There’s an almost primal satisfaction in watching someone’s carefully constructed life crumble under the weight of their own ambitions, especially when it belongs to someone who thrives on exploiting others. At the very least, that’s what Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s “Cloud” (Japanese: クラウド) conveys to its viewers. This is the dark heart of Kurosawa’s latest film, a cautionary tale that invites us to revel in the rise and inevitable fall of a man so consumed by his quest for profit that he forsakes everything else—morality, relationships, even his own safety. Masaki Suda delivers a chillingly nuanced performance as Ryosuke Yoshii, whose detached approach to online reselling veers from opportunistic to predatory.
Kurosawa, known for his slow-burn storytelling and explorations of alienation, frames “Cloud” as both a morality play and a modern tragedy. The film probes the soulless hustle of late-stage capitalism and the internet’s power to turn anonymous grievances into collective vengeance. Overall, while the film is an uneven experience as it shifts from icy precision to chaotic violence, it remains deeply compelling. Through Yoshii’s undoing, Kurosawa forces us to confront uncomfortable questions about ambition, exploitation, and the blurred line between justice and retribution.
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Opportunism and Profiteering in the Digital Marketplace
From the outset, “Cloud” ensures that we know exactly what kind of man Yoshii is. In the opening scene, he negotiates with an elderly couple selling off thirty boxes of medical equipment. With an air of detached professionalism, Yoshii offers a pitiful ¥90,000 (approximately $583) for the lot—a number he knows is a fraction of its real value. Later, we watch as he lists the items online at ¥200,000 (around $1,295) each, selling out within minutes. This transaction encapsulates Yoshii’s modus operandi: Exploit the desperate and profit from their misfortune.
Kurosawa wastes no time interrogating Yoshii’s moral calculus. One of his sellers, frustrated by his brazen lack of effort, pointedly asks if he acts purely on “impulse and instinct.” Yoshii doesn’t hesitate to confirm. Her reply—“Ever thought that’s wrong somehow?”—hangs in the air, a direct challenge to Yoshii’s worldview. Kurosawa films this exchange with an unsettling clarity, forcing the audience to grapple with their reactions. Are we appalled by Yoshii’s callousness, or secretly impressed by his audacity?
Yoshii’s profound oblivion to his own selfishness, a quality “Cloud” clearly highlights throughout its runtime, lends the film a streak of dark humor. His interactions with his victims—many of whom go on to torment him—are laced with an awkward hilarity. They respond to his indifference with a mix of rage and disbelief, as if silently asking, “Are you really this dense?” It’s this combination of audacity and cluelessness that makes Yoshii such a fascinating character. Suda’s performance captures this duality with precision, balancing cold calculation with moments of almost comic detachment.
The Double Life of Yoshii and “Ratel”
This detachment extends beyond Yoshii’s business practices and into his personal life. While off his computer as “Ratel,” he seemingly enjoys a happy relationship with his spendthrift girlfriend Akiko (Kotone Furukawa). However, even that is a relationship devoid of genuine affection, with their interactions dominated by talk of profits and logistics.
Even at his day job at the factory, Yoshii’s commitment is hollow. His boss Takimoto (Yoshiyoshi Arakawa), impressed by Yoshii’s apparent work ethic, offers him a promotion, but Yoshii declines with characteristic bluntness: “I’m just unassertive. It only looks like I’m committed.” The line underscores his apathy for everything outside his reselling business.
The distance Yoshii cultivates from those around him is thrown into sharp relief by his encounter with Muraoka (Masataka Kubota), a former classmate who first introduced him to reselling. Muraoka, though morally compromised, represents a connection to Yoshii’s past and offers him a lucrative partnership. Yet Yoshii rejects him outright, preferring to remain the sole architect of his increasingly dubious schemes. This choice reinforces Yoshii’s isolation, cutting him off from even those who share his worldview.
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Kurosawa’s Trademark Unease—and the Descent into Chaos
Many of Kurosawa’s trademarks feature here: slow-burning narratives, themes of alienation and moral decay, and the filmmaker’s uncanny ability to craft unease from the mundane. The first act’s meticulous focus on Yoshii’s daily grind and his toxic relationship with money is classic Kurosawa, blending detachment with tension as the audience waits for the inevitable fallout. Yasuyuki Sasaki’s cinematography and Takuma Watanabe’s music heighten the paranoia, with lingering shots and subtle auditory cues building a palpable sense of dread.
Kurosawa’s control over pacing and tone is most evident in these early scenes. The sense of inevitability builds slowly, tightening its grip until even Yoshii’s cold calculation begins to crack under the weight of unseen threats. The careful layering of these elements makes Yoshii’s eventual unraveling all the more engrossing.
The tonal shift comes when Yoshii quits his factory job and relocates with Akiko to a remote lakeside house. What begins as a bid for freedom quickly devolves into paranoia. The victims of Yoshii’s schemes, emboldened by the internet’s anonymity, organize a mob bent on revenge. Their methods range from the petty (a dead rat left at his doorstep) to the terrifying (an elaborate plan to dox and hunt him). The tension Kurosawa builds here is palpable, with Sasaki’s camerawork lingering on ominous corners and shadows, inviting us to experience Yoshii’s growing unease.
But as the film pivots into its action-heavy second half, it trades psychological nuance for more conventional thrills. The revenge plot escalates into violence, streaming-era mob justice played out with guns and makeshift weapons. While the set pieces are undeniably gripping, they feel at odds with the film’s earlier restraint. There’s no denying the primal satisfaction of seeing Yoshii’s downfall unfold; but even as I fancy myself some schadenfreude, this pretty much wasn’t it.
Cloud without a Silver Lining
Thematically, “Cloud” is relentless in its bleakness. Its title, a nod to both the digital cloud and the metaphoric fog of greed, captures the film’s view of modern life: opaque, isolating, and devoid of redemption. Here, Kurosawa leaves no room for hope. By the end, Yoshii is a shell of himself, undone by the very forces he sought to control. Even Akiko, whose initial loyalty seemed unshakable, reveals a darker side, pushing Yoshii further into his downward spiral.
What prevents “Cloud” from being a truly great film is its uneven execution. The supporting characters, including Akiko and Yoshii’s assistant Sano (Daiken Okudaira), feel underdeveloped. And while the tonal shift to action-packed chaos has its merits, it risks alienating viewers invested in the film’s earlier subtleties.
Even so, Kurosawa’s vision is undeniable. The film offers an audacious critique of greed and revenge, bolstered by Masaki Suda’s performance. Yoshii is not a character we root for, but he is one we cannot look away from, a man so consumed by his ambitions that his downfall feels both inevitable and perversely satisfying.
In the end, while “Cloud” is an imperfect morality play for the digital age, it nonetheless works. It forces us to confront our own complicity in systems that prioritize profit over humanity, even as it indulges in the dark thrill of schadenfreude. Watching Yoshii’s business crumble is both a warning and a spectacle. More importantly, it is proof that in Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s world—genre mashups and tonal inconsistencies be damned—no one escapes unscathed.
