Kurosawa Series: Part Nine

THE LOWER DEPTHS (1957)

Comparing Kurosawa’s Lower Depths to Jean Renoir’s is like comparing apples to oranges. Despite having come from the same origin – Russian author Maxim Gorky’s political play of the same name – the two are vastly different. Renoir’s more romanticized take feels a bit mainstream and accessible compared to Kurosawa’s bleak, yet comedic vision, but the play itself isn’t meant to be taken as an accessible piece of entertainment. In a way, it practically circumvents what audiences expect from this sort of genre, so in that respect Kurosawa’s adaptation falls more in line with what Gorky was probably trying to present.

While Renoir handles the plot the way films are conventionally handled – implementing key plot developments, back-story, character growth, etc. – Kurosawa handles it more theatrically, but genuinely, confining the action almost claustrophobically so and treating the characters as standard, immoral outcasts rather than plot devices that push the story forward. In fact, there’s little progression, if any, in Kurosawa’s adaptation; we’re introduced to a group of destitute individuals wrapped up in their own concerns and ideals and they never really develop in any remarkable way. But I suppose this sobering portrait of the proletariat lifestyle is what Gorky had in mind.

Instead of spotlighting a single character – like Renoir mostly does with the thief – Kurosawa has created more of an ensemble film that lapses between the eccentric conversations of lower-class denizens living in a shabby tenement during Edo-period Japan. The members of this complex include a gambler, a prostitute, a tinker, an alcoholic actor, and a thief named Sutekichi played by Toshiro Mifune in what many consider to be his finest performance. At the core of their miserable lives is the tenement’s depraved landlady Osugi (Isuzu Yamada) who Sutekichi is secretly having an affair with. There’s also a wandering priest who drops in to serve as the “wise old sage” figure or mediator in this case, but once things go awry and Osugi discovers that Sutekichi has been unfaithful, drama ensues, hysteria breaks out, and the priest hightails it, realizing the tenants are beyond help.

Trying to distinguish tone here may turn off a few viewers, but I believe Kurosawa knew exactly what sort of atmosphere he wanted to establish in Depths. It's a tragicomedy, and although it has the air of a theatrical play, the way Mifune and his co-stars behave comes across far more authentic than their French counterparts. Their indifference is precise and unabashed, yet comically dispersed throughout the film. Kurosawa also incorporates cruelty as a function to examine these characters and peel them wide open, ultimately revealing very little, if anything redeeming about them. He certainly has the edge on Renoir when it comes to characterization, because instead of getting wound up in the romanticism of it all, we’re constantly learning more about these individuals through dialogue. The ending – which is the most chilling I’ve seen in some time – especially typifies how indifferent these people are toward human compassion.

Ironically enough, faith is the only substance these characters have in seeking greater things life, yet their unwillingness to reach out from the lower depths and actually make something of themselves is what hampers their resolve. Naturally, the priest is the sole presence of “faith” or religion in the tenement so he makes several attempts at imbuing optimism into everyone's lives, but fails on almost every level. Then there's the manner in which these characters strive to strip away each other's faith, which is a bit saddening considering faith is essentially their only means of living.

In the end, the idea of faith poses a question of realizing illusion – making dreams reality – and I found that to be the deepest aspect of Gorky’s play that Renoir failed to properly touch on. Kurosawa makes it fairly clear that most of Gorky's characters have this deluded sense of satisfaction in life and have no intentions of reforming the way they live. It’s depressing to watch, but the light moments tend to edge out the more somber ones.

Again, I don’t see much point in comparing Kurosawa’s Depths to Renoir’s because they’re two entirely different beasts. But if I had to choose the better film, I’d probably go with Kurosawa’s mostly because he seems to hit the mark where Renoir misses cerebrally. Renoir’s Depths sort of panders to the conventions of cinema, but it’s still quality filmmaking; just not thought-provoking. Not without its faults, Kurosawa’s can be unbearably slow at times, but at least he makes an effort to remain faithful to the source material.

8/10

I've started something I can't control

EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE (2010)

Unreliable narrators seemed to be a fixture in film last year. From DiCaprio’s delusional Teddy Daniels to Portman’s disquieted Nina Sayers, a handful of now prominent films featured stories told through the eyes of their unhinged protagonists. Christoffer Boe’s Jacob Falk is no exception. The Danish director's fourth feature film is one that caters to our curiosity and forces us to look beyond the scope of normalcy.

Much like Swimming Pool and even Memento – to an extent – Everything Will Be Fine offers more than a fair amount of interaction – films with enigmatic structures usually do. Minds race, questions are asked, clues are assembled. Films like Pool and Memento are fun to watch because they involve the audience; when our narrator is clearly unsettled, it becomes our job to separate fantasy from reality. There’s no singular path provided, thus we’re left to draw our own conclusions.

We’re initially led to believe that the events unfolding in Everything Will Be Fine are based in reality and that the contradiction of this would turn out to be the “twist”. As a firm hater of spoilers, I’ll just safely confirm that the real “twist” – if you can even call it that – has nothing to do with the psychological aspect Boe promotes in this film. In fact, the clues given throughout are presented so overtly that it’s not all that challenging to discern a large sum of the plot as pure fantasy.

 

Appropriately enough, our lead character’s – Jacob Falk’s (Jens Albinus) – strong suit centers on fantasy; he’s a director/screenwriter faced with a deadline and the pressure to meet it is taking toll on his mental health. Adding additional pressure is his wife (Marijana Jankovic) who nags him about the adoption papers he’s failed to fill out and capping it all off is the soldier (Igor Radosavljevic) he runs over – who happens to be carrying photos of Danish soldiers committing atrocities against POWs. This little finding incites a spiraling descent into paranoia, a descent that serves more as a guilt trip than anything else and one that ultimately finds Falk wallowing in regret over his past.

If any film deserved the label of “mind bender” last year, it was Boe’s thriller. Inception may have pulled out all the stops in the dream department – with a hefty amount of exposition, I might add – but it never once allowed me to determine the logic behind what was happening for myself; mostly because explanations were doled out so generously to the audience. With Everything Will Be Fine, audiences are rendered just as clueless and disconcerted as Falk.

The disorienting effect Boe employs through Falk is the essence of “mind bending”, the remnants of classic psychological thrillers unearthed in brilliant form. What also makes Falk’s journey so transfixing is the capability of the actor portraying him. Albinus quickly transforms from a seemingly composed director into a man influenced by fear. He comes to distrust his own sister (the talented, but wasted Paprika Steen), loses his grip on reality and begins rambling on about government conspiracies and secret agendas that fit better in his script than they do in reality. Albinus really slips into the psychosis of this character, delivering a disturbed, but natural performance.

Boe’s structure causes some minor concern – as we follow Falk on his wild goose chase for answers we’re simultaneously following Ali, the soldier Falk mows down in his 70s model Grand Marquis. What’s bothersome about this is the interweaving of story arcs. We hear Falk mumbling to himself about penning a script on war; enter Ali. Ali’s arc begins, we shift between his and Falk’s, Falk eventually runs Ali over, snags his sensational photos and heads off on an aimless quest for answers. Ali’s arc technically ends there, but Boe continues to recount the soldier’s story alongside Falk’s. So instead of contributing anything crucial to the plot – Ali’s arc really has nothing important to say – this tactic mainly interrupts flow. I suppose one could always consider Ali’s back-story necessary in visualizing Falk’s script, but what a distracting way to execute such an idea.

On the technical end, Boe’s cinematography and camerawork are absolutely spellbinding; the way he captures Denmark’s modern aesthetics – the country’s obscure architecture specifically – is laud-worthy. His decision to display external scenes as film set dioramas rather than actual locations further confirms the falsity of what Falk perceives as reality. All in all, an ambitious film with ambitious performances that sits high on my list of the year’s best foreign features.

8.5/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Eight

NO REGRETS FOR OUR YOUTH (1946)

After a prolonged hiatus, the series is back in full swing to discuss one of Kurosawa’s heaviest character studies: his first and only female protagonist who's also the most compelling character I’ve seen in any of his films to date, transitioning from intolerable brat to aspiring activist. Yukie, masterfully portrayed by Setsuko Hara, is a rare breed of protagonist – whose character traits run the gamut from heedless and manipulative to spoon-fed and juvenile – and I initially wrote her off as an unpleasant hindrance serving only to spoil the film’s atmosphere, but when she’s finished taking pleasure in the clear, rhythmic sounds of gunfire, boasting her piano skills, and challenging potential love interests in areas of passion and resolve, we’re treated to a fascinating analysis of a woman bereft of identity who eventually puts aside her childish ways and matures into a revolutionary whose perseverance is captivating to watch flourish on screen.

No Regrets for Our Youth is a profound story on the ideologies that spearheaded World War II, not to mention gender roles and the resurgence of leftist views in Japan. Faced with censorship woes – which his wartime films were usually subjected to – Kurosawa remained firm, capitalizing on his artistry as a filmmaker to convey a message on the “sacrifices in the struggle for freedom.”

No Regrets opens under idyllic pretenses with students whistling and singing, frolicking on grassy hills reminisce of those Julie Andrews pirouetted across in The Sound of Music, only smaller, and enjoying the simplicities of nature that seem to diminish as the film progresses. This majestic air of beauty and tranquility that our heroine Yukie seems to value more than politics and social issues is soon disrupted by gunfire, which excites Yukie, but worries her male cohorts; it’s 1933 and the Manchurian Incident has many students riled up in revolt. The setup for No Regrets parallels The Kyoto University Incident of 1932, where law professor Takigawa Yukitori was relieved of his teaching duties due to supporting Marxist philosophies; which led students to protest for academic freedom. In the film, Professor Yagihara (Denjiro Okochi) – largely inspired by Yukitori – faces suspension for advocating leftist views against fascism and, aligning with actual events, the students stage mass protests against the system.

In the midst of this conflict, Yukie finds herself juggling two suitors: Ryukichi Noge (Susumu Fujita), who’s driven by his ideals and is steadfast in putting an end to fascism, and Itokawa (Akitake Kono), who’s more reserved, subservient and adheres to the government’s practices. More inclined toward radical traits than those of a push-over yuppie, Yukie is wooed by Noge’s self-esteem and strong-willed nature so much that when he’s released from jail years later – for participating in an anti-militarist protest – and has noticeably changed into a caricature of Itokawa, she loses all interest in the man he's become. But after a romantic run-in with the former protester in Tokyo, she discovers that his ideals are still very much in tact.

Kurosawa offers an ample amount of characterization in No Regrets, more than any of his other films, and this isn’t merely hyperbole because Yukie’s search for selfhood is by and large – at least it should be – the standard for developing a character from the ground up. What’s most impressive is how Yukie feels that, as a woman, the only way to feel validated is to stand in the shadow of an enterprising man who takes risks rather than a pen-pusher who lacks ambition and bravado. The latter seems to be the case for Itokawa, who’s dull and bureaucratic, and upon realizing this, Yukie sets her eyes on Noge. Unlike Itokawa, Noge is capable of challenging Yukie, and although this intimidates her – “If I were to marry him, my life would blaze so brightly that I might be blinded” – she also finds it enticing. There’s little to gain intellectually from a relationship with Itokawa, but Yukie reveres Noge and settles to adapt to his principles, sponging up the zeal he exhibits so effortlessly. She’s a woman seeking growth and introspection, both of which she attains by the end of her relationship with Noge.

I’m usually transfixed by Kurosawa’s near-flawless direction and attention-to-detail, but here, it’s all about Setsuko Hara. Yukie's tale is one soaked in political messages – maybe even propaganda – but underlying all that is a story of individualism and empowerment. While the same documentary-style quality that riddled The Most Beautiful is apparent in the beginning of No Regrets, the way in which events ingeniously unfold puts to rest any doubts about Kurosawa's knack for storytelling. The final half of No Regrets is staggering because we’re finally introduced to an adult Yukie who displays a complete shift in character, and the way Hara bares herself emotionally on screen is utterly human, tragic, and makes for a monumental performance.

8.5/10