Category: action

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action drama, melodrama jidai-geki literary adaptations

A Double-Edged Sword: The Duality of “Lady Snowblood”

Ever wonder where Quentin Tarantino gets his ideas? In the case of Kill Bill (2003-04), his most significant source of inspiration was Fujita Toshiya’s Lady Snowblood (Shurayukihime, 1973). Fair warning for the potentially squeamish: Lady Snowblood was several decades ahead of its time in terms of its frequent depictions of stylized violence. Based on the manga by Koike Kazuo (who also wrote the film’s screenplay), the film is a jidai-geki with a twist – not to mention a snap, a slice, and a gush of blood. Set in the late nineteenth century, Lady Snowblood follows the story of Kashima Yuki (Kaji Meiko), a sword-wielding heroine on a quest to avenge the beating and rape of her mother Sayo (Akaza Miyoko), as well as the murder of Sayo’s husband and son. Yuki herself is conceived for the sole purpose of revenge, as Sayo realizes that she needs  a progeny to track down and exterminate the three people who took part in the heinous attack on her family. After Sayo’s death in childbirth, Yuki embarks on a life of training in weapons and martial arts in order to prepare her for her ultimate destiny: confronting her mother’s attackers one by one, with predictably graphic results.

Lady Snowblood’s strength lies in its duality. The film explores problems associated with modernity and Westernization, but does so through a complex and modern narrative structure, an unorthodox visual style, and the presence of a powerful female protagonist in a genre usually dominated by male characters. In this respect, it’s at once conservative and progressive – a not insubstantial degree of thematic depth given that Lady Snowblood is a film best known for its blood and gore. Set during the Meiji period, the film depicts the era as being overrun by the potential pitfalls of modernization: organized crime and the yakuza, gambling, corruption, duplicity for the sake of money, and militarism run amuck. The criminals’ most horrific crime – the murder of Sayo’s family – is fundamentally rooted in their capitalistic lust for money; they set up an extortion scheme to exploit the local villagers’ fear of the military draft (a by-product of modernization and Japan’s desire to achieve military parity with the Western powers).

Symbols of modernity and Western influence are also present throughout the film. Two of the criminals, Tsukamoto Gishirô (Okada Eiji) and Kitahama Okono (Nakahara Sanae), use guns, while Yuki prefers the more traditional sword. In addition, the film’s climax takes place at a Western-style masquerade ball, where Tsukamoto mingles with foreign dignitaries and members of high society as part of his work as a weapons dealer. The linkage created between militarism and growing Western influence stands as a condemnation of some aspects of modernization, and indeed lends the film a degree of topical relevance (both in the 1970s and today) given ongoing debates in Japan concerning Westernization and traditional Japanese culture. The final image of the ball sequence – a dying Tsukamoto falling from a second-story railing, over which are draped side-by-side American and Japanese flags – is representative of the film’s philosophical underpinning. Tsukamoto, the embodiment of all of the negative aspects of modernization, pulls the Japanese flag down to the floor with him as he falls, implying that Japan itself is being pulled down by its abandonment of traditional principles like honour, integrity, and family. Yuki’s traditional dress and strong family allegiance to the mother she never knew posit her as the defender of these traditional values.

Standing in contrast to the film’s thematic conservatism are its strong female protagonist and non-traditional structure. In spite of her traditional costume and values, Yuki herself is arguably a progressive figure; she wields a sword and defeats legions of dangerous men, taking a beating and somehow always emerging alive and (relatively) unscathed. This type of female protagonist is absent from most other jidai-geki but makes sense within its proper historical context; it serves as a vaguely feminist reaction to earlier Japanese films, as well as fitting in with the cycle of rape/revenge movies made all over the world in the 1970s, including Sweden’s Thriller – A Cruel Picture (Bo Arne Vibenius, 1973) and the United States’ I Spit on Your Grave (Meir Zarchi, 1978). In Lady Snowblood, Yuki uses the expectations of her male antagonists to her advantage, both in terms of their objectification of her and her perceived weakness.

The style and structure of the film itself is likewise untraditional. Fujita employs an incredibly complex narrative structure, including long flashback sequences and, in one instance, a flashback within a flashback. Maps and documents are also shown to provide necessary exposition, and voice-over narration conveys relevant information to the viewer. Furthermore, the controversial content of the film – explicit violence and some sexual imagery – seemingly contradicts its more traditional thematic elements, as does Fujita’s use of unorthodox photographic techniques, including extreme camera positions (low-angle shots, extreme close-ups, and canted angles) and jarring snap-zooms. In several scenes, the non-diegetic music utilized is completely anachronistic, seemingly inspired more by the 1970s funk music evident in American exploitation films of the era than by any traditional Japanese sources. These elements result in a style of filmmaking that comes across as ultra-modern, adding to the film an intriguing interplay between traditional themes and non-traditional storytelling techniques.

Elements of Tarantino’s Kill Bill that have been inspired by Lady Snowblood are too numerous to list, but they include the film’s revenge plot, its jumbled narrative structure, blood that shoots like a faucet, Lucy Liu’s character’s costume (a replica of Yuki’s), and the use of Lady Snowblood’s theme song (“The Flower of Carnage”), sung by Kaji Meiko herself. Discussing Lady Snowblood merely in relation to Kill Bill, however, is unbefitting its quality. Like Gojira (Honda Ishirô, 1954), Lady Snowblood uses genre cinema as a means of exploring pressing social and political issues. As long as you don’t mind the occasional severed torso, the film is both fascinating and fun.

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action anime anti-war literary adaptations

“Akira”: A Review

Akira is a beautifully composed and philosophically rich anime film written and directed by Otomo Katsuhiro in 1988, based on his hit manga series of the same name. Set in a futuristic “Neo-Tokyo” in 2019 that is recovering from an apocalyptic “World War Three”, the film centers on the characters of Kaneda (voiced by Iwata Mitsuo) and his close friend Tetsuo (Sasaki Nozomu), who are members of a tough adolescent biker gang. During a violent encounter with a rival gang, Tetsuo stumbles across a disfigured child who has escaped from the confines of a government testing facility. The Japanese military, in hot pursuit of the young escapee, interrupts the gang battle and takes the child back into their custody. Heavily injured, Tetsuo is also taken to be rehabilitated, and soon undergoes extreme experimentation under the orders of Colonel Shikishima (Ishida Taro) after discovering Tetsuo’s unique, super-human mental frequencies.

Kaneda takes off on a quest to find Tetsuo, where he joins a group of revolutionaries and falls in love with a young rebel named Kei (Koyama Mami). Upon finding the military base where Tetsuo is being held, Kaneda and the rebels witness the government experiments as they go horribly wrong, causing Tetsuo to gain extremely unstable telekinetic abilities. Here Tetsuo transforms from a friendly member of the bike gang into a ruthless, psychopathic super-villain. Tetsuo’s obsession with his newfound power corrupts his personality, and he sets off on a mad rampage, threatening anyone around him, including Kaneda. The lifelong friendship between the two reaches a breaking point as Kaneda reluctantly chooses to protect Neo-Tokyo and the rest of humanity from his destructive friend. An epic battle ensues between the two, and the end result leaves the viewer in complete visual and thematic awe. Issues of government versus the people, corruption versus morality, power versus love, and even the origin of the universe tangle together in a heart-wrenching conclusion, where only one of the two friends can be left standing.

This work of anime is of particular interest because of its cultural relevance to the real-life, post-war psyche in Japanese society during the 1950’s. For instance, Akira reveals societal fears that one could more readily expect from films closer to the conclusion of World War Two, such as Gojira’s (Honda, 1954) undertones of war and atomic destruction. The fact that Akira was made more than 40 years after World War Two and still conveys fears of the threat of wartime bombing clearly shows the longevity of such an entrenched concern in Japanese culture. Further, the morbid, apocalyptic imagery at the hands of Tetsuo’s wrath is strikingly similar to the historical images of destruction from Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Indeed, it can be argued that Akira’s opening images of a massive explosion directly reflect the outcome of World War Two. Thus, there is ample evidence in Akira that speaks to Japan’s unique history and reveals the nation’s most intimate cultural fears.

Perhaps the most important element of Akira’s cultural relevance is how it reflects the post-war Japanese desire to reconstruct a new identity on their own terms, liberated from the restrictions of the American occupation government and rising from the ashes of wartime devastation. Certainly, Akira’s Neo-Tokyo is on the brink of falling apart, and Tetsuo’s rampage opens a window of change and opportunity where the citizens begin to question the ills of their society and government. One quote from a government test-subject in the film sums up the post-war Japanese mindset perfectly: “There ought to be a future we can choose, and it is up to us to find it”.

As an anime film, Akira’s magnificent visual backgrounds deserve mention. The majority of the film is set in Neo-Tokyo’s inner-city, and Otomo creates a glamorized, yet representative portrayal of Tokyo’s dense metropolitan atmosphere. City scenes are dominated by the bright, never-ending sea of lights from apartments and skyscrapers that loom ominously in the background of nearly every shot as Kaneda’s bike gang weaves their way through Neo-Tokyo’s never ending streets. These metropolitan backdrops are so imposing that the viewer does not see a single speck of the night sky, visually reinforcing the inescapability of the bikers’ dangerous lifestyle and the complete corruption of Tetsuo’s personality due to his newfound powers. In addition, these backgrounds greatly heighten the film’s aesthetic value: it is almost as if we are viewing a piece of art rather than a film. Indeed, this is what one desires from a filmic adaptation of such a vibrant Japanese manga series, and in this respect Akira does not disappoint.

The true mastery of Akira’s backdrops are revealed when we reach the climax of the film, as we escape from the claustrophobic cityscapes into the vast expanse of blue sky depicted over the final battle between Kaneda and Tetsuo. Here the artistic choice to dominate the frame with a natural, wide-open sky serves a deep purpose; it foreshadows and symbolizes Neo-Tokyo’s potential liberation from Tetsuo’s destruction.

Overall, Akira deals with numerous themes of power and corruption, post-war Japanese politics, love, honor, destiny, and even the elusive search for the origin of the universe. For some, the film may try to include too much thematic meaning or address excessive cultural and philosophical questions that could overwhelm the viewer. Certainly, it is nearly impossible to wrap one’s mind around the scope of the film and its profound moral, cultural, and metaphysical avenues by viewing Akira just once. However, from an artistic standpoint I highly recommend this film, as it lends its magic through magnificent aesthetic detail in every scene, as well as its awe-inspiring use of backdrops which “set the stage” perfectly. One must view this film with respect for its artistic creativity, where Otomo’s attention to detail is invaluable, regardless of minor issues in conveying clear and concise themes. For a younger audience, some discretion is advised, as the film contains a brief moment of nudity and excessive violence and gore. However, in accordance with the rest of the film, these instances are so dramatically depicted that they themselves mesh harmlessly into the gorgeous visual spectacle that is Akira.

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action chambara/chanbara jidai-geki literary adaptations

Zatoichi: Chambara’s greatest anti-hero

Misumi Kenji’s The Tale of Zatoichi (Zatôichi monogatari, 1962) –based on an original short story by novelist Shimozawa Kan— is a film of the chambara and jidai-geki traditions whose main character represents a subversion of the archetypal samurai hero which other Japanese directors seem to romanticize. Even filmmaker Kurosawa Akira – in a film like Seven Samurai—who portray samurai as solitary, in the verge of extinction, and even criticizes their violent and elitist lifestyles, still manage to uphold their legendary image in the process.  With Zatoichi, however, we have a completely different story of a subhuman character that manages to rise to the same iconic status of the samurai by his own hand and even manages to surpass them.  Zatoichi, commonly referred simply as Ichi (Katsu Shintarō) by everyone else, is a blind masseur who besides living off his lowly profession and playing dice, roams the land as the deadliest swordsman for hire by petty yakuza gangs in the late Tokugawa period (1600-1868). To balance the scale in an on-going clan feud, one the leaders of these rival gangs hires ronin Miki Hirate (Amachi Shigeru) –a masterless, but renowned samurai— which forces the opposing leader, Sukegoro Iioka (Shimada Ryūzo), to hire Ichi. He hesitantly accepts, but not before bartering for a better wage; however, as the two gangs continually delay the inevitable conflict and tensions grow, the masseur and the ronin happen to meet and learn respect for each other. As the conflict nears, it’s pretty obvious that Ichi will be pitted against Hirate, something only the samurai seems more enthusiastic about.

We are then left with the question: Can a lowly swordsman, handicapped by blindness, ever be a rival to a master samurai? Throughout the film we are led to believe Ichi’s skill is comparable to, perhaps better than Hirate’s. Sukegoro speaks of the story when Ichi sliced a bottle and no-one even saw the blade, but merely heard it returning to the scabbard. However, as Ichi refuses to draw his sword and be an entertainer to his yakuza hosts, the gang members grow suspicious of his abilities and continue to take him for granted as an opportunist and low-end blind masseur. Furthermore, as Alain Silver explains, Ichi lives in “a time when masseurs (a common occupation for blind men) were at the bottom of the caste ladder… subject equally to scorn from peasants, merchants, and small-time criminals, not to mention samurai.”[1] Added to his constant freeloading off of Sukegoro’s hospitality and his reputation as a trickster when playing dice, for a good portion of the film’s beginning Ichi is portrayed as no better than the small-time criminals he is dealing with. Nonetheless, as the story moves on we’re led to consider that there may be more to Ichi than meets the eye. As if a comic book superhero, Ichi’s hearing abilities are highlighted; he can clearly hear other people’s conversations when they are far away and is even capable of hearing the sound of small fishes pulling on a fishing rod. He even seems to have a powerful sixth sense in detecting Hirate’s tuberculosis, a disease which the samurai attempts to conceal (but fails to do so when he eventually succumbs to it momentarily). Eventually, as if surrendering to the audience’s desire to see him slice things, Ichi masterfully wields his shikomi-zue (a sword hidden within a walking cane) against an unsuspecting candle, frightening Sukegoro and his gang into compliance.

However, though the later 27 Zatoichi films would have us believe that Ichi is merely about the show of swordplay and quick slicing, most of the focus of this first film is on Ichi’s conflicted psyche. As a low caste member of society, Ichi’s status opposes his deep sense of duty and strict respect for the way of the warrior –bushidō—obviously exemplified by Hirate the samurai, who from the onset not only recognizes Ichi’s physical training, but an “almost menacing intensity emanating from [him]”. Ichi has no reason for following any code of conduct, after all he is no samurai, but Hirate further notes that though they “both are alone in this world, [Ichi] face[s] the harsh world bravely.” Alain Silver further makes a better point of this when he says that “the moral exposition of the blind masseur is rooted in feudal values [bushidō], so that the structures of the [film] as a whole depends on his support of certain of those values and his opposition to others of them.”[2] In other words, Ichi is always a blind masseur, a gangster or trickster at times, but ultimately a hero and a righteous warrior; the perfect picture of the antihero. We could say simply, that perhaps Ichi knows which fights to fight, so that he may not make much of Sukegoro’s and his men’s constant insults, but when it comes to respecting Hirate’s desires to fight, or defending helpless women (there’s a less important character called Tane who serves as Ichi’s possible love interest, though she’s more in love with him than it’s the opposite case), Ichi will not flinch and runaway.

Perhaps one interesting aspect of Mizumi Kenji’s choice to show the conflicting sides of Ichi’s mind is through the use of low-key lighting and contrasting shadows. Oftentimes much of the action happens in the innards of the yakuza’s houses or the darkened streets and forests paths of the rural town the film takes place in. When we first meet Ichi it is pure daylight, but it seems that as he delves deeper into the conflict between this rival gangs, that things turn much darker, at times pitch black. The previous quote from Hirate about Ichi’s bravery happens in one such darkened home, Ichi’s face completely parted by light, so that we can only see one side clearly; the other one covered in shadows. Perhaps a rather conventional or clichéd lighting setup, but one which is nonetheless effective in getting the point across. It’d be even more interesting to point out that Ichi’s darkened visage is facing Hirate, who has just claimed to be the opposite of Ichi (hence a coward), but I’d say that to some level that “dark side” of Ichi is Hirate, because the way of the warrior, though noble, must always come to a grim conclusion. By the end of the film, when Ichi leaves it’s almost as if Ichi has awakened from a very dark sleep; once again a clear daylight. This descent into darkness may be important to understand the ending, which I will not spoil, and a few more things may be considered about how that relates to Ichi being blind, and as he says “always living in darkness”.

So though to most people who have ever heard of the blind, but highly skilled swordsman that is Ichi, the slicing and dicing of people and candles may be a triviality or a guilty pleasure (highly emphasized by the successful sequels), it may seem interesting that in this first take on the story of Zatoichi the conventions of Ichi’s conflicted personality were established for generations to come. Sure, Kurosawa’s samurai may suffer as well from conflicting issues towards bushidō, but only one lowly blind swordsman managed to rise above all chambara samurai and become an icon of the genre itself – albeit only in his home country, but where perhaps it matters the most. Plus, a side note, in one of the coming sequels Ichi fights Kurozawa’s Yojimbō; whether he wins or not I leave it to the viewer to find out.

[1] SIlver, Alain. “The Blind Swordfighters”. The Samurai Film. (Woodstock, New York: The Overlook Press, 1983), p. 78

[2] SIlver, Alain. “The Blind Swordfighters”. The Samurai Film. (Woodstock, New York: The Overlook Press, 1983), p. 80

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action drama, melodrama jidai-geki literary adaptations

Distortion of Truth – Kurosawa Akira’s “Rashômon”

Kurosawa Akira’s Rashômon (1950), a jidai-geki or ‘period piece’, is both a profound examination of the human condition, and a phenomenological meditation about the nature of reality, perception, and truth. The film stars Mifune Toshirô  as ‘the bandit’, Tajômaru; Kyô Machiko as ‘the samurai’, Kanazawa Machiko; Mori Masayuki as ‘the wife’, Kanasawa Takehiro; and Shimura Takashi, Chiaki Minoru, and Ueda Kichijirô  as ‘the woodcutter’, ‘the priest’, and ‘the commoner’ respectively. The famous Japanese cinematographer Miyagawa Kazuo (Ugetsu, Sansho the Bailiff) worked extensively with Kurosawa in the making of the film. In 1950, Rashômon, a film based on two stories by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, was screened for and admired by American audiences; it was awarded the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival, and received an Academy Honorary Award at the 24th Academy Awards. Retrospectively, it can be said that Rashômon introduced Kurosawa and Japanese cinema to Western audiences; it was released in America in December 1951 as a ‘mystery-crime-drama’.

Kurosawa utilizes multiple narrators and flashbacks to tell the story of Rashômon; this storytelling technique serves both the plot and the theme – the second of which I will get into shortly. On its surface, Rashômon is a crime-drama about a murdered samurai and the ensuing trial. The film begins with three men, a woodcutter, a priest, and a commoner, seeking refuge from the rain in the former gatehouse of Rashômon. The woodcutter, who discovered the body three days earlier, and the priest, who witnessed the man alive that same day, recount the “horror stories” testified by the three (supposedly only) direct witnesses: the bandit, the samurai’s wife, and the dead samurai himself – who testifies through a medium. With the use of flashbacks, each of them tell their side of the story; the three stories differ significantly, sharing little in common – only that the bandit tricked the samurai, tied him up, and raped his wife. The stories lack conformity in respect to the moods, facial expressions, behavior, and actions of the characters, as well as the murder instrument and the killer’s identity. Later, the woodcutter reveals that he actually witnessed the whole thing; a flashback of his story is then shown, but even his story, the one most likely to be genuine, has holes.

While Rashômon is a murder story on the surface, the deeper philosophic themes are remarkable and more important. The murder story is utilized as a means for examining the human condition; the contradictions in the four stories reveal a horrifying truth – that the human ego is responsible for their inconsistencies. At the most basic level, each of the four storytellers could be lying, and, to some extent, they likely all are. However, even if they are not lying, even if they genuinely believe they are telling the truth, their stories will still not corroborate. This is because, as Kurosawa reveals with the utilization of flashbacks, each character’s story relies on their subjective experience of the world. However, this reliance is not dependable, given that phenomena, such as reality, perception, and truth, are distorted by the human condition – the ego. Along with all its attributes, such as, emotions, thoughts, and memories, the ego distorts one’s perception, which in turn distorts one’s reality, which distorts truth. The truth is that there cannot possibly be a subjective account of truth – the fallibility of the human condition does not permit this. The two versions of the swordfight between the bandit and the samurai illustrate this notion that the ego distorts perception, reality, and truth. The bandit reveals a story fitted to his liking, while the woodcutter does the same for himself. To some extent it’s because of deceitfulness, but, to some extent, it is because of how they unconsciously choose to perceive things. The bandit unconsciously chooses to believe that he is a powerful warrior because, deep down, he wants to believe it is true. As the commoner states, “it’s human to lie…most of the time we can’t even be honest with ourselves”.

Moreover, in Rashômon, Kurosawa and Miyagawa utilize several camera techniques and aspects of cinematography to help illustrate the story. First of all, each of the flashbacks are shot slightly differently in order to show that reality is different for each person; noticeable differences in camera movement, angle, length of shot, length of take, and image location express that each of the stories are distorted by the characters’ subjective experience of the world. For the bandit, quick cuts, close-ups and lots of action is used., for the samurai and his wife, longer takes are used, and the length of the shot changes formulaically – a good example of this is the long shot of the tied-up samurai that slowly cuts to a medium-shot, which slowly cuts to a close-up – and, for the woodcutter, camera techniques are the least exaggerated. Moreover, Kurosawa often presents the characters on screen in a triangular formation – this is particularly noticeable in the present-day scenes. I believe this triangular formation is implicative of Plato’s tripartite soul – a much earlier examination of the human condition. The three desires can be easily applied in Rashômon – the bandit pursues appetitive desires; the samurai, spirited; and the woodcutter, rational. This understanding also explains Kurosawa’s intentions behind the aforementioned modifications in camera techniques during each of their stories. Lastly, in each of the four flashbacks, there is a recurring shot of the sun through the trees. These shots brought Kurosawa much fame and recognition, but they are not merely used for aesthetic value. The sun through the trees is the only consistent image throughout the four stories; this implies that only nature, all that is non-ego, can be revealed truthfully.

Several years after my first viewing of Rashômon, it remains one of my favourite films. I believe that the philosophic themes within the film are beneficial to the cultivation of any bright mind. Furthermore, Kurosawa’s concise and thoughtful use of aesthetics, characters, and storytelling make the film both captivating for the casual film-viewer and archetypal for the avid cinephile. For these reasons, I highly recommend the film to anyone.

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action anti-war gendai-geki Kaijû

“Gojira”

The original Gojira (English title: Godzilla), released in 1954, was directed and written by Honda Ishirô. The concept of a dinosaur-type creature terrorizing the coast of Tokyo came into fruition when producer Tanaka Tomoyuki read of the Lucky Dragon 5 incident and was inspired by an American film of similar concept, The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms. Leading the cast of Gojira is actor Shimura Takashi (Rashomon (1950) and Seven Samurai (1954)), who plays Dr. Yamane Kyouhei; other notable actors includeTakarada Akira, Hirata Akihiko, and famous “suit actor” Nakajima Haruo. Due to critical and financial success, Gojira has spawned many sequels in Japan and remakes in the United States.

The film begins with normative opening credits, but viewers are presented with terrifying roars and subsequent thundering orchestra sounds that initiate fear and suspense. Since Gojira was a ground breaking film at the time, the opening credits would have surely frightened a few! In the opening, we are presented with a scene in which an assembly of navy men aboard a ship near Odo Island are terrified of an unknown force. The ships alongside the men, are shown decimated – which then makes headline news and causes public uproar in Japan. What could cause such a drastic challenge to national security? Reporters hear of this incident and are soon flown in to Odo Island. Dr. Yamane suggests sending investigators to the island. He finds large radioactive footprints, and consequently presents them in a public inquiry. Army ships are deployed, but they succumb to Gojira’s violence. One of Dr. Yamane’s colleagues, Dr. Serizawa (played by actor Hirata Akihiko), invents an “oxygen destroyer” that has the dangerous ability to abolish all sea life-forms – and thus Gojira. After Gojira appears again to attack a coastal city, the Japanese Army decides to create an electric fence to stop Gojira. However, it is futile as Gojira is able to withstand the fence and the army’s gunfire – which give way under his continued rampage.

The most remarkable aspect of the film is the psychological creation of fear. In the opening credits, the type of movie and creature we’ll face is alluded to – an unknown shrieking, wrathful voice angrily roars. In the following scene we are given an image of several ships full of sailors being frightened by something unseen. Since all the ships are destroyed in unison, it gives a feeling that this unknown creature is capable of mass destruction. All in all, the noted scene being around just two minutes quickly elevates the idea of fear, since our greatest qualitative fear is of what we can’t see and what we don’t know. Having the horrific incident making headline news causes a concern for not only Japan as a nation, but its entire people as well. The most horrendous scene in Gojira follows soon afterwards. The Japanese natives’ spiritual ceremony obviously unsuccessful, we are soon shown an image of a destructive storm against a coastal city. The lack of success from the native ceremony possibly hints to how old Japanese traditions may not work in the new age of science. As the scene continues, we are given a shot of a just-woken-family-of-three (asleep is when people are most prone and helpless), in a house that will soon collapse. We see the teenage brother quickly run out; we see nothing but his voice screaming and his distressed older brother and sister-in-law powerless to help. At this point, we still have yet to understand what the physical appearance of Gojira is like; what we can acknowledge is that some unknown force is capable of significant mayhem – having destroyed fleet of ships, cities, and families. Imagining such scenes would truly give one a frightening nightmare!

The editing and camerawork bind the film together. The editing is excellent at utilizing psychological suspense. In the beginning of the movie, we are only shown about two minutes each of Gojira’s wrath. The subsequent scene lengths are exponential to Gojira’s; this creates a sort of suspense and nervousness, as the scenes depict an investigation, a discussion, and a creation of a weapon to use against Gojira. The act of anticipation that this editing provides provokes a prolonged anxiousness and suspense. Also important is how the camerawork transcends the images of the movie. In one scene where Gojira break through the electrical fences and begins destroying Tokyo, we are quickly given multiple shots of the empty city streets. The director pans to a scared mother and daughter for a few seconds, and immediately after shows scenes of Gojira destroying the city. By doing this, viewers are able to see that Gojira is a great enough force to empty cities. However, with the addition of the mother and child, we relate to the scene with pity and fear for humanity’s sake. To put more salt on the wound: after just watching Gojira destroy the city for a few minutes, we are shown again the mother and daughter via a long shot that reveals their scared body language, and then a close-up to see their dramatically frightened facial expressions; the child now says she is scared! The director’s focus on the two promotes the scene to become tragically personal. This is an example of very thoughtful camerawork, where every shot has great significance and emphasis to the story.

Honda Ishirô’s Gojira paved the way for many kaijû (giant monster) films in Japan. Yes, the film is violent, and the strings are visible and corny- but one should not debase  it on such aspects. Gojira’s success is due to its cerebralness. The mental scenes/images (or sometimes lack of), combined with the realistic humanism of its human characters, is what establishes Gojira as a cinematic and modern-cultural classic.

Categories
action jidai-geki

“The Hidden Fortress”: Kurosawa’s Hidden Gem

The Hidden Fortress (Kakushi toride no san akunin), one of Kurosawa Akira’s lesser-known works, deserves much credit as both a film and a story. Released in 1958, this jidai-geki follows two blundering peasants, Tahei (Chiaki Minoru) and Matashichi (Fujiwara Katamari), as they become entwined in the dangerous rescue of Princess Yuki (Uehara Misa) by heroic General Rokurota Makabe (Toshiro Mifune).

At the start of the film, viewers are presented with Tahei and Matashichi, wretched and disheveled, as they stagger away from the end of a battle. They squabble, get separated, and eventually are captured and end up in a prisoner-of-war camp together. After a prisoner revolt, the two escape and camp out nearby. They discover, concealed inside a piece of firewood, a gold bar, and while searching for more nearby, run into General Rokurota. Taking advantage of their obvious greed, Rokurota commissions the two to help him protect and transport Princess Yuki and the remains of her family’s gold to safety. Instead of attempting to cross the highly guarded border directly into safe territory, the four plan to circumnavigate the guarded border through enemy territory. To avoid detection by the enemy, Princess Yuki disguises herself as a mute peasant and the gold is hidden in innocent-looking pieces of firewood. To further confuse the enemy, they allow Princess Yuki’s double to be captured and executed. However, the group’s trek through enemy territory is anything but smooth, largely thanks to numerous attempts by Tahei and Matashichi to run off with the gold. However, General Rokurota uses his cunning and impressive military skill to avert most of the crises.

While the heroics of Rokurota tend to dominate the screen during action scenes, the two secondary characters, Tahei and Matashichi, are more central to the development and narration of the story. This unusual choice of narrative style, done primarily through the two peasants, is a departure from Kurosawa’s usual work. This departure allows the characters of Tahei and Matashichi to act as comic relief throughout the film. Their greed, cowardice, and sheer stupidity continuously lighten up tense action scenes and serious dialogues. Around Rokurota, the two feign obedience, however, on several occasions they attempt to make off with the gold, only to end up practically in the jaws of the enemy, whereupon they scurry back to Rokurota for protection. When Kurosawa leaves the two alone on screen, they provide the audience a comedy act of their own, cursing at each other, fighting over gold, and promising to be best friends again every time they narrowly escape their self-incited disasters.

Action and comedy dominate The Hidden Fortress, however, the development of Princess Yuki’s character provides a medium through which the audience may see a cultural commentary on the feudal period of Japan. As royalty, Princess Yuki had spent her entire life in the confines of her family’s castle, never seeing the outside world or knowing the life of the commoner. Even though her character is mute throughout much of the movie, she breaks her silence several times when she feels compelled to do so. It is made evident, through these breaks in her silence, that her journey to safety has opened her eyes to many of the realities of life in feudal Japan. While the group is staying in a small town in enemy territory, Princess Yuki comes face-to-face with the fact that women are objectified to the point of being buyable possessions. After seeing a woman being treated in such a manner, she takes Rokurota aside, breaks her silence, and demands he buy the woman to free her from such injustice. In another instance, as the group is on the verge of being captured, she breaks her silence to say “farewell” to Tahei and Matashichi. Normally, a feudal princess would hardly bother even laying eyes upon such lowlife peasantry. Most telling in her transformation, though, are the words she speaks to Rokurota as they are tied to posts facing the camera, awaiting their execution: “The happiness of these days I would have never known living in the castle. I saw people as they really are… I saw their beauty and their ugliness with my own eyes.”

The eye of the camera is also noteworthy in The Hidden Fortress. His first movie shot through an anamorphic lens system (TohoScope), Kurosawa takes full advantage of the widescreen 2.35:1 aspect ratio. The prison revolt scene is a prime example of the power of the widescreen capture. As the prisoners gain momentum and begin to descend the wide, curving staircase from their holding area, the camera retreats behind the prison guards at the foot of the stairs. From this point, the camera captures the entirety of the staircase, from its top, left of mid-screen, through a curve to the left and then down to the bottom right of the screen. A relatively long take from that viewpoint then allows the viewer to see a spectacular flood of raggedy, dusty prisoners descend the stairs and flow out past the bottom right hand of the screen. Kurosawa also utilizes the widescreen in two of the most exciting scenes in the movie: the thrilling spear duel between Rokurota and enemy General Hyoe, and the vibrant Fire Festival dance scene. The scenes are striking in that they involve large circles of people and much lateral movement, both of which the wide angle capures with ease.

The Hidden Fortress is sure to be a crowd pleaser. Aside from boasting exciting fight, escape, and chase sequences, all skillfully captured in widescreen, the film is kept on the lighter side by the antics of Tahei and Matashichi. Star Wars fans may also appreciate the comedic duo, since they were the main inspiration for Steven Spielberg’s R2D2 and C3PO characters. Other viewers looking for social commentary on feudal Japan need look no further than the path of Princess Yuki’s character development. There are many scenes of violence and death, but blood is minimal. The use of profanity is common.

Categories
action drama, melodrama jidai-geki literary adaptations

“Rashomon”

Kurosawa Akira’s Rashomon (1950) is a jidai–geki and is often regarded as one of his greatest productions. The movie’s plot is a literary adaptation of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke’s short story “In a Grove” (Yabu no naka, 1922). The movie proceeds mainly through the conversations between a woodcutter (Shimura Takashi), a priest (Minoru Chiaki) and a commoner (Ueda Kichijirō) while another storyline develops along the woodcutter and priest’s description of four flashbacks of a murder, involving the bandit Tajomaru (Mifune Toshirō), the wife (Kyō Machiko) and the samurai/husband (Mori Masayuki) . While the characters’ descriptions of the story differ drastically, the different perspectives clarify and confuse the details of the incident. These contradictions draw to the theme of reality as a mixture of multi-perspectives, and the weakness of human nature as praising virtue and concealing the true evilness.

The movie mainly involves two sets of characters, and each set consists of three characters in the scenes.

The story begins with a woodcutter, a priest and a commoner sitting under the gate of Rashōmon and discussing about a murder which the woodcutter and priest find very disturbing. The woodcutter and the priest listened to different versions of the murder and quote them to the commoner. Tajomaru, the bandit, claimed that he deceived and tied the samurai up in order to capture the samurai’s wife. He recalled how the wife defended herself fiercely with a dagger at first but fell to him later. The wife asked Tajomaru to kill her husband; Tajomaru fought with the samurai justly and finally he killed the samurai with his sword. The wife, however, told a different story that she begged her husband to kill her after the rape, but her husband’s refusal and disdainful expression made her faint when she was holding the dagger. She found her husband’s dead body with her dagger in his chest after she woke up. The dead samurai’s story is told through a medium; he claims that his wife accepted Tajomaru after the rape, requested he kill the husband, and fled after Tajomaru was overwhelmed by her cruel request. Tajomaru freed him after failing to recapture the wife, and the samurai chose to end his life with the dagger which was removed by someone later. The movie tenses up when the woodcutter claims everyone’s stories are lies and starts to describe what he actually witnessed in the incident. The movie gradually reaches the climax through the repetition of the same story by different characters.

Kurosawa skillfully arranges the positions of characters in shots and scenes that cleverly link up the characters’ power balance. The movie often arranges the group of three characters in the same shot and positions them according to their strength of emotion. For example, as the woodcutter claims Tajomaru’s story is a lie, his strong emotional change centers him in the shot while the commoner and the priest stay at the back. With the woodcutter in the center, their positions form a triangle and the woodcutter has the largest cut. Listening to the woodcutter’s remarks, the commoner addresses his own comment while he is walking towards the camera; his straightforward remark draws the attention and breaks the balance in the previous shot. The commoner then becomes the center of the shot. Moreover, the characters who are directly involved in the murder are always the center or the largest in their own flashback. Before the character starts describing their own story, he or she is the largest character filmed in the courthouse with the smaller woodcutter and priest in the right corner at the back. In order to emphasize themselves as the subject of each flashback, not only is the main character the center and largest in the scene, but he or she also receives most light. For instance, in the scene when the wife is stared at coldly after the rape, she primarily receives the most light and is centralized with a zoom-up shot; when the scene progresses, the camera gradually turns and light shines onto the subject who stares at her – the husband. However, the camera shoots him through the back of his wife and decenters him from the shot. The relationship between positioning and power is powerful especially in the courthouse scenes when the characters are kneeling in front of the scene and begging the audiences, who are sitting in the position of the judge, to agree with their words. By conveying a more powerful image in the shot, the character and his or her story seem to be more persuasive; the audiences are forced to focus only on their version of the incident because they are the most powerful image in the cut. The frequent changing of position and size of the characters cleverly manipulates the degree of persuasion and carefully arouses audiences’ suspicion in the differences in the characters’ stories; the concept of how reality is formed, influenced and blurred by multi-perspective is conveyed throughout the arranging of characters in the camera shots.

Rashomon depicts one of the most traditional conflicts in jidai–geki and draws the audience’sattention to their own situation. Many jidai–geki focus on the characters’ internal conflict between responsibility, for instance, loyalty to their lord and obligation as a samurai, and personal feelings and desire. The conflict also applies in Rashomon where Tajomaru, the wife and the samurai attempt to create a better image of themselves. Regardless of his bandit identity, Tajomaru claims that he has fought like a samurai and praises his own fighting indirectly. He also emphasizes his sensitivity by remarking that he is attracted to the samurai’s wife by explaining her severe defense against Tajomaru and her attempt to end her own life after she was raped. She even requests her husband kill her in order for both the samurai and herself to not to live in shame. Losing to a bandit and failing to keep his wife’s heart, the samurai chooses to commit suicide to keep his pride as a samurai. Yet, the woodcutter’s story reveals the shameful truth that they all are trying to conceal: the samurai has omitted the fact that he was deceived because of his own greed; Tajomaru did not free the samurai and fight justly; both Tajomaru and the samurai have forsaken the wife, and she provoked their clumsy fight out of shame and anger. Rather than the guilt of murder, these three characters are eager in maintaining positive images by “acting” accordingly to their social identity. Rather than feeling shameful because of the unfulfilled social values and virtues they should possess, they would rather admit themselves to be a murderer. Meanwhile, the woodcutter is also attempting to downgrade all characters in the murder in order to justify his greedy stealing of the dagger. The movie reaches its climax revealing the woodcutter’s lie, and the series of complex events merge into a strong feeling of losing the faith in every character. The feeling of losing faith in the human soul, however, corresponds to human nature of praising self-virtue and concealing one’s wrongdoings; especially in the 1950s where the war is just over, American occupation and other social unrests briought fear and worry that people would easily become more suspicious than ever.

Kurosawa intentionally films the sinful murder on a sunny day and the justice discussion under a rainy gate; I enjoy such arrangements because the contrast stresses and confuses people’s perception of the brighter side as justice and darker scenes as evil. I believe such a contrast is especially powerful in a black-and-white movie. While Kurosawa is picturing a desperate, hell-like world with a lot of disbelief in human souls, nevertheless he expresses his hope in the appearance of an innocent baby and the shining sun. Both the priest and the audiences may have confidence in believing others again regardless of the unknown weather or future ahead. Interpreting the movie may be a little hard due to the complex and confusing perspectives, Rashomon is definitely one of Kurosawa’s masterpieces that is worth watching and thinking about.

Categories
action jidai-geki literary adaptations

Kurosawa Akira’s “Tora no o wo fumu otokotachi”

The Men Who Tread on the Tiger’s Tail (Tora no o wo fumu otokotachi) is a film directed by Kurosawa Akira in 1945 and released in 1952.  This film features some prominent characters such as Benkei, played by Ōkouchi Denji, Nishina Tadayoshi as Lord Yoshitsune, Fujita Susumu as Lord Togashi, and Enomoto Kenichi as the porter.  This film fits into the jidai-geki genre because the plot revolves around a 12th century incident and examines Japan’s warrior past.

Tora no o wo fumu otokotachi is a film about how Lord Yoshitsune and his six loyal retainers disguise themselves as ascetic monks to escape Kaga by passing an enemy barrier checkpoint.  The story begins in medias res, a porter helping Yoshitune’s retinue in their way across the mountains to a checkpoint, whereupon during a rest break their identities are revealed by chance through the deductions of the porter based on rumours and gossip.  This revelation results in Yoshitsune changing his disguise to that of a lowly porter instead of remaining in the guise of a monk where it is obvious that he is not one.  Benkei, Yoshitsune’s chief bodyguard, continues to lead everyone to the barrier checkpoint where their journey culminates in a confrontational showdown against Togashi, the lord in charge of the checkpoint.

This film contains many beautiful and striking shots, but one scene in particular that stands out to me is a scene near the beginning of the film where Yoshitsune and his retinue are taking a break, before the porter discovers their identities.  This long shot captures Benkei on the far left and facing away to the horizon, the porter on the far right, Yoshitsune sitting in the middle with his back to the camera, and the five other retainer samurai fanned out in front of Yoshitsune.  The beauty stems not just from their positions on the screen, but from their actual postures and the emotions and values that they reveal.  The samurai’s emotions are exhibited just by their postures, and this long shot captures that intangible elegance and grace.  Morals such as honour, righteousness, and virtue are evident in their proud stances as values such as loyalty, respect, and reverence are revealed by their bowed heads and seiza sitting style.  As seiza is a formal way of sitting, this reveals that even when in disguise the retainers offer deference to their respected lord.  Benkei’s powerful and diligent stance and the postures from the kneeling samurai exude an intangible beauty that is translated into loyalty, duty, and sacrifice.  These cultural values are effectively captured by the actors and the director’s use of the long shot in this scene.  Though the porter is not of the samurai class and he is situated slightly outside of their half circle, because he believes in the same values as the samurai regardless of class distinction, the inclusion of the porter is an important factor.

A recurring image within the film that I believe has a large significance is that of the ume or plum branch that Yoshitsune carries at the beginning of the film.  The ume branch can be seen as a metaphor for Yoshitsune, as the ume flower represents a person of authority and wealth.  He is seen to be carrying the blossom until he changes his disguise to that of a lowly porter.  The ume blossom being discarded parallels the necessity of Yoshitsune abandoning his true heritage for the sake of saving their lives.  The stark image of the lone ume branch lying on a log until the porter picks it up reflects his decision.  As the porter tucks the ume branch onto his back belt, this symbolizes his silent declaration to take care of Yoshitsune by protecting his identity and helping the retinue cross the barrier.  Parallelism is evident in the many scenes where the ume branch is seen safely tucked away by the porter, even in the face of adversity.  This represents the continual safekeeping of Yoshitsune himself and the hope that he will be able to regain his identity.

My overall reaction to Toro no o wo fumu otokotachi is that I loved it and that I love Kurosawa Akira.  His directing style is beautiful as many scenes portrayed important facets to Japanese culture.  I think this film is wonderful because it explores the nobility of proud warriors through the actions of Yoshitsune’s loyal retainers.  Esteemed morals and principles such as virtue and sacrifice have lost much of their value now, but watching this film where these honourable men had the courage to uphold their values definitely left a positive and emotional impression on me.

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action chambara/chanbara jidai-geki

“Seven Samurai”

As one of the most acclaimed films ever made, and certainly among the top Japanese films in particular, Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai/Shichinin no Samurai (1954) is without a doubt an ambitious, masterfully executed milestone that resonates just as strongly today as it did when it was first released. Filled with a cast of Kurosawa favorites, among them Shimura Takashi, Kimura Isao, and the always engaging Mifune Toshiro, Seven Samurai seemed prime to succeed on that merit alone.  Nonetheless, it was its genre-crossing narrative elements and strong visual aesthetic that truly cemented its place in the cinematic firmament.

Set during the Sengoku jidai or “Warring States Period” in 16th century Japan, this sprawling epic tells the not unfamiliar story of a small village which has had the unfortunate fate of being repeatedly set upon by roving bandits, to their increasing ruin. After being narrowly spared further looting on the grounds that the bandits will return when the village has actually gained something of value again to steal, the villagers become desperate to find some kind of solution to their dilemma. After conferring amongst themselves, and consulting their village patriarch, they decide to send the young Rikichi and three other farmers to find four samurai and persuade them through their limited means to come help defend the village.

Rikichi eventually manages to persuade an older, roving samurai named Shimada Kambei (Shimura Takashi) to become the first of their needed four. Kambei determines that four samurai will not be enough to adequately defend the village from the number of bandits expected to arrive, and concludes that seven would be a more realistic number. Through patience and careful investigation, the other six samurai are eventually assembled, among them the young protégé Okamoto Katsushiro (Kimura Iso) who idolizes Kambei, and the hotheaded Kikuchiyo (Mifune Toshiro) who is in fact not a “real” samurai at all, only presenting himself as one. The seven of them return to the village with Rikichi and the other farmers, and set about preparing both themselves and the villagers for the oncoming confrontation.

To complement this grand story, the visuals in Seven Samurai are as suitably “epic” as one would expect them to be. This is one of the film’s greatest strengths, in that the mise-en-scène in which the actors are placed instantly evokes a tangible, lush sense of time and place. Through Kurosawa’s dedication to broad, sweeping shots of vast fields of terrain, wide open skies, and thick copses of towering trees in dappled sunlight, it becomes all too easy for the audience to be drawn into the world of warring factions and noble, fighting samurai. For example, in the scene in which the older samurai Kyuzo’s mock-battle turned serious confrontation with a fellow samurai takes place, the two of them are situated on either side of a breathtaking wide shot that encompasses the field in which they are standing, the milling crowd of people watching, and the crumbling village wall behind them. There is nothing especially notable about the setting itself, but the way it is framed, with the two stationary points of strength on either end, turn the scene into a brief moment of hushed anticipation of something legendary. Other scenes serve in a similar fashion, shooting the actors in tight focus near the bottom of the frame while blurry yet undeniably present trees rear up before them, or as small shapes scurrying across the base of a waterfall. Even sequences which take place indoors do not seem to lack the sense of scale created by the natural vistas, due entirely to expert blocking of characters in relation to each other. At several points during the film, the scene has cause for all seven samurai to be in the same room together, and one would expect this to create a sense of claustrophobia when none of the rooms are objectively all that large to begin with. However, even though the samurai take up the entire frame, they are expertly placed at varying heights and angles that ultimately create the feeling of some kind of grand, regal portrait, a “hero shot”, creating space where there is none.

Behind these stunning visuals, however, lies the other aspect of Seven Samurai which contributes to its enduring success. As already mentioned, this film itself seems to meet the qualifications for at least two different genres, combining the best features of both to create an exceptional whole. As both a jidai-geki (period piece) and chambara (samurai film), the pervading themes center around notions of youth vs. experience, the desire to keep the past from repeating itself, and fighting for the restoration of honor. All of these themes are ones which seem to spring out of Japan’s post-war anxieties, and show up in other films of the same period. The young protégé Katsushiro represents the potential of youth, shown in how again and again the older samurai seem to try and “protect” him from getting his hands dirty, and even at one point tell him to leave the life of a samurai for his own good. Kikuchiyo’s motivations are the ones most closely tied to the desire to keep the past from repeating itself, as he was once a farmer who experienced similar strife as the villagers he’s now trying to protect.

The extent to which any of these themes are resolved, however, is debatable, and this is where the film seems to make its only stumble. It is clear that the samurai all understand the realities of the situation they’re getting themselves involved in. They know they will gain nothing tangible from it, and that the possibility for death is high. Despite this, the last line of the film reflects an unaccountably bleak outlook: “Again we’re defeated. The winners are those farmers. Not us.” The progress of the film up until this point does not seem to warrant such a dismissive conclusion, and is a puzzling end to an otherwise affecting film. Nonetheless, Seven Samurai remains a gem of Japanese filmmaking, the kind of sprawling epic that is thoroughly enjoyable in its own right. It’s not surprising that so many films after it would aspire to its many accomplishments.

Categories
action jidai-geki

“Yojimbo”: The Western

The wind blows, the camera is at a wide angle and the tall dark figure of a samurai wanders into a quiet-looking town. The frame cuts to a close-up and the samurai rolls and twitches his shoulders, looks around, and sees a dog running toward him, a severed human hand in its canine jaws. This and the rest of the film is accompanied by music that is classical in style but often with a strong definable percussion section that drives the music much to the same effect as in rock n’ roll. Further, the melody is often staccato and abrupt accentuated with high woodwind instruments. All of this contributes to the sense of triumphant urgency that dominates much of the tone of the film and the Samurai’s character; it adds to his sense of power. This first scene described is one of the first scenes to Kurosawa Akira’s Yojimbo (1961) (or The Bodyguard). The scene dramatically sets the tone for the grisly fun of the film that is about to follow.

Kurosawa Akira released Yojimbo through his own Kurosawa Production Co. and the Toho Company. The film was well received both by the popular culture and critics. The film was the highest-grossing film made by Kurosawa in Japan. Further, the film’s popularity can be seen in the western-hemisphere through Sergio Leone’s quasi re-make for American audiences A Fistful of Dollars (1964); a quintessential spaghetti western which stared Clint Eastwood. The critics also adorned it with film awards. At the 1962 Venice film festival they awarded best actor to Mifune Toshirō for his portrayal of Sanjuro Kuwabatake (or just the Samurai) and also nominated Kurosawa for the Golden Lion Award. Yojimbo was even recognized by Hollywood; it was nominated for an Academy Award.

The similarities in this film to the classic Hollywood western are apparent in the film’s plot, not to mention its style. The Samurai arrives in this town where two crime bosses have essentially created a two sided gang war. Seibei (Kawazu Seizaburô) the older crime boss who owns a brothel also controls the town mayor Tazaemon (Fujiwara Kamatari). The second crime boss is Seibei’s estranged right hand man Ushitora (Sazanka Kyu) who is much more violent and short-tempered than Seibie. Ushitora has proclaimed his own town mayor, the sake-brewer Tokuemon (Shimura Takashi). This all makes for a somewhat baffling introduction to the story, with many more nitty-gritty details, but paying close attention to them rewards the viewer with a rich tapestry of characters and story just like in classic westerns with their plethora of idiosyncratic characters. However, at the film’s core this gang rivalry is tearing the town apart, which is mostly made up of farmers, lower-class shop keepers and merchants just trying to scrape by, and the Samurai wishes to free them from this hardship. Therefore, many of the same themes that are present in most westerns are apparent in Yojimbo as well. For example the rough individual is upheld against the bickering and petty gang communities, but the nuclear family is upheld in the highest esteem. The final scene of this film even resembles the final shot in Jon Ford’s The Searchers (1956) where Ethan (John Wayne) walks into the American desert framed by a door. In this film the Samurai walks toward the town’s gate and the gate frames his body as he heads back into the wild.

This western theme can be really seen in Yojimbo’s focuses on the Samurai, who in this film is a wandering ronin (a samurai without a master) who is looking for work, money, and/or just something to do. His name Sanjurō Kuwabatake, actually means “thirty-something mulberry field,” and is a name he made up on the spot just to please Seibei, essentially is no name. This is just like Clint Eastwood’s characters in Leone’s loose “man with no name” trilogy: A Fistful of Dollars (1964), For a Few Dollars More (1965), and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966). The character of the Samurai has this tough, devil-may-care attitude on the outside but truly he is a good man looking to restore order, peace and justice; typical really, if you have seen most John Wayne, John Ford westerns or Clint Eastwood, Leone Westerns. The great part is the way that Mifune plays the role. Mifune’s Samurai is believable as a hard, rough, tough man but also deep down as a compassionate courageous hero. One scene that highlights this is where he is able to unite a family torn apart by the gang’s fighting. His action is one of great compassion and heroism but also puts his plans and himself into jeopardy. Mifune plays the part hard and almost cruel but the pain and grief he feels for the family shoot forward onto his face just long enough for the audience to see and understand his compassion but not enough for his character to break the callous armour of the persona he portrays.

The film draws upon many of the techniques of classical Hollywood westerns but it also influenced many westerns that came after it. For a Few Dollars More has the same plot and Clint Eastwood’s character is very similar to Mifune’s Samurai; dirty, shabby, and quiet, but also displaying the streak of courageous compassion that sets him apart from the other rough characters. The telephoto lens used in Yojimbo was also innovative in its style and its influence can really be seen in later Hollywood westerns such as The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. So, whether you are looking for a great movie from the vantage point of studying film or if you like westerns, period dramas, or adventure this is a movie worth watching.

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