“Why do I have to die? I’m a genius… Why?” — Narishima

Japanese cyberpunk has always fascinated me because it embraces the grotesque, the surreal, and the transgressive without hesitation. It feels like the chaotic child of David Lynch and David Cronenberg: the abrasive surrealism of "Eraserhead" combined with the body-horror of "Videodrome." Where Western cinema often shies away from the bizarre, Eastern filmmakers boldly sprint toward it. The result is a subgenre that is messy, visceral, and often deeply disturbing (and I love it for that).

"Tetsuo: The Iron Man" is arguably the most famous example (though admittedly not one of my personal favorites, I find it a bit silly even though I think the topic itself is more than profound, but that’s its own essay). But "√964 Pinocchio" captures everything I adore about Japanese cyberpunk: its willingness to dive headfirst into discomfort, its commitment to practical effects and chaotic soundscapes, and its fearless confrontation with what we usually avoid.

The film follows Pinocchio, a memory-wiped cyborg sex slave discarded by his owner after malfunctioning, aka, suffering from erectile dysfunction. Lost and disoriented, he wanders through Tokyo until a homeless and amnesiac woman named Himiko discovers him and takes him in. Neither of them realizes that Pinocchio’s creators are hunting him down, determined to kill him before he regains full consciousness. We follow the journey of Pinocchio and Himiko, both burdened by their forgotten pasts, stumbling through a city where memory and identity have become meaningless as they struggle to piece together who they are.

This movie made me feel physically ill more than once (and I mean that as a compliment). The camera angles, the abrasive sound design, the practical effects, and even the acting all contribute to a relentless sensory assault. The choking, squishing, and chewing noises alone are enough to disturb you for days. And then there are the visuals, like someone casually eating cherries from a bowl of spit, which is something I never expected to witness in my lifetime.

The production itself adds another layer of intensity: the public scenes were shot guerilla-style without permits, meaning the confused and horrified reactions of passersby are completely real. When Pinocchio sprints through Tokyo, bystanders are essentially watching a man who appears to be genuinely losing his mind in the street, and that authenticity hits hard.

Japanese cyberpunk is often difficult to interpret; I frequently find myself watching deep-dive videos and combing Reddit discussions to understand what I just saw. But "√964 Pinocchio" is surprisingly straightforward, at least thematically. It loosely mirrors the classic Pinocchio narrative: an artificial creation longing for humanity, only to be rejected by the world meant to guide him.

To compare to the original text:

Narishima, the cyborg corporation’s leader, functions as a twisted Geppetto.

Himiko serves as an inverted Jiminy Cricket, Pinocchio’s conscience, though corrupted by her own trauma.

The creators fear Pinocchio reaching self-awareness, and once he begins to learn language and regain memory, the transformation begins. But not one toward humanity, but toward physical and psychological collapse. His body melts, peels, and reforms into something monstrous. In parallel, Himiko undergoes her own grotesque metamorphosis, expressed through what is reportedly the longest vomiting scene ever filmed. (I am not one to be nauseous at things like that, but that scene really got me, nasty asf)

After killing his creators, Himiko tears off her own face and throws it at Pinocchio. She ends up getting wrapped in like a cocoon, becoming a monstrous being. Pinocchio rips off Himiko’s head and places it over his own, binding them together into a single hybrid being. This final gesture implies that instead of continuing to evolve, instead of chasing consciousness, Pinocchio ultimately chooses annihilation through unity. He abandons individuality and finally achieves the connection he sought all along, but only in the most violent, self-destructive way.

One of the most impressive aspects of the film is what it accomplishes with so little. The cinematography is inventive: low angles, frantic cuts, handheld chaos, and makeshift dollies crafted out of wheelchairs and cardboard boxes. The time-lapse shots of Tokyo and the rapid, disorienting close-ups lend the film a sense of constant motion (it would get dizzying at some points), a world spinning too fast for its protagonists to keep up with.

It’s a masterclass in low-budget creativity. You feel the grime, the claustrophobia, the sweat of the city. It’s disgusting, but it’s beautiful in its commitment to its own aesthetic.

"√964 Pinocchio" is absolutely not a film for everyone. The nonstop screaming, vomiting, bodily fluids, and abrasive sound design will exhaust many viewers. It’s 97 minutes of emotional and sensory battery. But if you can stomach it, it’s an unforgettable experience—one of despair, transformation, and the brutal longing for companionship.

Watching Pinocchio literally melt and crumble at the end is genuinely heartbreaking. All he ever wanted was connection. He finds it only through destruction. In the end, the only way he can “become human” is by becoming something else entirely.

If you’re interested in Japanese cyberpunk or if you simply want to witness a film that refuses to hold back, I highly recommend giving "√964 Pinocchio" a watch. It’s disturbing, inventive, and unlike anything else.