Tag: era: 1950s

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shomin-geki

The Drifting of “Floating Weeds”

Floating Weeds (Ukikusa) was produced in 1959 and directed by Ozu Yasujirô. He first produced a black and white silent version called A Story of Floating Weeds (Ukikusa monogatari) in 1934, and Floating Weeds was a remake of it. This is a typical shomin-geki style film; the lead male actor is Nakamura Ganjirô, and the lead female actor is Kyô Machiko. In this newer version the colors are vibrant, yet the cinematography is contemplative.

Komajurô is the lead owner and actor of  a troupe of travelling players. On one occasion, the troupe visits and performs in a small town during a hot summer. Komajurô takes advantage of the opportunity to see his former lover Oyoshi and his son Kiyoshi, who now works in a post office. Komajurô believes that his low status as an actor will tarnish his son’s future, so he keeps his real identity to himself. However, Sumiko, the lead actress and also Komajurô’s current lover, is really angry and wants to take revenge when she finds out about this secret. She later asks Kayo, a young actress from the troupe, to seduce Kiyoshi. The two young people then engage in a relationship which the adults do not approve of.  Meanwhile, the troupe is forced to be disbanded because business is bad. Komajurô at this point is facing many difficulties so he is considering staying with his family.

Ozu always use the contemporary Japanese family as his theme: the love between parent and child, the reconciliation between husband and wife, or the mischief of children. In Floating Weeds, he presents the conflicts between the father Komajurô and the son Kiyoshi. This is also one of the most important storylines in this film. Komajurô regrets that his own difficulties have prevented him from giving Kiyoshi a complete family life. Near the end of the film, Komajurô is angry when he finds out that his son is dating Kayo. He is not only mad at him but also feel disappointed because Kiyoshi doesn’t value his sacrifice: he hid his identity as Kiyoshi’s father because he wanted his son to have a bright future. However, Kiyoshi doesn’t realize this and carries on a relationship with an actress. The film reaches a climax when the son pushes his father and stops him from slapping Kayo. When the mother Oyoshi reveals the truth about his birth, Kiyoshi refuses to accept it and insists that he has no father. It is understandable that Kiyoshi cannot face the truth at this moment. After this incident, Komajurô makes his own decision and decides to leave. He thinks that his leaving will benefit both his son and himself. I think it might be a bit sad for them not to stay together here; however, this gives the audience room to think about their future.  The conclusion leaves events uncertain.

The brilliant use of cinematography is also an important aspect in this film. The four establishing shots in the beginning of the film make a strong impact. The lighthouse is a fixed object in each shot, and it is very meaningful. A lighthouse is a tower to guide ships and help people know which direction they are going. Ironically each character in the film seems get lost in his or her own way.  Sumiko feels extremely angry when she knows that Komajurô is dating his former wife. She thinks that destroying Komajurô’s family is the only way that Komajurô will come back to her; however, this eventually only serves to widen their distance. Moreover, in the beginning of the film, Ozu focuses on a close-up shot of the post office, a place where people send and collect their letters, and a place where communication starts. However, some of the characters, for example the father and the son, show a lack of communication. This huge gap between these two generations is something that can never be recovered.

Floating Weeds is one of the four color films that Ozu made. I was amazed by Ozu’s perceptiveness in portraying each characters. He successfully demonstrates the conflicts between the son and the father from his own perspective.  His superb cinematic technique was also very impressive. Overall, Floating Weeds is a highly recommended film; people will enjoy many of the beautiful settings and culture backgrounds during that period of time.

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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.

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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.

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action drama, melodrama jidai-geki literary adaptations

Distortion of Truth – Kurosawa Akira’s “Rashômon”

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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