Categories
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.

Categories
gendai-geki literary adaptations post-war shomin-geki taiyozoku

“Crazed Fruit” (狂った果実 Kurutta kajitsu) : The Rise of the Sun Tribe Film

Crazed Fruit (1956), directed by Nakahira Kō, falls within a little-known genre called taiyōzoku or sun tribe. This film is adapted from a novella by Ishihara Shintarō, whose work focuses on contemporary youth, sex and violence. Crazed Fruit was one of five taiyōzoku films to be released in the 1950s. Cruel Story, Season of the Sun, Summer in Eclipse and Punishment Room make up the other films in the series (Phillips & Stringer, 2007). The character playing the role of Natsuhisa, the elder brother of Hiraju in the film, is Ishihara Yujirō, who, in real-life, is the brother of Ishihara Shintarō. Ishihara Yujirō is the Japanese equivalent of Elvis Presley, Marlon Brando, and James Dean (Casey, 2001). The character playing the younger brother is Tsugawa Masahiko, at the time another rising star in Japan. He would later appear in Godzilla and soon emerge as Itami Jūzō’s favorite actor (Casey, 2001). Crazed Fruit is cruel, passionate, thrilling and dirty all at once. The film presents the erotic drama of post-war youth, who are contemptuous of their elders and traditional values and pass their time in idle pursuits like laying about on beaches, gambling and chasing women. The action centres on two brothers who spend their time partying and nightclubbing only to invite tragedy by competing for the same woman.

Hiraju is a young and naive teenage boy. In contrast, his brother Natsuhisa is an inveterate party animal, denizen of nightclubs and seducer of girls. One day when the two brothers got off the train station to go to the beach for a day of waterskiing, Hiraju spies a girl named Eri and falls in love at first sight. After dating occasionally, Hiraju and Eri become close. Natsuhisa, who is not interested in Eri, at least not initially, later observes her at a nightclub with an elderly American man, who he later discovers is her husband. Finding himself increasingly attracted to her, Natsuhisa blackmails Eri into sleeping with him, threatening to reveal all to Hiraju if she refuses. At this point, Eri finds herself in a ménage a trois, though the affair with Hiraju remains strictly platonic. And though her relationship with Natsuhisa is passionate, at least on a physical level, her heart yearns for Hiraju. Unaware of all this, Hiraju proposes that she accompany him on a camping trip. Eri posts him a letter saying that she is unavailable to leave on the day proposed and asks whether they might leave a day earlier. However, this letter never reaches Hiraju; instead, it finds its way into the hands of Natsuhisa. Wishing to have Eri all to himself, Natsuhisa takes Eri on a sailing trip. Hiraju later discovers that Eri and his brother are having an affair. Determined to confront them, he drives all through the night, eventually locating the dock where the boat is moored.

In the mid-1950s, the Japanese film industry was in crisis owing to overproduction and ruinous competition on the part of studios to sign major stars (Phillips & Stringer, 2007). In order to compete, some studios began exploiting sex and violence, two staples of the taiyōzoku genre. A different image of youth had begun to emerge at this time, i.e., the mid 1950s, attracting the attention of both the media and critics. For contemporary Japanese audiences, the overt sexuality of Crazed Fruit was shocking. Also new and refreshing, and in notable contrast to other Japanese films of the time, Crazed Fruit made no effort to play down the novella’s anti-Americanism. Foreigners populate the background in many of Nakahira’s shots and Danish-Japanese actor Okada Masumi, who plays Frank, has a prominent role. In one scene where the waiter at the Blue Sky nightclub asks Frank what kind of drink he would like in English, Frank replies, “Got any shochu?”, thus identifying himself as Japanese.

Many visual and thematic motifs of the taiyōzoku genre are evident in Crazed Fruit, a film that powerfully portrays the disillusioned youth of postwar Japan. Four are of special interest here. First, beaches constitute the setting for many of the film’s scenes. The beaches serves as a private space for rebellious youth, a setting where they are free to hang out, water-ski, chase girls and make love. Second, the motorboat serves as a symbol of the speed, power, and freedom that youth prize and pursue. Moreover, aloha shirts and sunglasses are iconic to the genre (Phillips & Stringer, 2007), suggesting exciting and romantic places far removed from the grim reality of post war Japan, places that offer escape from monotony and hardship. In sharp contrast to the bright sun and expansive beaches, alcohol, cigarettes, violence, jazz, and nightclubs serve to evoke a sense of frenzied nightlife and youthful rebellion. This is evident in a scene set in a carnival where a group of youths are involved in a fight, ostensibly to protect their friend Frank. The joy the youths so obviously derive from beating up others reveals their violent, rebellious natures and lack of moral values. Moreover, the film’s opening scene in which the brothers jump over a turnstile to catch a train that is about to leave the station suggests that youth lack respect for authority, yet another taiyōzoku motif.

Crazed Fruit focuses on young, beautiful people living at a frenetic pace. The cinematography is outstanding; the fast cuts produce a sense of excitement. The ending is not overly clichéd, which saves this film from becoming banal. In my view the riveting plot conveys a real sense of the predicament confronting post-war Japanese youth. The taiyōzoku films were a short-lived phenomenon owing to both social pressures to conform and over-exposure in the mass media. Nonetheless, their representation of post-war youth is as compelling today as it was in the 1950s.

References

C             Casey, C. (2001). Ishihara Yujiro. Retrieved from http://shishido0.tripod.com/

riteriona, K. (Director). (1956tripod.com/ishihara.htmalMizunoe, T. (Producer), & Nakahira, K. (Director). (2005). Crazed Fruit [DVD].

Japan: criterion

Phillips, Alastair. & Stringer, Julian,  2007  Japanese cinema : texts and contexts / edited by Alastair Phillips and Julian Stringer Routledge, London

Categories
drama, melodrama gendai-geki shomin-geki

A Street of Shame or A Street of Misery?

Street of Shame (Japanese title Akasen Chitai, 赤線地帶), released in 1956, is a postwar Japanese drama film directed by Mizoguchi Kenji, starring Kyo Machiko (Mickey), Mimasu Aiko (Yumeko), Wakao Ayako (Yasumi) , Kogure Michiyo (Hanae), and Machida Hiroko (Yokie). The story is set in Japan during the mid-20th century when the Japanese Diet proclaimed an implementation of an anti-prostitution bill which led to tremendous shock among the district of Yoshiwara, a prosperous pleasure quarter in Tokyo. By depicting the stories of various women, the movie accurately reveals the living conditions of prostitutes, commonly categorized as a vulnerable group in postwar Japanese society. Meanwhile in a broader sense, it also manages to provoke further discussion and reflective thoughts about the abolition of prostitution. This was the final work of Mizoguchi and it was nominated for the Golden Lion Award at the 1956 Venice International Film Festival.

Unlike his earlier works such as Sisters of the Gion or Osaka Elegy which mainly focus on one or two central figures, this time, Mizoguchi vividly portrays five distinct lifelike female characters, Mickey, Yumeko, Yasumi, Hanae and Yokie. These individuals struggle with their diverse sufferings but are trapped in the same pitiful situation: they are all courtesans working in Dreamland , a brothel in Yoshiwara. The movie subtly develops through the depiction of these women. Yorie is in love with an impoverished man who she insists on marrying; the two married women Hanae and Yumeko both sell themselves in order to maintain their families; the young and attractive Yasumi tries every means to accumulate her savings to raise bail for her father; Mickey, who comes from a prosperous merchant’s family, becomes a prostitute to avenge her father’s mistreatment of her mother. Though never explicitly stated, the relationship between them is quite subtle and complex. On one hand as low-status prostitutes they sympathize with each other and look after one another. It seems they somehow form a feeling of sisterhood. In the scene when all five of them get together to attend Yokie’s farewell party and each presents their wedding gifts, Yokie bursts out crying and claims that it would be so hard for her to leave them. On the other hand, however, as co-workers they have to compete with each other. Therefore, they are further divided into two subgroups based purely on their age and appearance. Just as Keiko McDonald mentions in her analysis of Mizoguchi’s Sisters of the Gion, young and beautiful girls like Mickey and Yasumi are definitely more eye-catching than aged women like Yumeko, Hanae and Yokie. Throughout the movie we are constantly shown the sharp contrast between the superior group and the inferior one. For example, a former patron of Yokie switches his favor to Mickey and ruthlessly compares Yokie to an old fish in the market which no one would choose. Also in another scene we see Yumeko humbly approach Yasumi and borrow money from her while she is busy pleasing her costumer. Thus the director exposed a brutal fact that in a male-dominated society, women who work as geisha or courtesans are only playthings to men. Their youthful bodies are their only asset and once they are no longer appealing to men, these women can barely survive on their own.

In addition to the rich description of female characters, the movie itself is also populated with poignant sarcasm and deft indictment of a materialistic society. For example, for men who seek temporary physical pleasure, “Dreamland” may be a paradise, yet it is nothing but a living hell and a haunting memory for those women who serve these men. In addition, Mizoguchi sheds light on the characterization of the proprietor and the proprietress of Dreamland, Mr and Mrs Taya, who repeatedly claim themselves to be protectors of and “social workers” for these women, however, they barely care for the well-being of these courtesans. In fact, their own benefits is merely their major concern. Such personalities as greedy and hypocritical are manifested to the full through the development of a sequence when they hear that Mickey’s father is a wealthy businessman and they immediately add an extra 10% on her debt.

It is noteworthy that there’s certain parallelism between Street of Shame and Mizoguchi’s earlier works. Specifically speaking, the character Yasumi closely resembles Omocha (the younger sister in Sisters of the Gion) in personalities but not in fate. First of all, they are both scheming and money-minded. Yasumi not only has all her male patrons wrapped around her fingers but is also a “loan shark” around her workmates. Secondly they both bear resentments against their profession and poverty. It appears that the only significant difference is that Omocha loses her battle against the patriarchal society whereas Yasumi manages to escape unscathed. At the end of the movie she takes over her formal patron’s business and becomes the owner of a quilt shop. Therefore, Mizoguchi seems to offer a promising ending that it is possible for Japanese courtesans to escape from their miseries and regain a normal life, however these lucky breaks are not pertinent to all women who involuntarily enter the business. The overall situation appears to be a vicious circle in which no one could really escape.

Perhaps it is because Street of Shame was made more than two decades later than Sisters of the Gion and Osaka Elegy that both the casting and acting of this film are more appealing to a modern audience. Besides, the group portrait embodies a greater variety of richness than the former depiction of a single character. The power of money, the solitariness of life and the capriciousness of fate which Mizoguchi Kenji constantly tries to express through his camera, are fully demonstrated in this film. If there’s truly someone to blame, it should be the fault of the male-dominated society and the fault of its distorted social system.

Categories
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
drama, melodrama gendai-geki shomin-geki

“When a Woman Ascends the Stairs” (Onna ga kaidan o agaru toki)

I have heard so much about the name Naruse Mikio, but I didn’t view his work until recently. Naruse Mikio, following after Ozu Yasujirô (I was born, but…), Mizoguchi Kenji (Sisters of the Gion) and Kurosawa Akira (No Regrets for Our Youth), has been universally acknowledged as the fourth master in the Japanese film industry. As a great masterpiece of the very extraordinary Japanese film director Naruse, the black-and-white movie When a Woman Ascends the Stairs (1960) tells a story about a bar mama-san, Keiko (played by Takamine Hideko), who is faced with thee dilemma of deciding whether to start her own bar or to get married at the age of thirty, a turning point in a woman’s lifetime.

I would say that one of the most important reasons that the movie When a Woman Ascends the Stairs is so fascinating cannot be separated from the artistic achievement Naruse made in this film. People who are concerned about Japanese films would know that almost all Naruse’s movies are based on the theme of the fate of women. Without exception, this film also continues the style of his previous films with women in focus. However, Nareuse was not a radical feminist. Instead of portraying men as sinister monsters while showing women’s independence as their only way out, Naruse merely attempts to show Keiko’s disappointment in every man she wished to rely on within the nearly two hours film. Besides, unlike other female-styled directors who stubbornly close women in stifling spaces, on the contrary, Naruse tends to let Keiko, the heroine of his lens, travel around every corner of Tokyo, from the bar to the office, from the modern apartment to the slum.

In addition, through interspersing traditional Japanese women, who wear kimono and step mincingly on wooden clogs, among those Japanese women who are delicate-featured with western-styled dress, the director shows us that the post-war era commerce makes the elegant and traditional Japan seem degenerate. Last but not least, there is one brief scene that not only impressed me the most but also makes a very good interpretation of the title. It is the scene where Keiko climbs the stairs of the bar. The director uses a set of close-ups of Keiko’s face and feet, which brings the audience into the character’s inner world and makes the audience strongly feel the inner struggles and frustration endured by the central character Keiko as she has to walk towards a world that is full of an unpleasant smell of alcohol.

The amazing performance skills actress Takamine Hideko shows in this film are also worth mentioned. For instance, in interpreting Keiko’s reluctant mood as she walks towards a world that makes her feel disgusted, Takamine expresses these emotions in a natural way through the facial expression and even the rhythm of the pace. Because of her excellent performance in a variety of different roles in more than 50 films, Takamine won various film awards in Japan. So far, Takamine’s elegant style of performance and radiation of the charm of Japanese women still largely impresses the audience and makes the film rise to a higher realm. I believe that with the achievement Takamine made in the movie, When a Woman Ascends the Stairs will always attract a large audience of different generations and from different countries.

Overall, some people might question my point of view, but I think the film When a Woman Ascends the Stairs is an exciting film and a most important one.

WORK CITED

http://baike.baidu.com/view/543844.htm

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
film noir literary adaptations thriller

“Black Lizard” (1968): A Psychedelic Film-Noir

Black Lizard (Kurotokage, 1968) is a film directed by Fukasaku Kinji and based on Edogawa Rampo’s 1934 detective novel and Mishima Yukio’s stage adaption of the same title. Isao Kimura plays the famed detective, Akechi Kogorō, who works in a similar fashion to Sherlock Holmes, using his superb deduction skills to solve crime and outwit his opponents. However, the true star of the film is Murayama Akihiro, who plays the main antagonist, “Black Lizard,” an archetype femme fatale and the criminal mastermind that drives the whole story. Black Lizard is essentially a classic film noir, but also has a good dose of action, black comedy and romance, with enough surrealism that could classify it as borderline fantasy.

The premise of the film revolves around the Black Lizard’s plot to kidnap the beautiful Iwase Sanaye, and hold her for ransom against her father, a renowned jeweler, in order to obtain the legendary “Star of Egypt” diamond. Japan’s best private detective, Akechi Kogorō, is hired to help protect Sanaye and track down the Black Lizard. The rest of the film follows a cat-and-mouse chase between the famed detective and the Black Lizard, each edging the other out in a subsequent battle of wits. The Black Lizard also reveals a secondary motive for kidnapping Sanaye, and that is she wishes to embalm her and preserve her youth and beauty as part of her collection of human statues. Equipped with superhuman deduction skill, Akechi needs to find the Black Lizard’s secret lair and defeat her gang of misfits, which include two dwarves, a woman who controls snakes, and a hunchbacked henchman. Over the course of the chase and from their numerous encounters, sexual tension between the two rivals unexpectedly grows, and a forbidden romance begins to develop.

Drawing from the unusual ensemble of characters, Fukasaku Kinji used filming techniques that made Black Lizard almost feel like a comic book in motion. Beginning with the opening scene at the underground nightclub, the viewer is bombarded with psychedelic shades of red, blue and green that are not normally found in real life. Since in most scenes the backdrop is predominantly dark, anything with a hint of colour really stands out in comparison. For example, in the scene where Sanaye is once again kidnapped, the bright red lining of the box she is thrown in is so vivid in contrast to its surroundings that it makes it difficult to divert your attention elsewhere on the screen. In addition to the exaggerated colour scheme, Fukasaku also uses amplified sounds to bring the viewer’s attention to ordinary objects and build up suspense. An example would be in the scene where Akechi waits in the hotel room as the time specified by the Black Lizard draws near. The ticking of the clock gets significantly louder and louder, until that is all that can be heard. This not only serves as a literal countdown, but the volume of the clock also parallels the suspense growing in the audience.

The most standout aspect of this film is the use of a man in drag to play the female lead, the Black Lizard. This choice may sound perplexing at first, since the use of onnagata, men who were professional female impersonators, was considered outdated decades before the production of this film. However, Murayama Akihiro’s performance as a woman was not only good, but also extremely enticing to watch; unlike Hollywood films that often feature drags for comedic effect, this role was taken quite seriously. The Black Lizard was a woman who was both feared but also well respected by men. A kechi says it best when he describes a woman in his story (clearly reflecting the Black Lizard) that is seemingly cruel and ruthless, but also tenderhearted. Due to the combination of these masculine and feminine traits, perhaps it was decided that someone androgynous would best embody this. The Black Lizard’s true gender is never explicitly stated in the film, but this actually works in favour of the character’s sexual ambiguity. It was not a surprise to see her seducing a man in one scene, and revealing her attraction towards a young girl in the next.

Knowing that it was based on a novel by Edogawa Rampo, who was famous for his fictions in the mystery genre, I had high expectations for Black Lizard. I was not disappointed with the film, however, it did not really satisfy as a mystery. This is primarily because the audience is aware of who the perpetrator is from the get-go.  Nonetheless, I still found myself at the edge of my seat, wanting to know what was going to happen next and intrigued by the battle of wits between Akechi and the Black Lizard. I would recommend this film to others, but it does contain some content that could offend younger viewers, including very mild nudity, the subject of necrophilia and one particularly gruesome scene.

Categories
drama, melodrama gendai-geki post-war shomin-geki

The Shattered Women In a Torn-down City: A Film Review of Mizoguchi Kenji’s “Women of the Night”

Mizoguchi Kenji, as one of the most well-known Japanese directors in the 20th century, is famous for his intense focus on lower-class women in his films. Women of the Night (Yoru No Onnatachi, 1948) is collected as one of Mizoguchi’s “Four Masterpieces of the Fallen Women”, in which Street of Shame, Sisters of the Gion, and Osaka Elegy are also included. The leading “fallen woman” in this film is played by Tanaka Kinuyo, a Best Actress Award winner at the Berlin International Film Festival. She played leading roles in many of Mizoguchi’s films, and is considered one of the most influential actresses in Japan in the 20th century.  With a focus on postwar traumas, the story of Women of the Night is a literary adaptation based on a novel written by Hisaita Eijirô, and was set in postwar Osaka under occupation by the American government.

The opening scene starts with a desperate-looking woman, Owada Fusako, walking across a long street to sell her summer clothes at a pawnshop. Her desperation mainly comes from her missing husband and the heavy economic burden of her husband’s family. Later, she is informed that her husband was found dead in the war. The death of her child later on furthers her misfortune. However, on the other day, Fusako seems indifferent about her misfortune when she walks down the street with her sister-in-law Kumiko and surprisingly encounters her sister, Natsuko. Fusako proudly tells her sister that she has already got rid of the family burden by working as a secretary for her husband’s previous boss Kuriyama, while Natsuko announces her job as a dance hostess. Kumiko shows her admiration for both while listening to their conversations. The story reaches a turning point when Fusako finds out that her sister Natsuko is having an affair with her beloved boss Kuriyama. Stunned and desperate again, Fusako leaves their shared apartment and disappears. At the same time, the young sister-in-law Kumiko suddenly decides to leave home and start a new life on her own. Unfortunately, she is used and raped by a gangster she encountered on the street. With all her money and clothes taken away, she then has no choice but to follow a bad girl gang to become a prostitute. A small climax of the story arises when Natsuko gets sent to a hospital by mistake when she tries to look for Fusako in the prostitution area. She then meets Fusako in the hospital, who looks completely different in her dressings and manners as a skilled prostitute. After Fusako manages to escape from the hospital, she continues her life as a prostitute, who wishes to spread sexual transmitted diseases to men, until she meets Kumiko in an unexpected circumstance. Their reunion then pushes the story to its final climax.

The camerawork in Women of the Night adopts Mizoguchi’s favourite long shots, in which the camera is fixed at a certain point to follow the movement of characters and to exhibit a pan of actions. With this style of camerawork, the stage settings in which the characters interact are clearly revealed to the audience. In this particular film, an actual postwar ruin is starkly exposed. At the beginning of the film, when Fusako walks down a long street from the pawnshop to her house, the city’s scars left by the war become immediately visible as she passes by piles of shattered bricks and destroyed houses. It is significant to notice that two of the most violent scenes in the film are also shot in the observable postwar shambles. One of these scenes establishes right after Kumiko gets raped and dumped by the gangster. The violence starts as a gang of bad girls brutally tear off Kumiko’s clothes in front a field filled with shattered slabs and bricks. The other violent scene occurs towards the end of the film, when Fusako receives whips and kicks from her prostitute gang just because she wants to quit her job as a prostitute. This scene takes place in front of a torn-down church, and Fusako gets hit among piles of broken slabs as well. These parallel violent scenes taken place in war ruins resemble war scenes, as if the women’s wars start right after the end of men’s wars. The women’s wars reflect a reality that society remains unrest even if the wars are over. The broken hearts of women and shattered constructions are just another war-like disaster that further depresses the city.

Women of the Night also brings forth a struggle between traditional values and the new values of women. Influenced by the western ideas of individuality and independence brought by the occupation government, the women in this film seem to be less subordinate to men than the women in Mizoguchi’s previous films. Without her husband’s support, Fusako moves out to a single apartment and works as a secretary to support her life. She also believes in romantic true love between herself and Kuriyama, instead of adhering to arranged marriage. The single lady Natsuko, on the other hand, works as a dance hostess. The young Kumiko’s admiration for the sisters clearly reveals women’s appreciation and yearnings for the new lifestyles adopted by independent working women. The yearning for a more westernized, individualistic lifestyle is also what pushes Kumiko to leave home. However, the new appreciated value of women doesn’t seem to change their subordinate social status, as their income, still, is fully dependent on the men around them. Both Fusako and Natsuko lose hope and support after they leave Kuriyama, and Kumiko’s misery begins right after she gives up the support from her family. Even the prostitutes’ survivals are entirely dependent on their male customers, or the supporting charity organizations run by men. Trapped between ideals and a discouraging reality, women like Fusako turn their yearnings for independence into revenge towards men by becoming prostitutes and spreading diseases to men.

Mizoguchi’s long shots, together with the bleak atmosphere pervaded throughout the film, made me feel as if I was actually inside the shattered city. The violent actions between the female characters made me strongly feel for the physical and psychological hardship that the women in the film have to go through. The struggles amongst the women as well as the struggle between women and men in the film remain unresolved even towards the end of the film. The everlasting struggles indicate endless tragedies of the lower-class women during the postwar era. The film is particularly worth seeing during a relatively peaceful era, as it makes us question about wars again. After the war, not only the women of the night have fallen, but also the entire city has fallen. The kinds of destructions and distortions that wars can bring are immeasurable.

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
drama, melodrama gendai-geki shomin-geki

Cultural Representations of the Changing Status of Women in 20th-century Japanese Cinema

In Japan, we can find a great number of films which are focused on women. When a Woman Ascends the Stairs (Onna ga kaidan o agaru toki, 1960), directed by Naruse Mikio, who especially specializes in movies featuring women as major characters (josei eiga), is one of the director’s masterpieces depicting a woman’s way of life. The heroine of this film is an employed bar proprietress, Keiko, called “mama” (Takamine Hideko) in Ginza. The genre of the work might be considered as both a melodrama and a satirical shomin-geki which is mainly set in Ginza’s nightlife in the 1960s. We might consider that a theme of the film is the misery of hostesses whose feelings are repeatedly trampled on by her customers who she is in love with. If we trace back the history of Japanese cinema, we also find a film which has a similar theme and setting, Sisters of the Gion (Gion no shimai, 1936), about the sorrow of being a geisha by Mizoguchi Kenji. It seems that Naruse and Mizuguchi’s works share both thematic and setting similarities; however it can be considered that the theme of the films are actually different because When a Woman Ascends the Stair was released twenty-four years later. Needless to say, Japan changed between 1936 to 1960 including its society and people. Naruse’s ingenious camerawork and character development help us probe into the real themes of the movie.

The story is set mainly in bars in Ginza, one of the famous entertainment districts of Tokyo. Keiko is suffering from a management of a bar where she works as an employed bar proprietress (mama) because her customers start going to a different bar which is owned by Yuri (Awaji Keiko), who used to work under Keiko. Being stimulated by Yuri’s high exasperation, Keiko starts to consider opening her own bar; however, Keiko learns that being a proprietress is not as easy as she thought. Some time after seeing Yuri, Keiko hears shocking news – Yuri’s death; she committed suicide because of enormous debt which she made from running a business. Moreover, Keiko finds out that Fujisaki (Mori Masayuki), a branch manager of bank whom Keiko is secretly in love with, is involved in the cause of her death. A sorrow of Yuri’s death and disgust towards Fujisaki lead Keiko to a physical and mental breakdown. She takes a break from work and goes back to her family house for treatment, but Keiko is tired of her mother and elder brother who keep sponging on Keiko for money even though she is sick. After Keiko returns to work from a sickbed, her feeling starts leaning towards Sekine (Kato Daisuke), a factory owner who has some resemblance to her deceased husband, who is fat but sweet to her. Her happiness is evanescent because she finds out about Sekine’s true nature – he is just a philandering man. When Keiko becomes severely intoxicated from her sadness, Fujisaki comes to her bar, and then Keiko and Fujisaki disappear to a nightclub; a bar manager Komatsu (Nakadai Tatsuya), meanwhile, keeps a close eye on her.

Through Naruse’s peculiar camerawork, we can examine a real theme which differs from Sisters of the Gion. In the film, Naruse uses medium shots or medium close-ups mainly in bar scenes with a stationary   camera, and the camera position is parallel with the audiences’ eye level; therefore, its distinctive camerawork makes the audiences feel like they are actually in the bar chatting with hostesses. Moreover, these techniques are often used when both Keiko and her clients are in a frame chatting at her bar. Naruse does not use tilt shots at all in bar scenes to show a power relation between hostesses and customers, so it shows that the director tries to capture a different perspective. Through his distinctive camerawork, it is actually hard to clarify a power relationship between Keiko and her clients. Another significant camerawork in the film is a close-up shot of Keiko’s feet when she ascends the narrow stairs where provides Keiko a space to transform to be a professional proprietress. Naruse uses the close-up shots of her feet to effectively depict her emotions; usually she walks up stairs weakly or sometimes stops walking when she faces hardships, and she skitters up stairs as if she freed herself from something in the end of the film. By comparing these two different scenes of the close-up shot of her feet, we clearly see that she becomes a woman with a forward-looking attitude.

The character development of Keiko significantly emphasizes the real theme of the film. In Sisters of the Gion, the movie ends with Omocha’s heartrending cry after facing lots of hardships with men and being a geisha, so the ending leads us to think that the theme of the movie is about the misery of being a geisha. However, in Naruse’s film, we do not see the image of a woman who is a victim of men even though she experiences repeated betrayals by men. Keiko hears that Fujisaki will transfer to Osaka the next day after they spend a night together, and she cries after he leaves her place. However, Naruse does not end his work with the theme which we can see in Mizoguchi’s work. Keiko goes to a train station to see Fujisaki off and returns money borrowed from him, and she maintains her dignified manner even in front of Fujisaki’s wife. This scene effectively shows that the image of a strong women who tried to be financially independent from men, and we do not see the image in Sister of the Gion because Omocha, the main character of the movie is always thinking how to sponge money and things from men. Ironically, Keiko takes all her hardships as tools which make her more mentally strong woman, but it displays a strength of a woman under difficult circumstances.

The image of women has changed over 24 years since 1936 when Sisters of the Gion was released because of the U.S. occupation after the Second World War. Hirano states that “the emancipation of women was one of the occupation’s top proprieties, and, in fact, equality of women was mandated by the 1947 Constitution of Japan.”[1] It explains to us the equal treatment of women in the film because the status and rights of women is elevated. When a Woman Ascends the Stairs is a key movie which offers a great source for us to think about the way of women’s lives in new Japan as it changed through the 20th century.

[1] Hirano, Kyoko. Mr. Smith Goes to Tokyo: Japanese Cinema under the American Occupation. 1945-52. (Washington and London: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992), p. 182.

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