Cutie and the Boxer

Zachary Heinzerlig’s documentary introduces us to 81 year old Ushio Sinohara and his wife Noriko, a fascinatingly dysfunctional and bohemian couple living in New York, struggling to make ends meet. 

Ushio is a painter and sculptor. His method is gloriously idiosyncratic: attaching sponges to boxing gloves, he soaks them in paint, and proceeds to punch his way along the canvas, literally beating the art out of himself. The finished pieces are Pollock-esque, but arguably less thoughtful. It’s the scenes where the audience are able to witness his technique that amuse the most, and it’s clear that the director has a keen eye for the surreal. This is apparent throughout; a particular highlight is the scene in which Noriko washes her cat by literally sponging it down in their sink and squeezing it dry. Having questioned my trusty, cat owning plus-one, I can confirm this is not a normal way to treat your feline.

Yet amongst the snapshots of artistic eccentricity, there is a clear theme of unequal relationships woven into the depiction of Ushio and Noriko’s meeting and marriage. It is telling that despite being a highly talented painter, Noriko is (unlike her husband) not introduced as an artist. Yet her paintings, characterised by the figures of Cutie and Bullie, are the ones that tell the tale of their meeting and marriage. In these short animated segments we gain an insight into his overpowering nature, the imbalances caused by their twenty year age gap and the sacrifices she made for her husband: putting her art on the backburner to raise their child, and dealing with Ushio’s alcoholism. The issue is a relentless factor in the couple’s life, the mantle being taken up by their son Alex, who appears briefly, first as a baby in his mother’s drawings and then stumbling drunkenly through their tiny flat. His appearances providing some of the movie’s most haunting scenes.

It is quickly clear that despite Ushio’s ostensible lead, the real point of interest to the director is Noriko. We only ever hear her side of the story, and she is the one who narrates the film. This parallels the control she seems to exert over Ushio in their private life: on the one hand she is his cook and his assistant, laughingly described by him as “average”, yet she set the prices on his works, negotiates when confronted with a hilariously over eager and culturally inept buyer, and later goes on to have her own art shown in a joint exhibition with her husband.

Heinzerlig is obviously a fan of both artists’ work, and his film is tinged with a romanticism regarding the nature and process of creating art. However, the grimness of their situation and the difficult nature of their relationship is inescapable: unpaid rent hounds them as they prepare for their exhibition, with tensions slowly rising as Ushio is unable to sell his works, all the while the camera unflinchingly capturing the realities of devoting one’s life to art.  The juxtaposition mostly works, but the film occasionally teeters on the edge of being depressing: the stakes are almost too high and the characters too endearing and good natured to allow the viewer to sit comfortably. Added to that the director’s silence behind the camera can irritate, as questions that are begging to be asked remain ignored.

The cinematography is beautiful; capturing the mundane moments of the couple’s lives in lingering, almost voyeuristic shots. Undoubtedly the film works as a casual portrait of an elderly couple, but I couldn’t help leaving the cinema feeling dissatisfied.