The King of Dogs is a King Amongst Animated Films

Inu-Oh, directed by Masaki Yuasa and written by Akiko Nogi, is a modern-day performance that tells the story of Inu-Oh—a gifted dancer and singer ostracized for his deformities—and a young biwa player who is rendered blind by the greed of those in power. Together, the unlikely pair form a troupe and set out to appease the lingering spirits of the Heike clan by performing forgotten their tales. As the two gain popularity in their defiance of censorship and societal norms, they also learn about the dark truth behind Inu-Oh’s “monstrous” form and unique abilities to hear the voices of the dead. 

Though the stories of Heike were historically told through noh theater (sarugaku at the time), Yuasa boldly incorporates rock musical elements into the duo’s performances, painting their rendition of sarugaku as the rebellious rock and roll of 14th century Japan. Not only does this result in incredibly catchy musical numbers that are sure to stick with the audience long after the movie’s run time, but it also allows the traditional instruments to shine in new and interesting ways that appeal to modern audiences. Queen Bee’s Avu-chan is the final cherry on top, his raw vocals and stylistic range showcased across the genre-diverse soundtrack: from grungy songs like “Whale” (鯨) to “The Dragon Commander” (竜中将) that is reminiscent of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” with its sudden shifts in style. 

But how can we discuss the true artistry of this movie without touching on its animated medium? Yuasa takes advantage of animation’s capacity for stylistic flexibility and otherwise impossible perspectives to not only highlight the importance of sound, but also to immerse the audience in the story’s shifting timelines. Scenes that illustrate historic events usually have sharply contrasting colors with textured patterns that one might expect to find on traditional Japanese clothing. Whether it’s the texture of the ocean as we watch a family sent to “find the Dragon King’s Palace” or the dynamic freeze frame of the Battle of Dan no Ura, the seeming homage to traditional Japanese fashion is absolutely stunning.

These scenes with sharp color contrasts are completely different from other natural landscapes throughout the movie. Here, colors have less defined boundaries and tend to bleed into one another. The palette is also more realistic, sometimes to the point that the scene is impossible to differentiate from a photograph.

Stylistic shifts force the audience to acknowledge the significance of perspective, especially when it comes to the art of storytelling. The third and most distinctive style that we see throughout the film are the fuzzy abstractions of Tomona, our blind biwa player. When the wind rustles the leaves in trees, all Tomona “sees” are the free flying leaves; when a blind priest strums his biwa and sings tales of Heike, he sees the strings vibrations. But what is most telling is how vibrantly these sounds “appear.” The minimalism of his worldly perception is—ironically—visually stunning, making his relationship with Inu-Oh all the more important. The framing of Tomona’s blindness and Inu-Oh’s unique physique as being gifts unappreciated by society is not only socially conscious, but incredibly refreshing. 

As a whole, the film proved to be a gorgeous marriage of modern and traditional forms of storytelling made accessible to a wider audience. Its semi-biographical depiction of a historical figure lost to time adds a new layer of complexity to the already riveting mystery of Inu-Oh’s secret origins. From a narrative, audiovisual, and socially progressive standpoint (the challenging of gender norms, implicit homoeroticism, reframing of disabilities, and commentary on censorship), Inu-Oh was a masterpiece that absolutely blew my mind the first and second time I watched it.