Category: chambara/chanbara

Samurai films with extensive sword fighting.

Categories
action chambara/chanbara jidai-geki

The Sight and Sound of the End of an Era

The sheer mastery of Yamada Yôji’s The Twilight Samurai (Tasogare Seibei) is made clear even from the first frame in this “meditative character-driven elegy” (Chi). Based upon the three short novels by Shuhei Fujisawa, the film is a gentle jidai-geki in the chambara/chanbara genre set in the final hours of Japan’s Edo period. Upon the loss of his wife to consumption, Iguchi Seibei (Sanaa Hiroyuki ) is left to care for his two young daughters Kayano (Itô Miki) and Ito (Hashiguchi Erina), and senescent mother (Tamba Tetsuro). Iguchi is caught between the value of giri or duty as a samurai, and ninjô to support his family. Tasogare Seibei, as he becomes known due to decision not to join his peers for sake at dusk, is soon overwhelmed by the responsibilities of providing for his family. As fortune would have it, Tomoe (Miyazawa Rie) his childhood love and a recent divorcee, enters the narrative to acting as a both a beautiful foil to the character of Iguchi, and a vehicle for Yamada to begin a discussion of class expectations, duty, hope and love in a time of great change for the samurai.

A major element throughout the film is Yamada’s deft use of light and shadow, in an ironic homage to the title, Twilight. Yamada uses these ‘two siblings’ not only to light a scene and the mise-en-scene, but to also to convey the subtext and emotion of each character. Each character ‘wears’ their light, as if it were an additional costume to add to their characterization. Yamada integrates warm, top lighting and natural sunshine to convey the peace Iguchi and Michinojo (Fukikoshi Mitsuro) feel as they fish by the riverside. He uses the natural light to emphasize the joy of Kayano and Ito as they play in the fields. This technique is again used as we see Iguchi open the sliding door of the bedroom, casting golden rays from the fire over the faces of the girls, displaying the pride and love their father holds for them. Tomoe too is characterized through light in the form of the ‘lantern in the night’ that Iguchi uses to walk her home, symbolic of her presence in his life.

In the final act Iguchi is forced to duel Zenemon Yogo (Tanaka Min), a local retainer who has disobeyed the clan’s order for him to commit seppuku. Again Yamada uses a skillful synthesis of shot, composition, and light to convey the deep subtext and visceral emotion between the two men. As Iguchi enters the hut in which Yogo is hiding, the viewer is made immediately aware of the silhouette of the trees outside the window that start to shake in the wind, aptly setting the tone for the scene. Iguchi cannot originally see Yogo who sits in the shadows. As the two men begin to talk, whispers of light start to stream across Yogo’s profile. They are at odds with one another, both aware of the mission endowed upon Iguchi. The two men sit back to back, a distance apart but are drawn toward one another in the deft use of the rack focus of the camera. They begin to establish commonalities, and Iguchi can for the first time begin to see his opponent’s eyes as light washes across his forehead. The two drink tea, and share suffering over the loss of loved ones to consumption. A strange familiarity is breed between the two men, cleverly articulated by Yamada’s technique of slowly lighting Yogo’s face, which is only fully seen for the first time in the climactic duel – a moment of ultimate bonding and understanding. Other notable techniques include Yamada’s use of diagetic and non-diagetic sound and silence, especially during the duels and domestic scenes. He not only plays between using sounds of chickens to symbolize and represent the household and sounds of field birds to represent nature, but also employs silence as a means to build tension.

Yamada’s film brims with life and colour in a gentle discourse of dealing with love, family and duty in a time when the world of the samurai seemed fleeting.

Categories
action chambara/chanbara drama, melodrama jidai-geki

“The Twilight Samurai” (Tasogare Seibei)

The Twilight Samurai (Tasogare Seibei) is a film produced in the year 2002 and was directed by Yamada Yōji. This film can be categorized under the genre of jidai-geki and was an Academy Award nominee for best foreign language film including best director, best film, best actor and best actress. The main character of the film, Tasogare Seibei, is played by Sanada Hiroyuki, his lover in the film Tomoe is played by actress Miyazawa Rie, and Seibei’s two daughters Kayano and Ito are played by actresses Ito Miki and Erina Hashiguchi. Other supporting actors include Kobayashi Nenji, Ohsugi Ren, and Fukikoshi Mitsuru.

The story is set in the late nineteenth century in Shonai province, in the northeast of the Japanese archipelago. The main character of the film Iguchi Seibei is a samurai of the Inasaka Clan and was nick-named tasogare seibei by his fellow samurai because he is always the first one to return home (during sunset hour) rejecting his colleagues’ offers to go for drinks after work. The story opens with a scene of the funeral of Seibei’s wife and in the following scenes we see his struggle in raising his two daughters Kayano and Ito all by himself while also looking after his aging mother and taking care of the housework. Seibei is reunited with his childhood friend Tomoe and they develop feelings for each as the film progresses. Seibei agrees to a sword fight with Tomoe’s abusive ex-husband Kouda and though he only uses a bamboo stick while his opponent uses an actual katana, he wins the battle and forces Kouda to stay away from Tomoe in the future. In the latter part of the film, because Seibei is a low-ranking samurai and is used by his leaders as the “errands man”, he is forced to confront a renowned warrior in an opposite clan and to kill him so he unwillingly pays the warrior a visit and par-takes in another sword battle.

One of the most significant aspects of this film that really fascinates me is the lighting technique. From the very first scene (Seibei’s wife’s funeral in his house), it is quite evident that no special lighting effects were incorporated in shooting the scenes, rather the director seems to have very skilfully used the natural sunlight and worked his camera around furniture and actors to produce the full effect of the sun rays. This is especially evident in scenes that take place indoors (Seibei’s house, the office, class room, and Zenemon Yogo’s house). The characters’ faces in indoor scenes are never fully lit, even when there is a close-up take of the actor’s face we cannot really make out their full features because most of the time, the sunlight is not sufficient to illuminate their entire face or because they happen to be sitting with their backs facing the door or sometimes because a furniture or sliding panel would cast a shadow over them.  However,  the effect of the sunlight pouring in through the shoji, or cracks in the lattice fence of the house, and through open doors create quite a beautiful lighting effect for the indoor scenes and contributes to the often solemn or serious moods of the many indoor scenes.

The second aspect of the film that I thought was really impressive and contributed greatly to this film is the sound effects. This too was very minimalistic yet powerful at the same time. For the most part, there were not very many scenes in which external sound effects were used. Scenes would usually focus on the character’s monologues and the only other sounds we are able to hear in the background are of the cries of animals or the rippling of water. In fact, a lot of the scenes were very still that the ruffling of the kimono or the footsteps of a person would seem very prominent. However, I must mention that the most dramatic and beautiful sound effect was used in the scene where Seibei is reading a letter from Tomoe. As we hear Tomoe’s voice narrating the letter, there is a beautiful piano melody playing in the background and this is especially beautiful and powerful because in this scene, the rain is pouring so the combined effects of the sound of raindrops and piano melody make the scene quite moving. Part of the reason why the piano melody was used in this scene is perhaps because Seibei is starting to realize his strong feelings towards Tomoe. In most other scenes, such as of a group of people (the samurai or Seibei and his servant) travelling from one place to another (transitional scenes), there are melodies played by the shakuhachi in the background. This too was very alluring and complimented the takes of scenery in those scenes.

The scenery of rivers, lakes, and mountains in this film is beautiful, and the sound effect, lighting, costume all contribute to depiction of the time period the film was shot in.  Watching the actors in traditional Japanese kimono and hakama worn with straw sandals and geta and seeing the rustic looking houses with chanoyu as well as listening to the old-Japanese spoken all made me feel like I travelled back in time. I would definitely recommend this film to anyone who is interested in learning a little bit about the Japanese tradition as you will be able to get a glimpse into the life-style of a low-ranking samurai, and because there are many references to Buddhism, you will also be able to get a glimpse into the faiths of people during this period. It is a very educational film but more importantly, the storyline, along with the sound and lighting effects, will move you.

Categories
chambara/chanbara drama, melodrama jidai-geki

The Twilight Dad or The Twilight Warrior?: Multiple Obligations of a Widowed Samurai

The Twilight Samurai or Tasogare Seibei was directed by Yamada Yôji and was released in 2002. The main character Iguchi Seibei is played by Sanada Hiroyuki, who has also starred in other big blockbusters such as The Last Samurai and Rush Hour 3. The genre of the film is jidai-geki.

Twilight Samurai is a film that is set in the Meiji era and centers on the life of Iguchi Seibei, who is a low-ranking samurai. Seibei’s story is told through the perspective of his youngest daughter who is reflecting on her memories of her father when she was a five-year-old child. The memories focus on Seibei’s daily problems as a recent widower who struggles to support his family of two daughters and a senile mother. In order to provide for his family, Seibei neglects his appearance and starts smelling foul which causes him to run into trouble; his foul-smelling odour is noticed by the head of his clan and is seen as horribly dishonourable. Being a tight-knit clan, gossip travels fast and soon his uncle shows up to visit, offering him a marriage proposal in order help him with household chores so he can focus on his samurai duties. Seibei turns down the offer as he prefers to do the household chores in order to stay home and watch his daughters grow up.

Seibei’s daily life continues to be a struggle between his samurai obligations and family chores until his childhood friend and crush, Linuma Tomoe, returns home from an abusive, alcoholic relationship. Tomoe notices Seibei’s troubling situation and helps him by taking care of his daughters and assisting with their chores. One night as Seibei is walking Tomoe home, trouble ensues when Tomoe’s abusive alcoholic ex-husband, Koda, arrives to stir up trouble. Seibei defends Tomoe and offers to duel Koda when he is not intoxicated. They agree to fight the next morning and Seibei shows up to the challenge with a practice wooden stick while Koda uses a metal sword. Seibei’s combat abilities are evident as he defeats Koda with a practice stick and leaves him with a massive lump on his head.

Having heard of Seibei’s unique abilities, the head of the clan summons Seibei and orders him to kill a samurai retainer, Yogo Zenemon, who refused to commit seppuku when commanded. Seibei is forced to accept the endeavor and starts to prepare for his mission; however, he finds himself at a loss when he is unable to prepare in the customary samurai attire without help. Seibei reluctantly turns to Tomoe and requests for her assistance. Before he leaves on his dangerous mission, Seibei tells Tomoe he regrets turning down marrying her, and that if he returns from his assignment, he would like to marry her.

On the surface the main character, Seibei, seems like a simple samurai character, a low-ranking widowed samurai that struggles to balance his samurai duties and keep his family afloat; however, Seibei is actually quite complex. He is a character that struggles against his low-ranking samurai status and is limited by what the society expects of him. Seibei is affected by societal norms as his uncle believes that acquiring a new wife would allow him focus on his samurai duties and maintain his personal appearance; furthermore, his uncle argues that it would prevent Seibei from dishonouring the head of the clan a second time or bring any more disgrace to their family name. His uncle’s concerns are clearly not for the family’s well-being but are expectations of the society. However, Seibei is a not a simple character. He does not conform to societal norms, but rejects his uncle’s persistent offer, stating that if he was allowed to he would rather become a farmer and give up his samurai status because he enjoys watching his two girls grow up.

Not only is Seibei constrained by society’s expectations but he is also tied to his samurai obligations. When Seibei is summoned to kill Zenemon by the head of the clan, Seibei politely declines the offer and states that due to years of hardship he has become accustomed to manual labour work and lost his ferocity and willingness to kill. However the clan finds the refusal hard to accept and forces Seibei to accept the mission. Although Seibei lives in poverty and his life is the opposite from what someone with a samurai status should live like, Seibei is bound to his samurai status even though he is of the lowest rank. Seibei must risk leaving his two daughters and senile mother behind who are extremely dependent on him because he has an obligation as a samurai to serve their clan.

Set design and costume design in The Twilight Samurai emphasize the distinction between social classes. When Seibei is fighting Koda, the scene is set outside castle walls and a clear distinction between the samurai and peasant class can be observed. A high concrete wall binds the samurai class within and separates them from the outside peasant hierarchy. Furthermore, inside the castle walls the set is designed as a small village to give the idea of a closely knit society; whereas outside the castle walls it is littered with trees and nature giving it a wild atmosphere. Social hierarchy is not only differentiated by the samurai or peasant class, but within the samurai class there is also a distinction between the low-ranking samurai and the high-ranking samurai. Costume design emphasizes this differentiation as Seibei’s low-ranking status is characterized by his shabby and bedraggled attire. His personal hygiene is often seen as dishonourable in the samurai class. In addition, Seibei’s house is a small and cramped space where one center room adjoins both the kitchen and bedroom; the rooms are separated by sliding dividers and conversations can be heard from anywhere in the house. Compared with Seibei, Tomoe’s family is of higher samurai ranking and thus their house is a combination of several small complexes and an inner courtyard. The set design clearly distinguishes Seibei from the higher-ranking samurai.

Categories
action chambara/chanbara jidai-geki literary adaptations

“Lady Snowblood”

Lady Snowblood/Shurayuki-hime (1973) is director Fujita Toshiya’s filmic adaptation of a manga originally published in Weekly Playboy. The film transcribes the title and plot from the manga written by Koike Kazuo and illustrated by Kamimura Kazuo. Kaji Meiko, in the lead role brings to life Kashime Shurayuki (Shurayuki-hime). The film’s cast also includes Nishimura Ko as Priest Dōkai, Kurosawa Toshio as Ashio Ryūrei, Daimon as Kashima Gō, Akaza Miyoko as Kashima Sayo and Okada Eiji as Tsukamoto Gishirō.

The film is the story of a young woman, Shurayuki, on a mission to avenge a crime committed against her family.  The crime is conveyed via a flashback sequence depicting Gō Kashima with his wife Sayo and young son Shiro (Uchida Shinichi) taking a walk on an idyllic sun-filled day. In a sudden attack, Kashima and son are murdered. Sayo is spared her life, only to be raped by the aggressors later. The film opens in a women’s prison, where Sayo, having been arrested for killing one of her aggressors, lies in a cell giving birth to Shurayuki.

Conceived out of suffering, she is born into a far-from-reconciled tragedy. Shurayuki is literally born in a prison cell, the symbolic significance of which becomes obvious when her mother dies of complications from childbirth. Sayo’s dying words utter Shurayuki’s fate: “For me there are things left undone…So I must let this child wreak my vengeance for me”. As sure as her words are spoken, Shurayuki is raised by Priest Dōkai, who trains her to become an assassin.  Her physical training is largely in the art of sword-fighting. She also receives mental training, largely in the philosophy of filial piety and fulfilling one’s destiny. At the age of twenty, fully trained, she begins her hunt for the perpetrators of the crime.

A significant aspect of the film is the articulation of Shurayuki’s isolation. Rhetorical devices such as dialogue are one manner in which this is achieved. However, specifically filmic elements are also employed. For example, Kaji Meiko’s first on-screen appearance is a canted angle shot of the title character hurrying through snow. Noticeably, there is no one else in the shot with her.  As she walks out of the frame, there is a jump cut to the next scene. This time, Shurayuki approaches the camera, walking against a wall located along the left of the screen. This shot appears to convey that Shurayuki must sequester herself. Keeping close to the wall, face hidden behind an umbrella, one seems to experience her heightened sense of awareness. It is as though having been born for a very specific pre-destined purpose; Shurayuki exists within the vacuum of her vengeance duty.

Another significant stylistic element is the employment of self-reflexivity. The film refers to its source not only in the appropriation of the plot, but in the editing of the narrative as well. For example, the film consists of four chapters, which invokes a literary nuance. Further, the film is visually inter-cut with photomontages, manga images, and even moments of anime. What results is an interruption of the filmic narrative, which appears to function as an appeal to the plot’s origins in popular culture. As such, the film reveals that although it is seemingly of the jidai-geki genre, it is in fact being told in the present. This is not unlike the way a manga in its very form reveals its contemporary perspective.

The film is a must-see for any Quentin Tarantino fans; the most avid will likely have already seen it. The Kill Bill trilogy is based quite intimately on Lady Snowblood. In juxtaposition, the similarities between the two films reveal how truly avant-garde Fujita’s vision was.

Categories
action chambara/chanbara gendai-geki

“The Machine Girl”: Guns, Gore, a Girl and More!

Iguchi Noboru’s The Machine Girl (2008) is a fast-paced action film that defies genre conventions.  The film follows Ami, a college student who exacts revenge on school bullies and their yakuza connections after they kill her brother and cut her arm off. The film’s combination of choreographed fight scenes, excessive gore, and playful humour provides a stark contrast to Japanese filmic tradition. His excessive use of violence is characteristic of Japanese cinema, however, the excessive gore is indicative of how desensitized to violence modern audiences are. The film uses several parodist elements in order to redefine Japanese film, making it self-aware. The juxtaposition of iconic imagery also suggests a change in Japanese film. Iguchi uses excessive violence, parodist elements, and the juxtaposition of iconic imagery to subvert Japanese filmic tradition.

Excessive gore and violence is certainly part of Japanese filmic tradition, however, Iguchi takes this aspect of Japanese film and makes the violence even more over-the-top. Anderson and Richie in their book The Japanese Film: Art and Industry state, “Pointless killing is one of the main features of the Japanese film, whether chambara or modern gangster movie” (318). They go even further explicating that “Japanese films also tend to accentuate the attendant gore” (Anderson 318). Anderson and Richie use the noise of bones breaking as a kid jumps on his chest in Nikkatsu’s Beyond the Green (1955) as an example. This example pales in comparison to the gore and violence in Iguchi’s The Machine Girl.

In one scene, Ami shoots one of the hitmen for the yakuza in the face. As her machine gun goes off we are exposed to the bits of flesh coming off, slowly exposing the facial muscles. The blood spurts everywhere almost like a fountain from the man’s neck. The hitman is still alive, and we are made aware of this through his frantic running and screaming. This attempt to make the gore even more over-the-top is an active attempt to point out how violence is ingrained in modern culture. He suggests that nowadays it is not enough to see a person get shot; to provoke a response, that person must have his flesh slowly blown away as he screams in agony.

The film’s self-reflexivity lends it to be a critique of the way Japanese culture is portrayed in contemporary media. Roland Kelts in his book Japanamerica: How Japanese Pop Culture Has Invaded the U.S explicates how Japanese culture is portrayed in the United States. Kelts argues that the American conception has a lot to with manga and anime, describing it as “playful, colourful, cute, and sometimes crazy” (208). The Machine Girl definitely plays with this conception of culture to convey a sense of irony.

In the film, Ami searches for one of the bullies who killed her brother. After an extended fight with the bully’s parents, the mother dips Ami’s hand in tempura batter before deep frying her arm. Ami slowly reveals her arm which looks like a giant piece of tempura. The scene is cartoon-like, clearly parodying manga and Japanese anime. However, the scene is still brutal as it does depict a young girl getting her arm burnt. The anime-like aspects of the scene are contrasted by the harsh screams of Ami, a character that the audience identifies with. In introducing the brutality into this parody, Iguchi suggests that there is something wrong with this conception of Japanese culture. Although it can be seen as playful, colourful, and sometimes crazy, there is a sense of brutality underlying the superficial conception of Japanese culture.

Iguchi uses contrasting imagery to explicate the state of Japanese cinema, suggesting that it is not immune to the effects of an increasingly globalized culture. The katana, a sword used most often in chambara films, is iconic because it represents a whole genre of Japanese film. Although the katana is used in the film, Ami primarily uses a machine gun. The machine gun is also iconic; it is a product of the 80’s action film in the United States. In the final scene, a bloody Ami walks towards a katana with a machine gun for an arm. The camera slowly revolves around Ami as she lifts the sword upwards; as the camera revolves we are shown more of the machine gun until she strikes her final pose; katana and machine-gun pointing straight at the camera. The scene is the synthesis of American and Japanese filmic tradition. Ami openly accepts both weapons, clearly accepting the globalized nature of film. By combining these iconic images Iguchi seems to be a proponent for the integration of western tropes into Japanese cinema.

Iguchi Noboru’s The Machine Girl is an outlandish film that is entertaining to watch. I would recommend this film due to its originality and over-the-top gore. It’s cartoon-like violence and unrealistic special effects make the gore bearable. Although the film is clearly exploitative in nature, it does have academic value. Iguchi actively subverts Japanese filmic tradition through over-the-top violence, parodist elements, and the juxtaposition of iconic images. The film is a throwback to both American and Japanese film, but in borrowing elements from these filmic traditions Iguchi creates a film that is certainly unique.

Bibliography

Anderson, Joseph L., and Donald Richie. The Japanese Film: Art and Industry. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1982. Print.

Kelts, Roland. Japanamerica: How Japanese Pop Culture Has Invaded the U.S. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006. Print.

Categories
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

Categories
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.

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action chambara/chanbara jidai-geki

“It All Started with a Girl named Ohama”: Violence and the Sword of Doom

Okamoto Kihachi’s The Sword of Doom (1965) has been highlighted for its brutal portrayal of the way of the samurai. David West in his book Chasing Dragons states, “Whilst Kurosawa was a humanist who rejected bushido, the great director never saw combat first hand. As a war veteran, Okamoto displays in his work an abiding disgust with the path of the warrior that possesses an intensity Kurosawa could not match” (46). This attitude towards violence is portrayed through the metaphor of the sword as the soul and the imagery that seems to confirm this. The film follows Ryūnosuke, who after killing Ohama’s husband in a sword competition is forced to leave his town. After assuming a new identity and joining the Shinsengumi, Hyoma seeks to avenge his brother’s death. The film consists of Ryūnosuke’s attempts to thwart authorities and Hyoma.

In one battle scene Ryūnosuke hears an honourable samurai state, “The sword is the soul. Study the soul to study the sword. An evil mind, an evil sword”, his reaction to this statement exemplifies the effects of murder have on even immoral men. Out of all the horrendous things that Ryūnosuke does in the film which includes raping and killing women, the slaughter of hundreds of men, and beating Ohama’s husband with a wooden sword to death, he is most affected by this statement. Rather than the close-up of his maniacal smile after witnessing death, after hearing this, he looks worried almost defeated. Okamoto seems to suggest that at this moment his sins are catching up on him.

The imagery in the film also conveys a sense of dishonour associated with unnecessary killing. Hyoma serves as the counterpoint to Ryūnosuke’s merciless murder. Unlike Ryūnosuke, Hyoma is never shown murdering anyone and thus the film seems to reinforce this sense of morality in this character. In one particular sequence, Ryūnosuke is depicted killing numerous people for the Shinsengumi. Directly after that scene Hyoma is depicted alone in a room practicing his “tsuki thrust”. This sense of isolation is analogous to calm meditation, a clear contrast to the constant screaming and chaos associated with Ryūnosuke’s murders. Clearly Okamoto is vehemently opposing murder for murder’s sake.

Furthermore, this contrast is represented through repeated visual cues, in particular: light versus dark. From the very beginning of the film, when Ryūnosuke murders an old man while he is praying, he is depicted wearing an extremely dark robe and a large straw hat that covers his face. Hyoma, on the other hand, always wears a lighter shade than Ryūnosuke and never wears anything to cover his face. Ryūnosuke’s dark wardrobe and covered visage gives him shadow-like qualities that reinforce the ambiguous and haunting nature of evil. It is Hyoma’s approachability and appearance that makes him accessible as a protagonist; he is unambiguous, thus allowing him to be easily identified with.

As mentioned previously a major theme in the film is the fact that the sword represents the soul, Okamoto takes pains to associate Ryūnosuke with evil through the imagery of the sword. Previously it was mentioned that Hyoma practices alone in a room with a single light coming through the window. The light reflects off his sword and emits an almost ethereal glow, perhaps signifying a sense of justice. Ryūnosuke’s sword is never without bloodstains on it, and this is made most evident by the fact that he is constantly depicted cleaning it. His insistence on cleaning the sword every spare moment is perhaps indicative of his sense of guilt. Just like Lady Macbeth who can’t seem to wash the blood off her hands, Ryūnosuke cannot get the blood off his sword and consequentially his soul.

The sword as the soul is a powerful metaphor that permeates throughout Okamoto’s The Sword of Doom. As the title of the film suggests Ryūnosuke is doomed to live with the guilt of killing hundreds, maybe even thousands of men. The film is didactic in its efforts to denounce pointless murder and it does so through the use contrasting imagery: peaceful isolation versus chaos and light versus dark. Okamoto speaks against murder with a chilling tale that subverts the mythos of the samurai. The film is certainly not a traditional chambara, but it does offer a deep exploration of the nature of evil. Its fight scenes are well crafted and show a sense of tension that is not as prevalent in other samurai films. Its one pitfall is the fact that there should have been more emphasis on Hyoma’s character, he seems shoved aside near the end of the film. I would definitely recommend this film to fans of the chambara genre, because it truly questions some of the values that the samurai have while providing entertaining sword fights.

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