annihilation, irons, flowers, prurience, self-indulgence, honour, death, love, viciously and communally feasting upon one another, in a beautiful beastial banquet of carnally re-formulated comedic and romantic horror, leaving no trope untethered, in a search for individual purity (whose owner wants nothing to do with it). If you are searching for another Western, and only seek to see one and only one ever again, ensure that your pick is Sukiyaki Western Django: there's more artistry in 35 seconds of this searing bloodbath than 56 minutes of 3:10 to Yuma or The Assanination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, although these films seek to achieve objective reverberations of a different breed.
Two Japanese clans meet. In Nevada. They fight, they forage, they flicker and fuck, ravaging culture for idyllic muck, breaking through history's presence in stone, growing a bleeding, convulsing, pulsing, impoverished, unleashed, brazen, tome.
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