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drama, melodrama gendai-geki literary adaptations shomin-geki

An Eighth of a Millimeter Wide

Woman in the Dunes (alternatively translated as Woman of the Dunes), or Suna no onna is a film by director Teshigahara Hiroshi, based on a novel of the same name by Abe Kobo. The film was released in 1964, and starred Okada Eiji and Kishida Kyoko. The film has a bit of a surrealist, almost experimental feel to it, due in part to the cinematography, music, and editing, and in part simply to the bizarre plotline.

Okada Eiji plays a teacher and an amateur entomologist named Niki Junpei, who has gone on a short vacation to search for various insects (as entomologists are wont to do). He travels to a remote area consisting geographically of sand dunes and nothing else, where he finds several bugs, which I suppose would be exciting for him, and seems to have himself a generally pleasant time. As it gets late, he is approached by a local man, who informs Junpei that the last bus has already left town (whether or not this is actually the case is never confirmed), but that he is welcome to stay with someone in the village. Junpei eagerly accepts the offer, and is taken to a strange and somewhat ominous home. The foreboding feeling of the house is no doubt inspired by the fact that, despite it being bright outside, the home is completely dark. And in a giant pit. Junpei climbs cautiously down a precarious rope ladder as the locals above assure him that it is customary and normal “out here in the boonies.” Inside, he finds an incredibly friendly woman who cooks him a meal for which he seems ungrateful and explains that the sand everywhere is also normal and to be expected. The woman reveals that she is a widow­–her husband and daughter were killed in a sand avalanche. This sand is really a problem. Several more portentous things then occur; the locals come to drop off a bundle of tools for “the helper”, in reference to Junpei. He is a bit taken aback, but the widow assures him that it means nothing and scurries off to collect the tools. When Junpei asks if he can take a bath, the widow replies that yes he can, but in a few days, at which he explains that he won’t be staying that long. The widow again plays it cool, but when Junpei offers to help her with some manual labor later, she turns him down, saying, “No, not on the first day.” Junpei repeats that he is only staying the night, and the widow says nothing. Something is clearly afoot. In the morning, Junpei returns to the spot where he had climbed into the pit, only to find that the rope ladder has been removed. Unhappy, he demands that he be let go as he has places to be, and discovers that he has been trapped so that he can assist the widow in the tedious and tiresome work of putting sand into buckets for the town to sell, and also to prevent their home and themselves from succumbing to the flowing wall of sand. Junpei is not happy. He throws a fit and holds the woman hostage, but when water is withheld he is forced to give it up. Trapped alone and at the mercy of the town together, the woman and Junpei form a very sandy sexual relationship. Junpei continues to try different methods of retaliation or escape, but they are continually thwarted, and he must eventually attempt to come to terms with his situation.

There are many long stretches of silence in Woman in the Dunes, but when music is present, it is an eerie, screeching sound, or often, as everything else in the film, sand-related. The sound of little grains of sand sifting around deafeningly, louder than any sand rightfully should sift, is often overlaid over dramatic moments in the film, adding to the presence of the sand as almost a separate character, always there and always causing trouble. As Junpei first realizes that the rope ladder is gone, a baleful, low, moaning sound warns the audience that it is not accidental, as they had no doubt already expected. Upon realizing he has been trapped, the music picks up a higher-pitched screech, and the house begins to shake as the sand on the walls of the pit comes rolling in. The sound reaches a deafening and uncomfortable level of pitch and volume as the audience is shown images of the tumbling, unending sand, inspiring panic and making the audience feel physically unpleasant. The ominous low rumble comes back when Junpei attempts to scale the wall, an obviously futile activity. As he flounders about in the sand, desperately panting and flailing his appendages in a vain attempt to scale the ever-shifting wall of the pit, the sand cracks and falls and the music once again picks up the discomforting high-pitched wail. The notes climbing higher and higher seem in parts to correspond with the levels of falling sand.

Initially, the close-ups of the bugs and the sand seem almost comforting; a reminder of the excitement and pleasure of being young and explorative, the sensation of sand between your fingers and a hyper-attentive eye for treasures you might find in it. In the beginning of the film, sand is still your friend. Slightly more overwhelming than you remembered, maybe, but that feeling can be attributed to the sheer volume of sand there is out on these dunes. It’s like Tatooine. A touch of the sinister perhaps, but that might have just been the harsh opening credits and spooky music in the first few seconds. For several minutes near the beginning, there is nothing but silence, and sand. It may have just been a personal interpretation, but for those several minutes, I was the curious young adventurer I was at age five, looking way too closely at a caterpillar at the beach, which is (for the moment), Junpei’s outlook on sand as well. Things quickly get worse, however, and the constant close-ups of sand on hands, sand on faces, sand in hair and on backs, exacerbate the claustrophobic feeling of the pit, and the overwhelming feeling of the sand. The sand is obviously a large force. It has become their worldview, with only a small sliver of sky to taunt them from above, but it is when the sand is shown so intimately, mixed in with their sweat and gritty against the pores of their skin, that the true discomfort begins. Junpei and the widow are rationed water, so water plays a significant role in their lives, as one of the central ways in which they are controlled and baited by the townspeople. We are constantly shown extreme close-ups of sweat on skin, and at one point, the importance of it is highlighted by several shots where the entire screen is filled with only one drop of water that slowly forms and then falls, huge and glistening. Because of how dark it is inside the house, unless they are outdoors, the sweat and the thirst are the most powerful means of conveying the sensation of excruciating heat.

This film grips an audience with a claustrophobic, tense, fear of sand: such an unassuming and innocent-seeming force. “This is futile.” Junpei cries, “If it wanted to… the sand could swallow up cities, even entire countries. Did you know that? A Roman town called Sabrata, and that one in The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, both completely buried under particles an eighth of a millimeter wide. You can’t fight it. It’s hopeless!” And watching Woman in the Dunes, for the first time in my life, I really do feel that way. About sand.

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“Double Suicide”

Shinoda Masahiro’s Double Suicide (Shinjū: Ten no Amijima, 1969) is an adaptation of a bunraku puppet play, Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s The Love Suicides at Amijima. Shinoda reinterprets the original story by combining the elements of bunraku and cinema, in which the two continuously interchange.

Before the actual scenes appear, the movie starts with back-stage scenes where staff are busy setting up stages, practicing the movements of puppets, and preparing for the play. The effect of showing the backstage smoothly switches puppets into the reality.

The story is about an ill-fated couple whose conflict stands between eroticism and ethic. The male character, Jihei (Nakamura Kichiemon) is a merchant of a paper shop who has a devoted wife and two little children. He has fallen deeply in love with a courtesan named Koharu (Iwashita Shima), but Jihei cannot afford to redeem Koharu to buy her out from debts. The unfortunate couple is forced to split up by Jihei’s brother Gozaemon, who pretends to be a samurai and tells Koharu that he will buy her debt out if she leaves Jihei.  Jihei is listening to everything Koharu has to say, and as Gozaemon’s plan, Jihei feels betrayed. However, it turns out that Koharu had received a letter from Jihei’s wife, Osan (also played by Shima Iwashita) that the life of Jihei would be in danger if they continued to see each other. Jihei decides to forget about Koharu, but he is very vexed after hearing that Koharu was bought out by Tahei, a rich man who spreads bad rumors of Jihei. Osan, realizing that Koharu unwillingly decided to become Tahei’s woman, tells Jihei about the letter and tells him that Koharu would commit suicide. On their way to save Koharu’s life, Osan’s angry father takes Osan from Jihei for not being a good husband. Jihei is left with no one but Koharu. The two reunite, and head to their everlasting life after death in order to be together.

Shinoda turns the play into a film without abandoning various elements of bunraku. These elements include music, movements, kuroko (people in black who control puppets or help actors in the play), and stage setting. It was interesting to see that the first part of the film had more elements of bunraku than the latter part, in which the focus shifts from Koharu to Osan. In fact, there are many contrary characteristics of the two. From the scene where Osan first appears, the mood becomes more modern and drama-like, whereas scenes with Koharu are more like bunraku puppet play. For example, the way Koharu speaks is more poetic and musical-like, whereas Osan speaks in a calm and modern tone. Also, the movements that Koharu makes are very puppet-like and somewhat artificial, whereas Osan seems natural in the way she walks or moves.

One of the elements that keep the atmosphere of bunraku is the background music. Arranged by a famous composer, Toru Takemitsu, unique bunraku music and the sound of gongs make scenes more dramatic. The string sound of the shamisen, a three-stringed instrument, which is used in bunraku to play music, evokes nervousness and gives tension. It sounded as a warning to the unfortunate couple. Also, Shinoda inserts a dayū (singer-narrator in bunraku) in the middle of the film to inform the shift of the atmosphere from Koharu to Osan.

The role of kuroko is another significant feature of Bunraku. Kuroko is a term for people dressed in black who help actors or control puppets in plays. It actually feels awkward to have someone dressed in black from the top to toe to stand behind actors. They are disturbing, but Shinoda decides to show the nature of bunraku as itself. In fact, kuroko help the audience to understand the situation by making the flow smooth. For example, when Koharu tries to take Osan’s letter from Magoemon, the scene pauses and everyone stops moving except a kuroko, who takes the letter and shows it to the camera to explain what the letter was about. There are many long shots because all the processes are shown without a cut. For an instance, when Osan packs her kimono in a hurry to sell, a kuroko sits next to her and helps packing up. Kuroko sometimes gets a single shot. The emphasis on kuroko may reflect that they are one of the actors that lead the film. However, it is still questionable whether the kuroko are there to control or help/serve actors. Maybe they are simultaneously acting out together.

The ending is already foreshadowed from the beginning with dead bodies of a couple lying under the bridge where Jihei is standing. If the result of choosing eroticism over ethic is already decided, what did Shinoda want to say?  There is a tendency where Japanese jidai-geki tries to beautify death because death means entering into the paradise where people are reborn. However, Shinoda did not want the death of the miserable couple to be seen as beautiful nor happy. By putting death into a neutral position, it is somewhat possible to feel why the couple choose each other, even when it means death. Double Suicide is a unique, creative and a well-adapted film which allows audience to observe characteristics of bunraku through cinema.

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

The Geisha: Symbols of Japanese Beauty or Victimized Groups?

Gion Bayashi (English title: A Geisha or Gion Festival Music), one of  Mizoguchi Kenji’s major film works, focusing on geisha’s roles and daily lives in the post-war Gion district of Kyoto, was released in 1953. Since this film was based on Kawaguchi Matsutarô’s novel, Gion Bayashi, Kawaguchi wrote the film’s screenplay. The leading actresses are Kogure Michiyo as Miyoharu and Wakao Ayako as Eiko. The first half of the film mainly focuses on geisha’s daily lives, while the second half deals with geisha’s roles and social position. The film reveals that even though the geisha are often considered as symbols of Japanese beauty based on a foreigner’s perspective, in reality, the geisha are victimized groups.

The story begins with Eiko looking for the geisha Miyoharu, a colleague of Eiko’s mother, in the Gion district of Kyoto. Since Eiko has nowhere else to go after losing her mother, she wants to become a geisha like her mother with Miyoharu’s help. When Miyoharu decides to support Eiko and to become her guardian, Eiko seems to escape from her sad life. Over a year, Eiko takes a variety of training lessons to become a Kyoto geisha, seen as a symbol of Japanese beauty. Even though training is hard, from Eiko’s perspective, every step of becoming a geisha is full of joy because now she has Miyoharu who supports her both financially and emotionally.

On the day of Eiko’s debut, with the fancy kimono that Miyoharu prepares for her, Eiko and

Miyoharu meet Mr. Kusuada, the manager of Kusuda auto, and Mr. Kanzaki, Kusuda’s important client who Kusuda tries to make a large business deal with, at the tea house run by Okimi, Miyoharu’s okaasan who holds a lot of power in the Gion district. From this banquet, Eiko not only gains her coworkers’ trust, but also gets Mr. Kusuda’s attention. After her successful debut, Kusuda invites both Eiko and Miyoharu to Tokyo. Since Kusuda is a loyal customer, both Eiko and Miyoharu have no choice but to accept his invitation. Until the day they go to Tokyo, no one notices that this trip will change everything. Even though both Eiko and Miyoharu simply expect to have fun with Kusuda in Tokyo, Kusuda invites them for other reasons. In fact, Kusuda needs Miyoharu’s help to make a business deal with Mr. Kanzaki who has had a crush on Miyoharu since the banquet in Kyoto. However, things do not always go as planned. Since Miyoharu is not interested in Mr. Kanzaki, Miyoharu rejects Kusuda’s request to seduce Mr. Kanzaki. With Miyoharu’s rejection, another incident happens with Eiko. After these incidents in Tokyo, both Eiko and Miyoharu realize that they are in big trouble.

In Gion Bayashi, it is interesting to observe how Eiko’s attitude toward the geisha has changed. In the first half of the film, Eiko is a girl who knows nothing about being a geisha. In fact, when she takes a variety of training lessons, she learns only good things about the geisha from her teacher, such as “the geisha are the symbols of Japanese beauty”, “the geisha are living Japanese works of art and cultural treasures”, and so on. Without knowing the fact that a geisha has to sell herself to live, Eiko even has a dream that she can find her own patron who she really

loves. However, after the trip to Tokyo, Eiko starts to notice things that differ from what she learns from her lessons, such as customers’ treatment of geisha. The main incident that completely changes Eiko’s perspective toward geisha is Miyoharu’s spending the night with her customer for money. When Miyoharu returns to the house, Eiko claims that it is all lies that “the geisha are the symbol of Japanese beauty.”At the end of the film, Eiko finally realizes the truth about geisha. One thing is that in reality, the geisha do not have any social freedom, and the other fact is that the successful geisha are only “those who know how to sell themselves well.”

Throughout the film, Okimi, Miyoharu’s okaasan, plays an important role to contribute to the story and to reveal the system of the geisha district. Okaasan literally means “mother”, but in the geisha society, an okaasan is more than just a mother. In fact, the okaasan is the person who arranges the meeting between customers and geisha, and also the one who solves any conflict between them. For example, when Kusuda wants to meet Miyoharu and Eiko at the tea house, or to invite them to Tokyo, he asks permission from Okimi, not from Miyohara. Also, when Miyoharu and Eiko cause problems in Tokyo, Okimi is the one who settles things down with customers. Since okaasan has a power to control geisha, if a geisha does not obey okaasan’s orders, the geisha will be in trouble. For example, after the incidents in Tokyo, Okimi scolds Miyoharu for not following Kusuda’s request, and when Miyoharu is still reluctant to follow Okimi’s order to reconsider Kusuda’s request, Okimi decides to cancel all of Miyoharu’s and Eiko’s appointments with customers until Miyoharu obeys her order.

Mizoguchi’s Gion Bayashi is very entertaining and reveals the reality of the geisha society extremely well. In the film, there is a popular saying that foreigners are crazy about geisha because for them, “the geisha are the symbols of Japanese beauty”, but throughout the movie, Mizoguchi criticizes this idea with claiming that in reality, geisha are just a victimized group who suffer from the poverty and society’s rules without having any freedom to make their own decisions. Even though there are some heavy issues in the movie, including geisha’s social rights, this film will surely take audiences, especially foreigners to the real geisha world.

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drama, melodrama gendai-geki shomin-geki

“Equinox Flower”: Social and Cultural Changes in Postwar Japan

The film Equinox Flower (Higanbana, 1958) by Ozu Yasujirō exposes important social and cultural changes that occurred in Japan during the post-war period. Ozu depicts these changes and reveals how people struggle to cope with changing norms and cultures through observation of family relationships. Unlike typical action-filled Hollywood movies, ‘Equinox Flower’ is rather slow-paced and mainly uses conversation scenes in telling the story, which evokes a sense of tranquility and subtlety. By combining composed acting skills, colourful and aesthetic ambience and simple yet precise camerawork, Ozu creates another heartwarming shomin-geki film showcasing his trademark style and themes.

The film is based on the everyday lives of ordinary people. All of the characters and problems presented in the film are realistic and relatable to the audience. The central conflict arises when the father refuses to allow his daughter to choose her own husband.

Hirayama, the main character in the film, is a successful businessman in Tokyo who is respected by others for being an easy-going, understanding and supportive figure. However, in his own household, he embraces an authoritative, stubborn and old-fashioned persona. Their family structure also remains very paternalistic and traditional as the father holds the most power while his wife and daughters are obligated to obey the father without any objections. However, westernization of Japan has exposed the younger generation to modern and unconventional ways of thinking, which influenced many youth to become more rebellious and individualistic, including Hirayama’s daughter, Setsuko. Despite Hirayama’s strong disapproval towards the marriage, Setsuko remains unyielding and tells the father that she can find happiness on her own. Hirayama is clearly exacerbated by this situation and feels shocked that his daughter has defied him. When Hirayama refuses to attend Setsuko’s wedding as a form of protest, she secretly sobs in her room at the thought of her father’s absence at the wedding, signifying her unchanging love and loyalty towards her father. Hirayama is an interesting and multi-dimensional character as he is a complete hypocrite in the film.  In the opening scene, he makes a witty toast to the married couple, saying how much he admires and envies the fact that the couple has been linked by true love while half-jokingly criticizes his own marriage for being an arranged and unromantic one. One day, Setsuko’s best friend approaches him to seek advice regarding about her mother trying to force her into an arranged marriage when she already has found true love. Hirayama is supportive of the friend and advise her to follow her own heart and that she does not have to obey her mother’s words. Then, the niece suddenly gets up with excitement and confesses to Hirayama that everything was a scheme and that she has fabricated the story in order to get him to approve Setsuko’s marriage.

Hirayama is able to maintain objectivity when dealing with other people’s problems but in the face of his own daughter, his sense of objectivity is immediately paralyzed and becomes more selfish and conservative. Even his wife accuses him for his inconsistencies. However, his reluctance to accept Setsuko’s marriage does not necessarily mean that he is a strong advocate of arranged marriages. He is rather bothered and disappointed by the fact that Setsuko announced the marriage without even consulting with him first. Hirayama is caught up in a moral dilemma, where he either has to choose to accept the reality and let Setsuko fly on her own or keep rejecting his daughter and her husband. It is important to note that Hirayama should not just be perceived as a repressive and stubborn traditionalist who is resistant to changing values and norms. Behind his rigid persona, there lies a dutiful and loving father who wants to ensure that his children make the best choices in their lives. In a way, Ozu sympathizes with both the younger and older generations. In this film, there are no distinctive antagonists. All of the characters can be seen as protagonists as they are just normal people going through ordinary problems in everyday life.

The film depicts the post-war society of Japan in the 1950’s. After the war ended, Western influences began to pervade Japan and social, political and economic changes were rapidly occurring in Japanese society. Ozu captures these changes by presenting both traditional and Western elements in the film. The film depicts Hirayama’s traditional Japanese-style house equipped with wooden doors and tatami mats while also showing Hirayama going to a bar, highlighting a contrast between modern and traditional lifestyle. Ozu also shows generational differences in terms of clothing styles. Both Hirayama and his wife wear kimono at home while their daughters are dressed in modern and Western styles of clothing. Ozu also highlights economic and environmental changes in postwar Japan through repetitive shots of factories. Development of factories signifies both economic growth and environmental destruction of Japan. By drawing contrast between modern and traditional setting, Ozu makes constant references to westernization of Japanese society and the generational differences that arise from it. The setting of the movie demonstrates how old traditions are gradually replaced by newly emerging ideas and customs and the ways people adapt to these changes. Equinox Flower is also highly recognized as being Ozu’s first colour film.  The usage of colour definitely helps strengthen the emotional and poetic sentiments the film exudes. Ozu especially places great emphasis on the colour red. A red kettle is present in almost every indoor scene, usually situated beneath the red table, which blends beautifully with character’s clothing and surrounding items and nature. Also, Ozu often places colourful flowers in the room adjacent to the characters, and produces a beautiful harmony with the nature. Ozu’s focus on visual details and skillful integration of color scheme elevates the quality of the film and also provides the audience with a visually fulfilling experience.

The camerawork of Ozu is quite simple yet very effective. His famous tatami shot is also employed in this film as the camera remains stationary making little or no movements. The actors and actresses look directly into the camera with their entire face occupying the screen. Most of the scenes are shot in enclosed spaces such as home, office and bar. The camera especially focuses on hallway shots of people coming in and out of the space and these scenes are revisited constantly throughout the film. Because the story is primarily led by conversation scenes, the film extensively uses close-up and reverse shots. As one person finishes speaking, the scene immediately alternates to face of another person without any pause or fading moments. Some people might find this style less fluid and old-fashioned than other films that are shot from various angles. However, close-up shots are effective in drawing the audience into character’s facial expressions and emotions and allow them to understand and relate characters better. Despite all the influences and changes imposed on Japanese film industry during the postwar period, Ozu is one of the few who shows adherence to his traditional style of filming.

The term ‘equinox’ in the title is derived from Latin meaning ‘equality of night and day’. This term is used when the gap of two opposite points narrows and finally makes the intersection. The title is representative of the main theme explored in the film; collision between pre-war and post-war generation and the ways they respond to changing norms and cultures. Through heartwarming characters and compelling camerawork and visual effects, Ozu effectively conveys an important message of how people sometimes have to accept the reality, the passing of time and conform to naturally evolving society.

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gendai-geki literary adaptations post-war shomin-geki

Finding the Light: A Post-War Ethical Dilemma

Ichikawa Kon’s 1956 The Burmese Harp (Biruma no tategoto/Harp of Burma) is a visceral  and aesthetic powerhouse. Based on the children’s novel penned by Takeyama Michio, the film presents a unique Japanese perspective on the post-World War II reparations and the subsequent trauma faced by the soldiers caught between honour, justice, and a personal sense of conviction. It is a work representative of “his acerbic account of tradition, modernization and alienation in twentieth century Japan” (Jacoby, 3). Mizushima Yasuhiko (Yasui Shoji) propels this anti-war gendai-geki, as he and his platoon, comprised in part by Captain Inouye (Mikuni Rentarō), Ito (Hamamura Jun), Kobayashi (Neito Taketoshi), and Baba (Nishimura Ko), deal with the ramifications of the Japanese surrender to the Allied Powers. Mizushima is commissioned with the task of bringing news of the surrender to the last-standing platoon, still embroiled in gunfire with the British troops. His words are met by a fierce nationalistic sentiment, and the very troops he came to save in Triangle Mountains are shot down by enemy fire in the uproar.

In a harrowing sequence, Mizushima is confronted with the senselessness and despair of war, as he journeys to rejoin his team who are awaiting repatriation. Ichikawa’s protagonist is faced with the moral dilemma of whether to adopt the ways of the Buddhist monks and ensure the honourable burial of each of his fallen comrades, or to let the fallen lie as collateral in both the aftermath of the war, and the survivors’ opportunity to return home to Japan.

Ichikawa navigates the divides between each ideology, oppositionary forces and disparate languages, through the universal conduit of music. It is used not only to communicate what characters are unable to articulate, but is also employed as a vehicle to convey emotional states of being. This mastery is woven throughout key vantage points in the narrative, such as the choral exchange between the Allied Powers and the Japanese through the song popular with Western audiences as “Home Sweet Home,” and “Hanyu no yado” to Japanese viewers of the film. In other examples embedded in the film, the platoon attempts to utilize song to entice Mizushima back to the POW camp, who in turn uses his traditional harp to return his own salutations, sentiments, and sorrows.

Another distinct aspect of Ichikawa’s work is his characteristic use of light and highly aesthetic camerawork. His prior aspirations to pursue a career a painting are clearly evident in his deft use of contrast between light and dark against a black-and-white film stock. The director exploits light to both delineate the protagonist and opposing forces, as well as to characterize and personify internal states of emotion for each party. This can be seen in the emotion conveyed as Mizushima awakes entombed by the corpses of the Triangle Mountain troops, in a scene indicative of the chiaroscuro seen in Renaissance artworks depicting hills of fallen souls. The subtext of scenes where Captain Inouye and his men are imprisoned is in the POW, is also masterfully conveyed through the use of slanted light, that beams through the panels of the bamboo outhouse, casting reflections of prison bars onto the faces of the platoon.

Charged emotion is also depicted through the vast empty spaces of the striking Burmese landscape, captured by Ichikawa’s telephoto lens and long shots. The landscape ‘speaks’ of the despair and emptiness that weighs on Mizushima, and provides voice to both the ghosts of the fallen soldiers that he faces, as well as the struggle he fights internally.  Evidence of this struggle can be seen in the wide angle close-ups such as the rack focus between the anguish of Mizushima, and the parrot that sits on his shoulder: the embodiment of his friend’s wishes for him to come home.

Though some violent imagery may be unsuitable for younger audiences, Ichikawa Kon has taken the storytelling devices of light, camerawork, subtext and mise-en-scéne, and transformed a child’s fantasy about the ethics of war, into an honest and emotional depiction of survival against post-traumatic stress. His work provides his audience a vehicle through Mizushima, to find meaning and reason in the deafening silence after the last gunshot is fired. “To have the courage, to face suffering, senselessness and irrationality without fear, to find strength to create peace by one’s own example” (Ichikawa).

Works Cited

Jacoby, Alexander. “Kon Ichikawa.” Senses of Cinema March 2004

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drama, melodrama jidai-geki

The Promise between the Father and the Son: Zushio’s Decision

Mizoguchi Kenji’s Sansho the Bailiff (Sanshō Dayū, 1954) is definitely one of his finest films, and it fully depicts how well Mizoguchi is aware of the nature of self-sacrifice of women, specifically of mothers. Such a jidai-geki film illustrates a family’s tragic story through their lives as they face several life-threatening conflicts and troubles. This film clearly describes the director’s own view of human beings through the main characters’ lives and the events, and eventually heartens the audience by reminding us how valuable beings the humans are. Throughout the film, Mizoguchi’s distinctive sound effect and editing skills are well-used to make the film more valuable.

The introduction of the film is notably appealing. The main characters appear in a very dreamily and mysteriously presented scene as the film foreshadows the fact that some eerie misfortunes will sooner or later occupy the family.  In fact, this scene is where we can refresh from all the unfortunate events occurring in the film since the film mostly consists of tragic stories. The two children, named Zushio and Anju, are sold as slaves to Sansho the Bailiff after their father, a former governor, has been banished to a far-off province. While they are travelling to their father’s place, an old woman approaches to them in a very kind manner but eventually sells the children to a slave trader. Then, of course the children get separated from their mother, Tamaki. Afterwards, the film focuses on Zushio and Anju’s life as slaves. As they grow up in a manor, Anju still keeps her values as she was taught by her father, who told his children, ‘Even if you are hard on yourself, be merciful to others’. However, Zushio, Anju’s brother with his broken heart, changes and joins the cruel group of people who give punishments to other slaves, thinking that this is the only way to survive in the manor for himself. One day, a young slave girl from a place called Sado comes into the manor and she sings a song with lyrics of Anju and Zushio. As soon as Anju heard this song, she begins to believe that her mother is still alive and begs Zushio to escape from the manor together, which he refuses. Later, when they have to go the wilderness to take Namiji out of the camp as she is to be left by herself before she dies from her illness, they go to break the branches together, and this reminds Zushio the days when they were together with their mother. This event persuades Zushio to escape from the manor, and with Anju’s help, Zushio gets a chance to escape and promises Anju to come back to save her. However, Anju decides to commit suicide and just prays for her brother’s wellness. In the film, the audience vividly witnesses how Mizoguchi tries to show the nature of a mother’s love towards her children and how a woman can sacrifice herself for their family.

Mizoguchi’s usage and techniques of the sound effect associated with Hayasaka Fumio in the film is very outstanding and noteworthy. The off-screen sound technique is significantly used throughout the whole film like the sounds from the ocean and the sounds of the wilderness. The sound effects are delicately and cautiously used in many of the scenes, thus, the audience is able to observe and judge how Mizoguchi values the effects of various sounds, as well as trust the importance of it. One of the most memorable scenes for the audience would be the part where Tamaki thinks of Zushio and Anju on the seashore. In this scene, the sounds from the ocean and the winds are very audible and even tangible during Tamaki’s talk, with the gentle overlap with the musical sounds. Overall, music is very effectively selected as the different music phrases suit the different scenes perfectly, and this fact allows the audience to be more bonded to the characters in the movie emotionally.  For instance, when Tamaki tries to escape from the brothel, the music enhances her feelings and this is well delivered to the audience because of this enhancement.  Also, the technique of voice-over is frequently used in the movie when Tamaki’s song is played a few times by Anju and Zushio not as the background music, but as a part of the scenario.

Lastly, the phenomenal editing of the film shouldn’t be neglected. Not only fade-ins and fade-outs are used well, but the effects of dissolve are successfully used oftentimes, considering the film was originally released in 1954. We can find an example of this well-done job in the very beginning of the film when the scene goes back to a past-time from the present, as Zushio runs crying “father”, the flashback, and the dissolve technique has been used for more natural and smooth presentation. These techniques were not abused but used appropriately that they were not used for some scenes which did not require such techniques, for instance, when showing the same setting but from a different angle. Not using fade-ins or fade-outs are more natural for those particular scenes.

Mizoguchi’s Sansho the Bailiff is very high quality film. Not only is the scenario firmly structured but acting is well performed as well. The film communicates the director’s message very clearly about the value of human beings. It reminds us how valuable human beings are and deeply touches our hearts. Sanshō Dayū is strongly recommended and it is surely one of the greatest Japanese films.

Categories
drama, melodrama jidai-geki literary adaptations

“Akahige” [赤ひげ]: A Film Review

The 1965 black-and-white jidai-geki film Akahige [赤ひげ] (literally ‘Red Beard’) directed by Kurosawa Akira is a work of art that epitomizes the central theme that Kurosawa attempted to resonate religiously throughout his entire career in films of humanism and existentialism and his forever empathy and compassion he holds for them. Akahige the film was based on Yamamoto Shūgorō’s short story collection, Akahige shinryotan (赤ひげ診療譚), It is a great adaptation of the original story of a doctor (Akahige) and his intern (minus the new addition Otoyo, a girl saved from a brothel taken from Fyodor Dostoevsky’s novel The Insulted and the Injured as mentioned by Richie). The cast included many well-known actors today such as Mifune Toshiro and Kayama Yuzo; both actors Kurosawa used in several of his films.

The story takes place at the end of the Tokugawa period where Yasumoto Noboru, a young and very promising doctor, returns to Edo after having studied medicine at the Dutch medical schools in Nagasaki. The film starts off with the audience being shown Yasumoto paying a visit to the Koshikawa Public Clinic as was instructed of him to make a formal call and pay his respects to Niide Kyojio (Mifune) a well-known doctor known for his signature red beard. Brought to Niide’s (hereafter Akahige) clinic under false pretences, Yasumoto (Yuzo) finds himself trapped as he is instructed to stay there as Akahige’s intern. Yasumoto, having convinced himself that he was a great, stellar doctor that had promising potential to work for the Shogun as his own personal doctor, had never entertained the idea of working at a public clinic.

Yasumoto finds ways to refuse what is expected of him (i.e. wearing his uniform, drinking sake) hoping Akahige will ask him to leave but according to Richie in his book titled “The Films of Akira Kurosawa”, like the protagonists in several of Kurosawa’s other films such as Sanishiro Sugata, Stray Dog, and High and Low, Yasumoto soon finds that Red Beard too centralizes around the idea of ‘education’ and that ‘good’ although is the right thing to do, is rare in reality. Through his experiences observing patients in the public clinic simultaneously observing Akahige’s approach to tending to their needs, Yasumoto soon realizes what it really means to be a good doctor. That is, the simple compassion for the human heart and how a single act of kindness can really make a difference. As the three-hour movie progresses, you see Yasumoto’s interesting to say the least and at times tragically disturbing encounters with the Mantis, Sahachi, and Rokusuke: all patients in the clinic that unfortunately succumb to their illnesses. It is by their death that Yasumoto’s re-birth, finding what it truly means to help people not just from wealth and status but those less fortunate than him as well, comes.

One thing I found that was impressive was Kurosawa’s impressive effort and success in depicting the story and the Edo period as accurately as one possibly could. I agree with the term Richie described the overall film to be in that it possesses a patina accurately portraying that time. The location where Kurosawa filmed looked so real and not staged because they were not; Kurosawa used an actual village in order to get the authenticity in which he strived to achieve. Richie mentions that Kurosawa’s success in depicting such an old image was because they were as old as they looked. Many of the materials (i.e. bedding, clothes) were said to be gathered months before they were needed for shooting to really portray they had been used and the roof tiles were centuries old. Kurosawa’s meticulous efforts to produce a true, realistic work of art took about two years to make due to this specific requirement to accurately portray the story as it had been originally told.

The theme of ‘humanism’ is represented from the very beginning of the film and remains consistent throughout. It is only when Yasumoto has his own realization from his own personal experiences that it is really in the forefront concluding the film beautifully. The initial representations of the theme humanism are shown in different ways through the many patients in the clinic and their experiences that inevitably make Yasumoto realize his own compassion for the human condition. One example would be Sahachi who was was a down-to-earth, generous, and loving man who did everything and anything for his neighbors. He was always seen diligently working for other’s benefits but it is what led him falling sick inevitably leading him to his deathbed. There is a scene in the film where he explains his reasons for the constant exhaustive effort to help those in need and requests that people gather to hear a secret he has long kept that he must tell after a landslide occurs washing down a corpse which we later discover is othat tf his former wife. His reasons stemming behind his attempts to always pay it forward was because his wife had killed herself for having to choose between giri (obligation towards the man she was promised to marry) and ninjo (her genuine love for Sahachi). Initially his wife makes the decision to marry Sahachi but the great earthquake that shakes Edo makes her think she’s being punished for being selfish and genuinely happy that she succumbs to giri only to cross paths with Sahachi again whilst carrying the child of the other man. It is at this pivotal point where she realizes how much damage she has done pretending to be dead after the earthquake all these years and decides to take her own life in a symbolic way; in the embracing arms of Sahachi who is unaware at the time of the knife she has facing her as he willingly and affectionately embraces her. The scene, so emotionally charged brought tears to my eyes as many the patients’ experiences did.

Overall without a doubt I would highly recommend this movie to any viewer. It is a very moving piece with a very realistic message that it is only after one has experienced the negative will one ever realize and experience the positive in one’s life/decisions. One part I found quite difficult to watch however was the scene where Akahige asks Yasumoto to assist him with a surgery to hold a naked woman’s legs down where we hear dialogue such as her intestines are bulging out and we get some visual of the procedure. That for me was hard to sit through twice, so for those who are not fond of such gory scenes, beware! I must admit though if you can bear to watch a modern-day Hollywood film with doctors and are comfortable with blood, this scene is PG in comparison.  To conclude, I agree with Richie in that its message is clear in its ‘true sentiment’ in that in all of our negative and positive experiences both experiences are of human nature and the bad can only be overcome if an individual possesses this realization and acts upon it.

Categories
drama, melodrama jidai-geki literary adaptations

Samurai Macbeth: Kurosawa Akira’s “Throne of Blood”

While “Throne of Blood” (Kumonosu-jō – “Spider Web Castle”) (1957) directed by Kurosawa Akira scores no points for originality, this movie is a masterpiece in its own right. It is not simply a screen adaptation of Shakespeare’s Macbeth – by transposing the plot of an English play into a Japanese samurai jidai-geki (period drama), Kurosawa masterfully combines elements of Shakespearean theatre, Noh, and cinema to tell a story more effectively than each medium on its own. Mifune Toshiro (“Rashomon”, “Seven Samurai”, “Yojimbo”) stars as Washizu, effectively a samurai Macbeth, with Yamada Isuzu playing Asaji – the Japanese Lady Macbeth.

The film remains fairly faithful to the plot of Macbeth. Victorious from battle, Washizu and his comrade Miki encounter a forest spirit on their way to their lord’s castle. The forest spirit foretells the two samurai’s future – that Washizu will first become the commander of the North Garrison, then finally become Lord of the Spider Web Castle itself. Miki’s fate is at once both “lesser and greater” than that of Washizu’s – while he will rise to the rank of Commander of the First Fortress, it is – enigmatically – his son, not Washizu’s, who will become Lord of the Spider Web Castle. The rest of the film follows Washizu, who is manipulated by Asaji into enacting a self-fulfilling prophecy, propelled by the paradoxical pursuit for fate.

The inclusion of Noh elements acts as a powerful, decidedly Japanese counterweight to the English origins of the film’s plot. The Noh elements assert themselves from the very beginning of the film – a shrill, piercing shinobue (a type of Japanese flute) over a slow marching rhythm of percussion instruments introduces the film’s title and credits, and the film itself opens with a low, almost monotone chant. This is sustained by set direction: both outdoor and indoor sets are distinctively barren – alluding to a Noh stage. This, in turn, is complemented by almost formal camerawork in indoor scenes – the camera is positioned square to the geometry of the room, much like the theatre audience. And in doing so, Kurosawa unites the Shakespearean play with Noh by drawing upon their similarity as forms of theatre. In the scene where Lord Tzuzuki debates a counter-strategy with his subordinates, the camera does not move or pan, but instead pivots between shots of the lord – at the center of the set – and his officers who are seated to his left and right. This emulates a seated audience member who turns his head to direct his focus to action occurring on different places on stage. Editing the shots this way is distinctive for a film, but draws upon theatre conventions to feel natural for the theatregoer.

The Noh influence is featured most prominently in the characters themselves. Playing the battle-hardened warrior Washizu, Mifune wears a fierce, exasperated expression throughout the entire film. However, like a Noh mask, it serves not to hide but intensify the energy and emotion of the actor, which is then channelled through exaggerated and highly stylized stage direction. In the scene where Asaji awaits Washizu’s return, she paces in a circular path around the stage to express at once her nervousness and guilt, as if in a Noh play. The rustling of her kimono as she moves about serves not only to emphasize her movements, but to herald to viewers her movements outside the frame. The Noh influence in stage direction is extended to the character’s makeup as well. Asaji’s makeup is distinctively similar to a Noh mask of a female character, with thick eyebrows appearing on the forehead. The forest spirit is also made up to look almost identical to a yamauba (mountain crone) Noh mask.

Being based on a play I’ve already read, seen, and watched, I expected the predictability of plot to hurt my enjoyment of the film. However, Kurosawa, in making a film based on a well-known Shakespearean work, must have been keenly conscious of that. The entire movie almost becomes metafictional and self-referential– the audience, like Washizu himself, knows exactly what’s about to happen, but they watch it anyway – the drama lies in how the force of fate manifests itself. Like Washizu facing an army of trees, I was delivered exactly what was promised, but was nonetheless surprised by its delivery (although unlike Washizu, the surprise was pleasant). Having read Macbeth does not spoil the film. In fact, an understanding of Macbeth enhances the viewer’s appreciation of the film by freeing the viewer to focus on Kurosawa’s art.

Categories
drama, melodrama gendai-geki shomin-geki

“One Wonderful Sunday”

One Wonderful Sunday (素晴らしき日曜日, Subarashiki nichiyōbi), released in 1947, was co-written and directed by Kurosawa Akira who is famous for Seven Samurai, No Regrets for our Youth, Yojimbō and The Hidden Fortress. This film was produced before he became famous, but it still provides a chance to feel the reality of Japan at that time with some humours as he did in No Regrets for our Youth.  Its genre is basically shomin-geki (films about everyday people). However, since it focuses on a young Tokyo couple rather than a family home life, which is common in this genre, this film also has a melodramatic plot as well.

One Wonderful Sunday follows how a young labourer named Yuzo (Numazaki Isao) and his fiancée Masako (Nakakita Chieko) spend a Sunday in the ruins of Tokyo a year after World War II. They want to have a wonderful date, as in the title of the film, but they are continuously frustrated by obstacles around them. The film starts with a scene where Yuzo tries to pick a cigarette off the street. Yuzo, after serving in the military during the war, is having financial troubles with living, so is barely able to pay for a room with his roommate. Masako lives with her family and isn’t able to be financially independent as well. They are attempting to enjoy the only day they can meet with 35 yen, all the money they have. They search for an affordable room to live together, but even a room without any light and heater isn’t available for them. But with Masako’s efforts, they continue their date, wandering through an urban landscape with a war orphan, zoo and cabaret.

Kurosawa Akira shows explicitly how ordinary people were living in the postwar period through the film. From beginning to end, as I mentioned earlier, they are suffering from financial problems. However, they are not the only ones who have financial problems during the postwar period. As Masako mentioned, lots of people are in the same situation, for example the boy in the field, who lost his parents during the war, and the man in the cabaret, who eats leftover food in the cabaret. However, there are also some affluent people as well. When the couple visits the room, Yuzo hesitates to go in because of the high price. Inside the house, they meet another couple but they don’t consider the price expensive at all. Also in the cabaret, there are some colourful and fancy people. By showing them with the couple, it represents the pain of unbridgeable gap between the rich and poor.

The film tells the audience, living in painful period, not to lose the hope for future, especially in the amphitheatre scene. Interestingly Kurosawa Akira attempts to give us this message face to face, without using any special techniques. After Yuzo and Masako fail to buy B-rank tickets for a live performance of Schubert’s “Unfinished Symphony”, Masako tries to lift Yuzo and to give his dream and hope back by conducting an imaginary orchestra; the imaginary orchestra is Yuzo’s first step. They are standing in the amphitheatre with strong winds and no light; it’s like an image of war. At the moment Yuzo tries to give up on the performance because of the wind, Masako asks for help from the audience. Masako turns to the camera with earnest eyes and ask the audience to cheer him up. The camera takes a close-up of her face so the audience feels that she speaks to us directly. It means that the audience should not give up our dreams for tomorrow by clapping ourselves. The use of crane shots and light strengthen the mood of hope as well. It also matches perfectly Yuzo’s “Unfinished Symphony”.

Although I pay attention to desires hidden in the film, One Wonderful Sunday has some humour and melodramatic scenes as well. The film starts from the beginning of the date and goess to the end of their date, so I felt very interested, following someone else’s date. Although there many problems still remain at the end, I was happy to feel there was an optimistic future for the couple. But you will be the one who judge whether they really have a wonderful Sunday or not.

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

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