[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]
Body-swap stories are a dime a dozen in Japanese pop culture (e.g., Makoto Shinkai’s Your Name, too many episodes of various anime series to list), but Nobuhiko Obayashi’s I Are You, You Am Me (also known by multiple alternative titles, including Exchange Students and Transfer Students) is perhaps the finest example ever crafted.
The plot is as simple as it is familiar to even casual fans of the niche genre: following a violent tumble down a set of steep stone stairs, rambunctious but good-natured high schooler Kazuo Saito (the personification of the phrase “boys will be boys”) and his recently enrolled classmate, the charmingly girlish yet infuriatingly mischievous Kazumi, find themselves inexplicably transformed into one another; hilarity, hijinks, and heartwarming melodrama ensue as they desperately search for a way to switch back without arousing the suspicions of their parents and peers.
While the film occasionally indulges in the sort of crude, juvenile humor that you might reasonably expect from such a potentially perverse premise—several comedic scenes depict the characters acquainting themselves with their new anatomy, struggling to dress in their counterpart’s unwieldy clothing, and resisting years of socialization in order to behave “properly” (or at least convincingly) as the opposite sex—it gradually evolves into something significantly more profound and thematically rich. Performing stereotypical caricatures of demure femininity and brash masculinity allows the protagonists to better appreciate the common qualities that unite all human beings, regardless of such superficial, irrelevant distinctions as “gender.” Indeed, the relationship that ultimately (inevitably) develops between the pair is too intimate to be described as “romantic”: they grow to understand each other on a fundamental, spiritual level—an identity-blurring intermingling of “selves” that leaves an indelible impression on their psyches.
Obayashi’s sublime direction certainly elevates the material. Eschewing the manic, surreal, Saturday morning cartoon inspired style that he previously utilized in House (and to which he would frequently return; see: Sada, Labyrinth of Cinema), the auteur instead adopts a comparatively naturalistic tone, emphasizing the sprawling landscapes of his beloved home city of Onomichi. The only maximalist flourish of note, in fact, is an early shift from dreamily nostalgic black-and-white imagery to color cinematography—an obvious allusion to The Wizard of Oz that likewise heralds a transition into fantasy. In this case, though, rather than being transported to a whimsical world of wicked witches and flying monkeys, the audience experiences the same setting through a different point-of-view—a clever twist on a well-worn visual trope.
Also—and please forgive the non sequitur—this is, I believe, the third Japan Society repertory screening to jump scare me with a surprise Joe Shishido cameo (those unmistakable cheeks just catch me off guard). The programmers have got to be doing it on purpose!
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