The Cats of Gokogu Shrine focuses on the feline residents of a coastal village, and how humans and animals can co-exist

Fresh off the back of Flow's ground-breaking Oscars win, The Cats of Gokogu Shrine offers another worthwhile trip to the cinema for cat lovers, sceptics and haters alike.

There's an inescapable symbolism embedded in the film's central location: initially constructed as a dwelling for kami (the deities of the Shinto religion), this ancient shrine by the ocean's edge has since become a site of worship for the stray cats who lounge in its garden and perch atop its stone monuments.

One imagines the spirits' potential displeasure at their own usurpation — though this colourful coterie of cats has also attracted its fair share of human detractors.

The surrounding coastal village of Ushimado has previously been at the centre of director Soda Kazuhiro's work, with Inland Sea and Oyster Factory documenting the erosion of its fishing industries amid Japan's modernisation. A distinct sense of place, shaped by both economic and cultural upheaval, helps ground the four-legged frivolity of Gokogu Shrine.

The film's curiosity extends to residents of all stripes, resulting in a rambling, bittersweet reflection on humankind's co-existence with some of nature's cuddliest creatures.

Soda (who operates as an all-in-one filmmaking team) often shoots the cats low and up close, meeting his subjects on their level. Scrappy handheld camera work helps channel the frantic perspective of the strays, most memorably in an opening shot where an orange tabby pounces on an external microphone (despite the director's protests).

In the streets below the shrine, the local fisherman are routinely hassled as they cast their lines from the pier and its neighbouring car park. One regular stands on the back of his kei truck, using the high ground to fend off attempts at stealing his fresh catches, before flinging a fish to the hungry horde.

Individual cats have become celebrities around town: one particular ginger cat with a domineering stride has earned the nickname of ‘the boss' (“Here comes the big shot,” someone coos as they ascend the shrine's steps), while a young woman is glimpsed searching for a black-and-white cat, Ushi-Kun — “He's my idol,” she explains.

Enigmatic, cutthroat and adorable in equal measure, Soda's feline subjects are endlessly fascinating to observe.

But Gokogu Shrine goes beyond its slice-of-life cinematic tourism to depict community efforts to protect — and curtail — the cats.

The harsh realities of their world is conveyed in the number of injuries seen on screen, and the credits pack a gut-punch in revealing just how many of the film's furry faces have since gone missing and/or died.

Beyond keeping the shrine's residents fed, volunteers (comprised almost entirely of young women) participate in an annual sterilisation campaign to keep the population from spiralling out of hand. It's a task carried out without pleasure; one of the volunteers feels compelled to apologise to one of the cats for trusting her as she lures them into a cage. The impounded cats violently thrash around, the sound of their wails deafening.

Distressing as it is, it's no different from the act of desexing any domestic pet — though it underlines the tension between the free-roaming animals and the regulated society they intersect with.

One of the shrine's volunteer caretakers (comprised almost entirely of elderly men) hesitantly confesses on camera to not being endeared to cats, and notes the problems they pose for gardening and maintenance work.

At a board meeting, the issue of cat waste is a common bugbear among members who unwillingly clean up the droppings, day after day. Even to those who'd relish the opportunity to live in a wild cat hotspot, it's hard to deny that the locals never asked to take on such unglamorous duties.

When it comes to leaving mess behind at the shrine, however, the board unanimously agrees that humans are worse.

Across the 2-hour run time, the lives of various citizens are teased out; many come up to Soda himself to inquire about what he's filming, before easing into conversation. A depressingly common thread is the dwindling opportunities for work: one of the caretakers, a former bus driver, expresses the hope that he may retire when he turns 80 soon.

The Cats of Gokogu Shrine can come off as meandering, particularly as focus is drawn away from its title characters. Soda's interest lies in the broader dynamic between humans and cats, rather than any individual relationship depicted on screen — a choice that somewhat puts the audience at an emotional distance.

Yet there's a generosity to the film's vision that avoids simple binary distinctions between cats (pure of heart, innocent) and humans (evil, ungrateful). Soda acknowledges the complexity of this coexistence, where animals can function simultaneously as companions, idols, vagrants and pests.

Even the barrier between documentarian and subject is flimsier than it may seem. One of the cats, Chata-Kun, makes a surprise visit to the director's lodging halfway through the film and refuses to leave. Later, as a typhoon roars through the village, he begs for shelter outside the glass door.

Neither Soda, nor the viewer, is able to resist his calls.