There is a quote I adore by Friedrich Nietzsche, who boldly proclaimed that “without music, life would be a mistake” – I’ve constructed many conversations around the power of music in the past, and it bears as much relevance today as it did when the words were first spoken. To be a musician is to construct something from nothing, using only an instrument to create haunting, complex art. Not many people have defined the concept more than Ryuichi Sakamoto, who spent his entire professional career, as well as his personal life, working as a musician. His efforts to change the way we perceive these seemingly arbitrary notes that are placed in a particular order to evoke some reaction are astonishing, and he is truly one of the great artists of his generation. However, the latter portions of his career were unfortunately accompanied by his struggle with illness, which occupied the last decade of his life, until he sadly succumbed to a terminal disease exactly a year ago. As someone who was always very open about both his creative process and his personal life, there was never any ambiguity following him, as evident in the number of documentaries and long-form interviews in which he explored both his personal and professional life. Following from the exceptional Ryuichi Sakamoto: Coda from a few years ago we have a companion piece, Ryuichi Sakamoto: Opus, a very different kind of film but one that still perfectly fits in with the preceding documentary, which was a more traditional account of his creative process as well as his personal battles, as told by the musician himself. Working with director Neo Sora, Sakamoto endeavoured to give the world one final gift, which took the form of this unorthodox but deeply moving semi-documentary that serves a very particular purpose.

In this film, Sakamoto simply sits behind a piano and performs for 100 minutes, going through some of his most famous compositions in what he intended to be his final concert after his disease had progressed to the point where he wasn’t able to perform in person any longer. However, he was intent on still performing one final concert, which took place in a quiet studio, where he is the only person we see, surrounded by a presumably small crew dedicated to capturing every nuanced detail of his performance, and which leads to a powerful and fascinating depiction of an artist as he engages with his craft for what seemed to be the final time, at least in terms of a semi-public performance. Simplicity has always been something that Sakomoto strived to achieve throughout his career – his compositions were beautiful precisely because of how they adhered to the most minimalist of qualities, and while they were hauntingly striking, it’s the fact that they are so bare and unfurnished that makes them so effective. He may not have been able to have access to that striking energy that comes with being in front of an audience, but he nonetheless performs with precision and incredible dedication, knowing that this may be one of the final times he is able to do so before he inevitably passes from this illness, with which he has already made peace. It cannot have been an easy process for anyone involved – making a work of art that is labelled with this sense of conclusiveness is never pleasant, since the lingering feeling of dread is found throughout. However, this is soon rendered irrelevant when we realize that Ryuichi Sakamoto: Opus is not an attempt to make the viewer pity Sakomoto or even feel any sense of melancholy. Instead, it’s a testament to not only his resilience, but his desire to provide us with a parting gift, a chance for him to share his love for music with the rest of the world, hopefully leaving a legacy behind that reflects a steadfast dedication to his craft.

When choosing to make this film, both Sakomoto and Sora were presented with several possibilities – knowing that he was willing to perform a full-length concert one last time opened up several opportunities to do something interesting. However, those expecting some self-reflective, dense examination of life and death are not going to find it in Ryuichi Sakamoto: Opus (and those seeking that should look at Coda, since that covers most of Sakomoto’s personal quandaries and experiences), since there is nothing but the music found throughout this film. The only location is a studio, occupied by a piano and a few microphones designed to capture every sound emerging from within it. We only see Sakomoto (although the shadows and shuffling of the crew as they stand in admiration can be vaguely heard, but are not at all intrusive), and there are only four words spoken or read in the entire film. It is also filmed entirely in black and white, and while the camera is very dynamic in capturing every angle it can, it never once seems to intrude on Sakomoto’s space. Instead, it just serves to provide a brief snapshot into his artistic process – whether focusing on his face, which alternates between the pain of the disease that is causing him to feel weak and fatigued, and the hands that have composed some of the greatest pieces of music of the 20th century, we are given unfettered access into his world, which exists solely through the music. We barely hear him talk, and the decision to make Ryuichi Sakamoto: Opus entirely free of any context was a daring decision, but one that paid off. While most of us know what this film intended to be when entering, it is entirely possible that there are some viewers who are not familiar with Sakomoto, so for them this is simply 100 minutes of beautiful music, accompanied by the realization upon seeing the final dedication that he has died – and yet regardless of how much we know, the music itself doesn’t change, nor does Sakomoto’s performance of his compositions, since music doesn’t alter with time or disease. It is timeless and in choosing to make a film that is almost entirely free of any additional content other than the music, Sakomoto truly makes something very special.

Ryuichi Sakamoto: Opus may be as close to a plotless film as we are likely to find in terms of the form and content, but this doesn’t mean that it lacks layers in terms of creating something of a narrative, even if only marginally. Sakomoto has been quite open about the fact that he doesn’t view himself as an artist who is free of flaws. If anything, his art comes through his willingness to embrace his imperfections, since it’s often in these shortcomings that the best work is found. An artist who resists the inevitability of making a mistake is not worth having an audience, since the fear of failure does not ever facilitate growth. This film is pre-recorded, but yet functions as a concert – there are barely any cuts, and most of the film takes place in long shots in which the camera records the music being performed. There are a few moments where Sakomoto either plays a wrong note, or has a bad start to a particular piece that he makes the decision to restart – it would have been very easy to remove these moments, but yet they’re the ones that give the film its nuance, and shows that despite being a master of his craft, and someone with a long and illustrious career, mistakes are all part of the process. This not only endears us to Sakomoto, who is beyond humanized in these moments, but it shows that his process is not one built on avoiding the errors, but rather making these mistakes and building from them, which is often the foundation for the most complex and riveting art. It conveys the message that great work does not flow from even the most talented of artists, and instead comes about through a process of trial and error, so expecting perfection is simply unfeasible. It’s hardly a surprise that the only spoken words in this entire film are “let’s try it again”, which comes about when Sakomoto decides that he isn’t playing a particular piece sufficiently, and instead, he starts over. It’s a lovely, intimate moment where we witness him not only acknowledge his imperfection but gladly embrace it, showing that even at the end of his life, he was still striving to be the best possible artist he could be, in spite of whatever mistakes are made along the way.

It may have been a year ago that the world lost one of its greatest minds, but his legacy has stayed behind, and more people than ever are seeking out his work, being considerably moved by the incredible compositions that defined his career. Filmed just under two years ago, and serving as Sakomoto’s final known performance, Ryuichi Sakamoto: Opus captures the concluding chapter in the life of a true revolutionary, and whether a dedicated acolyte or someone new to his work, this film offers the chance to spend some time with an artist as he does not except perform, which was all he was born to do. In addition to the aforementioned moment, the only other written words we find in this film come about right after the credits, in which the adage “ars longa, vita brevis” appears. The exact translation and meaning of this ancient Latin term is still debated, but generally, the sentiment is that art lasts forever, whereas life is very short. We can read this as being supportive of the idea that despite being a master of his craft, Sakomoto never achieved perfection, and continued to make errors in his work until he very end, which adds a human element to the sometimes impeccable reputation he has as someone responsible for impossibly perfect music. The other reading, and perhaps the most meaningful one, is that we are only here for a fleeting moment, but the legacy we leave, whether it’s art or something else, lasts forever. We exist for such a short time, but it is usually enough to make some kind of lasting impression, which is something we should all strive to achieve, whether we are artistically inclined or just engaged in the sometimes fickle but beautiful process of being human, an idea that is so beautifully embedded in Sakomoto’s work.