I take the same train to work every morning. I ride in the same car, see a handful of the same people on my route, and don’t think about it past that, really. I’m sure we all can imagine that there’s a point where a person’s routine can switch into auto-pilot. Exit 8 gives us a decent enough warning on the human inclination to stick to a cycle.
Genki Kawamura‘s feature length adaptation of the indie game by the same name is an overlit, sadistic way to look inward. The game, developed by Kotake Create, is billed as a “walking simulator”; tasking the player to pass through loops of endless, identical corridors. The only skills needed to beat the puzzle maze are awareness and persistence. Correctly identify an anomaly, and you’ll advance to the next corridor until reaching exit 8. Miss one, and you’re sent back to exit 0. Miss two, and, well… That’s it for you.
The film opens during rush hour in Tokyo’s underground transit system. Our protagonist, “The Lost Man” (Kazunari Ninomiya), and the rest of the Tokyo working class, is returning home. Natural to its source material, the film’s main setting is the endless corridor, but the exposition shows a point of view of the public that can obviously be compared to an assembly line. People dressed in monotone, moving in hoards that represent a supreme lack of individuality. Kawamura uses the game’s simple and clean concept to nail in relatable themes of the working class that we might not even realize we perpetuate. From a viewers standpoint, the uncanny valley effect kicks in.
The Lost Man receives a call from his ex. She’s learned they are pregnant, and (irresponsibly, I’ll add), pressures The Lost Man into deciding if she will or won’t get an abortion. While having a good moment of dissociation, the protagonist ends up stuck in the inevitable hallway. Kazunari Ninomiya, pop star by day, makes a great “everyman” to represent the 30-somethings who work an okay-paying, probably boring job, but are still unsure if they actually feel fulfilled. He throws a tantrum that’s a horror it-boy quality of unhinged, and pays tribute to some historical performances in psychological horror.
This is definitely the last loop I’d want to run circles around. It’s deceptively spotless and uninviting. The harsh hospital lighting doesn’t allow for any rest. Luckily, nothing screams psychological terror like being trapped in a purgatory hallway with a confusing entity. Returning from the game is “The Walking Man” played by Yamato Kochi; the NPC that does only what his name says he does, as a permanent component of the puzzle. For the only other thing that moves in the corridor, he’s got two assets that play well with production; a horrifying smile, and an ultra aggressive, stiff as hell walk that must’ve been violently rehearsed.
The production details make the concept deliciously unnerving. I can’t stand the sound of footsteps on tile flooring after hearing The Walking Man repeatedly make his rounds. The sound, designed by Shouhei Amimori deserves praise for its depth of the long spans of silence broken by anomalies, to the fluorescent hums that amplify that solitude-induced mania. The theme tune of the film recurs often, just like the exit rounds do. I’d compare the feeling to a fraction of the “torture playlist” method used in Guantanamo Bay (I’m so serious), playing children’s songs on repeat until madness. Everything scary about this film is cyclical, and we know it’s inevitable.
Camerawork is a notable answer to the success of the video game to cinema screen pipeline. Starting in first person is a nod for fans of the game. Crawling out to third person to start introducing development into the small ensemble will keep casual movie watchers engaged. Throwing in bursts of cinematic trickery will keep everyone leaned in. In a story where setting stays constant, cinematographer Keisuke Imamura understands the importance of camera freedom. It’s playful, and the viewers’ stamina are the ones being played with. The camera almost acts as a roaming character used only to break the rhythm and add tension.
The simple idea easily becomes a fantastic source of rage-bait; an unironic staple in the gaming community. I imagine viewers will be frustrated with the protagonist’s refusal to get serious with his situation, or his emotional reactions. What I love about that frustration is that it still reinforces the idea of being unwilling to exit a toxic cycle; in-labyrinth or in life. The pro-life subplot, though, is outdated, and the only point in the 95 minute runtime that drags. It just could’ve done without, because Exit 8 does a fantastic job at using liminal, video game dread to describe and expose the magnetic pull of hollow, unchanging routines. If this is the worst case, anything is better. I’ll also be taking the bus next time.
