March 2012 Archives

Minbo is, all at the same time, a satire of modern yakuza, a laundry-list of Japanese mafia intimidation tactics, and a quick education on why Japanese anti-yakuza law works like it does (or at least did at the time). And if ever a movie was a direct response to the introduction of a new law, it's this one. Somehow, on top of all of this, it manages to be a genuinely good movie.

Minbo centers around a large Japanese hotel trying to qualify for the privilege of holding an international political summit. The problem is that the staff has been kowtowing to yakuza for far too long and they've managed to infest the place. Executives appoint a rather frightened and unprepared man named Suzuki to face down these experienced criminals with the help of a bellhop, Wakasugi (is that a Jingi Naki Tatakai reference?). It doesn't go very well and the two make mistake after mistake.

They try to pay the men off, first, letting the gang know that they're willing to pay. Then they, at the behest of the yakuza themselves, show up at the gang headquarters, putting them in a situation surrounded from all sides by men with insane tattoos and missing fingers. In response to one incident, they even write a letter to the gang apologizing, giving the gang written proof that the hotel is taking responsibility. Later in the film, the gang even rolls out the speaker trucks - these big military-style vans covered in loudspeakers blaring whatever undesired information they like. Finally, it's too much for Suzuki.

Suzuki is hiding under the table, contemplating the terrible left turn things have taken, when a strange women joins him and Wakasugi under the tablecloth. Mahiro Inoue is Minbo no Onna, which translates to something like "Civilian Crime Woman." She's an attorney who specializes in dealing with yakuza interaction with katagi, or regular citizens.

In 1991, Japan introduced a set of laws called Botaiho, or anti-yakuza countermeasures. The law differs from American and European laws regarding organized crime in that it is administrative rather than criminal. It deals specifically with the way yakuza work. The law basically makes implied threats and intimidation subject to regulation and injunction. It's hard to cart someone off for veiled threats alone, but if someone feels threatened they can request an injunction against the threatening party. Then when the yakuza violates that injunction, they've violated a court order - sort of like someone violating a restraining order.

Ms. Inoue educates Suzuki and Wakasugi on the ins and outs of the Botaiho. It's not quite as spelled out as that, but that's pretty much what it amounts to. The movie is almost an advertisement for the new law. This is how yakuza work, and here's what you can do, it suggests. Ms. Inoue helps the two men setup a space specifically for dealing with yakuza in the hotel with big chairs, an impressive table and gold lettering on the door; all little bits of ego-padding for the yakuza.

This new anti-yakuza trio stands up to the bellowing and table slamming of the yakuza, standing firm through blackmail attempts, extortion, and intimidation. It's inspiring and, to a degree, educational.

When talking about Minbo, though, there's one element not directly part of the film that absolutely must be addressed. Following the release of the film, the gang parodied and mocked in the film was not very happy. Their pride and image are their income and their way of life. Along comes this director doing an incredibly effective job of mocking them. Director Juzo Itami was beaten, his face slashed multiple times, within a week of release. Five years later, when Itami was preparing to make another yakuza film, he threw himself off the roof of an office building. Committed suicide, right. Journalist Jake Adelstein wrote in his book Tokyo Vice that an unnamed source let word leak that Itami was forced off the roof by a gang of five men.

Minbo hit the yakuza right where it hurts, attacking the samurai image yakuza have of themselves, and damaging their image with their "customers," the business owners and citizens of Japan. A strictly educational film wouldn't have left any kind of impact, but a well-written satire like Minbo can gather all kinds of momentum. Unfortunately for the men who harassed Juzo Itami, their revenge for his film might've made it it an instant classic in Japan and a must-watch for anyone interested in Japanese organized crime.

In many ways, Japanese organized crime is no different from other organized crime groups. As described in Peter Hill's research, organized crime's basic business is protection. The yakuza is no different. Just like the mafia, they protect their own ability to do business effectively, and also they have to protect their own customers or someone would move in and take over for them.

What's been different about the yakuza for so long isn't what they do, or even how they do it, but how people see them and how they present themselves.

For many years, the yakuza have had sort of a truce with Japanese society. For years they stuck to mostly "victimless" crimes and were left alone. Things like gambling and sokaiya (shareholder meeting disruption) were either not considered to directly impact the general public or in some cases were actually legal.

Police would, of course, make a show of hassling them. Police raids on gambling operations, interrogations, that sort of thing. Except that detectives would warn the group about the raids so they could clean up the important stuff and set out some nice souvenirs for the officers to take as proof of the raid. They'd usually warn them when they, you know, stopped by for tea.

The yakuza haven't been without their benefits, either. As protectors, they have to protect. That means stopping random crime on their turf; punk kids, bosozoku gangs, drugs and whatever else wasn't under their jurisdiction. For a long time, many yakuza stayed out of drug running as well, considering it below them.

Because of this public tolerance, yakuza have been able to do things the American mafia never could. For example, a family might have an office with their crest above the door. "Headquarters of Tojo-kai," or something like that. Yakuza would come and go during the day, maybe stand and smoke outside. And you could tell a yakuza on-sight because they dress and walk differently than other people in Japanese society. In David Kaplan's Yakuza, a customs officer relates from his work that it's easy to tell a yakuza stepping off the plane from Japan versus other passengers. The fingers, pompadours and punch perms are one thing, but the real identifier, he said, was the walk. Yakuza strut. They walk with a swagger not usually seen in Japanese mannerism.

Aside from having offices and being quite obvious in mannerism, yakuza also carry business cards. Ryuji Goda, Omi-rengo. Sometimes they'd be left at a new restaurant so the owner would know where the protection money goes, or as an subtle notification that yakuza are involved in whatever dispute.

Speaking of disputes. Another way yakuza are part of daily society in Japan is that Japanese citizens see them as a viable business solution. When a dispute comes up that would involve painfully lengthy negotiation, the citizens- maybe small business owners, or someone who'd been in a crash trying to get money from their insurance company.

But times are changing. As the characters in Beat Takeshi's Outrage are killed off one after another, one remarks that the days of the traditional yakuza are over.

The yakuza encroach more and more on daily life. They hassle innocent people, engage in human trafficking, or even murder. Police have been forced to crackdown as public tolerance for the criminal element recedes, leaving them more exposed. Businesses have been more-or-less forced to put up signs that say they won't associate with yakuza in any way. The National Police Agency in Japan has put out a quota of 20 yakuza arrests minimum per month in per prefecture, according to an article from Jake Adelstein on JapanSubculture. Those warnings that preceded raids have stopped almost completely, the article states.

So are the yakuza going to fade away? No, of course not. They're just going to resemble the American mafia that much more. Publicly visible offices will be replaced with more subtle bases. Business cards won't be left lying around. Things will continue to move underground. The yakuza aren't going anywhere, no matter what society says, and if anyone can adapt to change, it's them.

"It was all fun and games until someone lost a pinky," said the Kumi-cho. Or something like that. If the tattoos many yakuza wear are the most enduring image, the amputated pinky fingers they sport are a close second. I think this particular tradition is what causes writers to stick the yakuza into "secret society" books and the like. The yakuza call it yubitsume. The ritual of cutting a finger off at the first knuckle.

Like tattoos, yubitsume is also visual shorthand for a director, comic artist, or writer to say, "shit's getting yakuza up in here." Very few yakuza stories go by without someone lopping a knuckle off. One particularly memorable sequence takes place in Battles Without Honor and Humanity, when Shozo Hirono performs the ritual. In a moment of dark comedy, he pushes the blade down and looks, only to find the missing joint, well, missing. While HIrono groans in pain, his brothers scramble around the gravel looking for the stump, finding it in the nearby flowerbed.

Historically, the ritual had a direct consequence. Wielding a katana with skill requires all of a swordsman's fingers and all the joints on those fingers. Cutting off a samurai's finger took away fine sword control and made him more dependent on his superior. Cutting off your finger as an apology was serious business.

I mean, it still is. But not for quite the same reasons. Nowadays, according to Peter Hill's The Japanese Mafia, the only thing it really affects is a yakuza's golf swing. Quite often, it's used as a preemptive apology. Even as a kid, you knew when you screwed up. My friend's brother would go stand in the corner in hopes of suffering less at his parents' hands later. If a member of the gang has done something that would cause trouble within the gang, cause loss of face for his oyabun, or worse, he might cut his finger off and deliver it, nicely packaged, to his boss as atonement.

While a yakuza's golf game is quite important to him, his swing is probably the last thing on his mind when he's getting ready to put his body-weight behind the blade.

The real consequence of yubitsume is societal. Just like tattooing, cutting off your finger off is a permanent physical brand, a signal to all that you are a part of the underworld. Sporting a missing finger like that is a quick route to unemployment in modern society. Incidentally, my old boss at K-Mart would've had a tough time finding a real job.

Part of what makes yubitsume such a strong apology is that it is inherently limited. One can only genuinely apologize so many times before he can't do the finger cutting himself anymore.

According to Hill, yubitsume is on the decline. Younger yakuza are preferring to pay fines. Yakuza with missing joints dropped, according to Hill, from 42% to 33% between 1971 and 1994. It still happens, though, and it isn't rare. It's a proud admission of sin and atonement within the crime family, and a sign to other that you are not to be messed with.

Atonement isn't the only reason one might perform yubitsume, though. There's also the weekly "half off" deal at the local ramen shop. Present a packaged joint for a free bowl of ramen!

No, no. Yubitsume for the purpose of apology is called "shinu yubi," literally "dead finger." The other kind is "iki yubi," or "live finger." An example of an iki yubi might be two bosses meeting to end a bloody war between their gangs. No one is apologizing, here. Rather, they're expressing to the other members of their gang and the executives of the other gang their complete, unquestionable sincerity.

Go ahead. Talk to the hand. Just try it.