Tag: era: 1960s

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drama, melodrama experimental extreme J-horror literary adaptations new cinema / new wave cinema

A review of “Blind Beast”

The Blind Beast, also called Mōjū, was released at 1969 and directed by Masumura Yasuzo who was recognized as the starter of Japan’s “New Wave” of the 60s. And the story itself was primarily written by Japan’s leading horror writer whose name is Edogawa Rampo. Other film cast members include Funakoshi EIji, Midori Mako and Sengoku Norijo. This movie was ranked as the number-one grotesque story in the Asahi National Newspaper between 1931 and 1932.

There are two main characters in the film. One is called Michio, a blind sculptor who is fed by his mother. His mother is a pedophile and gradually misrecognizes him as her husband. Another character is called Aki, a shapely young model, who is the only victim to form the basis of Michio’s latest project. The movie starts from Michio’s Art Studio when he seeks a suitable female model to construct into a perfect sensual sculpture. Aki, as an applicant, goes to the studio and is finally kidnapped by Michio. The rest of the scenes happen in the same place, which is the secluded warehouse where Michio lives.  The warehouse is designed very strangely. It contains a huge room with no lights and two of the walls contain large reproductions of female anatomy. In the center of the room, two giant nude sculptured bodies are lying on the floor. At first, Aki is distraught and threatens to kill Michio and his mom but gradually she begins to love him even though she has already tempted Mochio to kill his mother. The rest of the film is seriously filled with sadomasochism, sex, and violence.

The most important aspect of this film is characters because it is produced 50 years ago and there was no one making this kind of movie before its success. There are many naked and extremely violent scenes in this movie such as Michio chopping off Aki’s arms and legs. Those scenes required actors to devote themselves because no one knows whether this film is successful or not.

Another aspect of the film is camerawork. In order to make the horrific scenes, the director utilizes the static shots with huge body parts crowding into the full screen. And also, at the end of the film, most audiences can feel scared because the director delivers all the chopping detail to them.

Michio’s world is just like all simple animals because he can only know things by touching and smelling them. He only knows what he wants and just like this simple. This is pathetic of course. However, in my opinion, the “blind animal” should be Aki rather than Michio. There are many scenes contained in this movie that can prove this. For example, after Michio’s mother dies, he and Aki crazily make love in the dark warehouse. Therefore, Aki gradually loses her sight because she stays in the dark environment too long but she feels happy because she now is the same as Michio.

Another scene also can prove my opinion. At the end of the film, Aki asks Michio to chop off her arms and legs in order to obtain greatest happiness through this sadomasochistic action. This is never adapted by a normal person but Aki accepts this because she has already become blind and will never be a person. This film contains extreme violence and sadomasochistic sex. I would suggest anyone who wants to see this film that stays away from child. I would not recommend this movie to classmates.

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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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Uncategorized

“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 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.

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action chambara/chanbara jidai-geki literary adaptations

Zatoichi: Chambara’s greatest anti-hero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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drama, melodrama gendai-geki shomin-geki

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

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

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

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

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

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

WORK CITED

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

Categories
film noir literary adaptations thriller

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
drama, melodrama gendai-geki shomin-geki

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
drama, melodrama gendai-geki shomin-geki

The still life picture of loneliness

Ozu Yasujirō’s An Autumn Afternoon (1962), known as Sanma no aji, is frequently described as a posthumous work of the director, a shomin-geki focusing on explorations of family dynamics in postwar Japan in 1960s. Chishū Ryū, who starred in other Ozu films, plays Hirayama Shuhei, an ageing widower taking care of his three varying children. For example, the eldest, Koichi, who is married, purchases a new set of golf clubs, and then asks his generous dad for a loan to buy a refrigerator. The middle child, Michiko (Iwashita Shima), is a 24-year-old marriageable daughter who is working and taking care of the house for her father and her younger brother, Kazuo (Mikami Shinichirō), a teenager.

Shuhei was a captain of a warship during the Second World War. Now, he is a genteel and well-paid executive in an industrial company. Shuhei is widowed, and he still has a marriageable daughter Michiko and his youngest son Kazuo living at home with him. Shuhei also likes to spend his evenings in his favorite izakaya (Japanese bar) with his friends Kawai (Nakamura Nobuo) and Horie (Kita Ryūji). Although one of his friends recommends he consider about his daughter’s marriage, he is halfhearted about it. It is probably not only because Michiko is still considered a child by him, but also because he fears that he will become lonely if she gets married. However, this recommendation finally gets through to Shuhei after some encounters with his former high school teacher (Tono Eijirō) and his daughter, and he realizes that he has relied too much on Michiko when she should be starting a family of her own. Thus, the search for Michiko’s prospective husband begins.

In the film, there are many unique camera techniques. Ozu’s style developed into an individual mode of expression that displays great stability and continuity. Some of his innovations, such as the use of a 360 degree rule and the tatami-shot are consistently used throughout his work, from the early silent films to his last colour films (Hedges & Bernstein, 1984, p.176). Firstly, the tatami-shot is a camera technique, filming people at the level of a seated person on a tatami mat. Through this technique, viewers see the screen in a full shot from a low angle. Tatami shots are used consistently in this film, such as when Shuhei discusses marriage with each of the characters, Michiko, Koichi, or his friends at Kawai’s house. This is not a vibrant technique for the scenes, however it makes viewers feel like being a steady furniture in the place and observing the characters. According to Hedges and Bernstein (1984, p.177), by using this kind of technique, Ozu’s classical realism becomes the perfectly tuned instrument of his art and a style defined by an absence of style (Hedges & Bernstein, 1984, p.177). Secondly, Ozu does not use classical Hollywood cinema conventions such as the “180 degree rule”, a basic guideline in filmmaking that states that two characters in the same scene should always have the same left/right relationship to each other (Hedges & Bernstein, 1984, p.176), and replaces it with the “360 degree rule”, crossing this axis and taking close-up shots right away between the chracters; hence, each character’s face is pointed straight at the camera while having conversation with the other. For instance, viewers are able to see this technique occasionally when Shuhei spends time with his friends in the izakaya or has a conversation with other characters. This makes viewers feel that they are actually having the conversation with each character.

Furthermore, Ozu’s mise-en-scéne, especially his sense of space, is remarkable. There are many shots of corridors and alleys which contain the vanishing point. Also, the film was mostly shot in traditional Japanese houses, thus viewers may feel that they are confined in the buildings. For example, the structure of a wooden building which is densely knit, the frame of a paper sliding door which is cross striped, or perpendicular designs contribute to the feel that the characters are isolated or covered. Characters indeed do not move their bodies much and are confined within the frame. The film is maintained to show stuffy compositions such as old apartments or neon signs packed in narrow alleys. There is only one scene showing a wide-open space, when Michiko and Miura, who she secretly likes, wait for the train. This fair view scene seems that it is starting to imply their loving relationship; however it just passes without any meaningful progress. If Michiko confessed her feelings to Miura, they could have been in a loving relationship. Yet the reason why she did not is probably because of her sense of responsibility towards her father and young brother, who may be left in solitude in a stuffy wooden house. Finally, she loses the chance and comes back to the cross-striped frame.

Overall, the film is about loneliness. Ozu portrays loneliness by showing the main characters’ backs. In the room of tatami mat, the room upstairs, and the bar, the characters consistently show their backs to the viewers while they are deep in thought. Although they do not say that they are lonely, it seems that their backs express that they are lonely. When Shuhei drinks beer at a bar, the camera captures him from a low angle. Although Shuhei has a poker face most of the time, his back at the bar cannot lie: he is lonely because he is widowed and his daughter is getting married. Moreover, the back of Michiko when she loses the chance to be with her lover also expresses loneliness. Finally, the title of the film is a metaphor for the loneliness of life. The Japanese title Sanma no aji can be translated as “the taste of mackerel”. However, the overall story of the film, the loneliness, is not related to the title, “the taste of mackerel”, nor there is a scene containing mackerels. It raises the curiosity of the viewers about Ozu’s intentions and reasons for choosing the title of the film. Literally, the Japanese word for mackerel means “fish of autumn”. Therefore, the title means the taste of “fish of autumn”. Ozu probably wanted to use the mackerel, the fish of autumn, as a metaphor for the taste of a lonely season of life or the taste of the autumns of life. The film is well-paralleled with the title in this sense. Although this film is not taken with beautiful scenery, Ozu illustrates how the durability and circularity of life are beautiful and sad. He uses spaces and arrangement of the characters rather than simply using language in order to portray the taste of mackerel, of loneliness.

Reference

Hedges, I, & Bernstein, J. (1984). History, style, authorship: the question of origins in the new German cinema. Journal of Contemporary History, 19(1), 171-187.

Categories
drama, melodrama experimental thriller

Dunes of Darkness

Teshigahara Hiroshi’s Woman in the Dunes (Suna no Onna- 1964) is a surreal drama that uses the conventional captivity narrative to speak to contemporary social issues. The film could best be described as a contemporary drama, but the nature of the story is such of a thriller or a mystery. The film is an adaptation of the book of the same name by Kobo Abe, who also wrote the adaptation of the book for the screen. It stars well-known Japanese actor Eiji Okada as Niki Jumpei and Kyoko Kishida as the Woman. The film received critical acclaim when it was released, winning the Grand Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival and receiving an Academy Award nomination for Best Director.

The film opens with Niki Jumpei, a school teacher and entomologist, who goes to the barren seaside sand dunes on an expedition to find rare species of bugs. After missing the last bus back to his hotel, one of the villagers offers him a home to stay in for the night. He is dropped off in an unnamed woman’s home, located so deep in one of the sand dunes that a ladder is required to get down to it. The next day, Niki discovers that the offer of hospitality was in fact a ploy to find a male helper and mate for the woman, and he finds himself trapped in the sand dune with little hope of escape. Niki’s attempts to escape the sand dune fail and he remains trapped with the woman. We find out that the woman is under the control of the villagers, who require her to shove buckets of sand in exchange for water and food rations.  Due to their strange situation, the woman and Niki begin a sexual relationship. The Woman develops an intense sexual and emotional attachment to Niki, but his desire to return to his previous life persists. Niki does make one successful attempt at a getaway, but he is caught by the villagers who bring him back to the sand dune, an event that echoes the seeming permanency of his entrapment. Months pass before a series of events alter the future of Niki’s life in the dunes, and reveal a sharp alteration in his perspective.

Notable in the film is the way that Teshigahara creates atmosphere. The sand dunes are filmed in striking visuals that make them an overwhelming presence. Sand appears in the film in ways that give it symbolic and thematic meaning within the narrative. The introductory sequence in the film features a series of stationary shots of sand pebbles, at first in extreme close-up, cutting to reveal wider and wider shots of the sand until we see the whole mass of the dunes. The sharp stationary cuts bring attention to the sheer number and breadth of sand pebbles, suggest their uncontrollable power. When Niki enters the frame in the opening scenes he looks small in comparison to the foreboding and massive sand dunes around him. The sheer mass of the sand dunes rises up around him, blowing dust giving eerieness to this new environment. It serves to highlight the contrast between Niki’s former urban life in Tokyo and the harsh rural life he is soon to face. Sand also plays an important narrative role in the film. The futility of man against this wild and unpredictable form of nature is highlighted when Niki says: “This sand could swallow up entire cities, entire countries”. Although the sand is what is ultimately keeping Niki and the woman trapped and confined, we also find out that it helps to sustain them. We find out that the buckets of sand which the woman shovels and offers the villagers are ultimately sold to cities to make bricks for urban dwellings. Sand is used as a measure of control not only in the characters’ lives, but to help sustain the village economy as well. The sand also operates as somewhat of an allusion to the Buddhist tradition of creating and destroying sand mandalas, reflecting on the Buddhist belief of impermanence.

One of the questions the film poses centers on the ability of humans to exercise free will in modern society: is this freedom real or is it only an illusion that masks never-ending social confinement? This theme is mirrored by the different perspectives of Niki and the Woman. Niki’s entrapment is paralleled by the insects that he traps and collects at the beginning of the film. Just as Niki uses the insects for his own selfish purposes, the women and the villagers trap Niki to use him for labor and to help populate the community. At the beginning of the film Niki expresses a dissatisfaction with the ‘trappings’ of modern life in an internal monologue heard through voiceover. Despite this he still longs to return to his world of papers and certifications, which seems liberating in comparison with being trapped in a sand pit. Niki’s attitude is contrasted with that of the woman’s. The woman chooses to stay in village shoveling sand, as she feels more important in her life in the dunes than she would in regular society. Her reasons for staying in the dunes are revealed when she says “If it wasn’t for the sand, no one would bother about me”. For Niki the sand takes away his sense of purpose and meaning in life, but for the woman it constitutes it. Niki’s decision at the end of the film highlight this contrast between freedom and entrapment, and speaks to the true nature of free will.

Woman in the Dunes is a strange, absorbing mystery and a fascinating study of human character. The film cannot only be enjoyed for its human mystery, but as a visually stimulating experience in itself. The crisp black-and-white cinematography and moody lighting give viewers lucid and spellbinding visuals. Woman in the Dunes has often been described as ‘surrealist’ and would be a good film choice for viewers looking for an unconventional film that will challenge their expectations.

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