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

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

Kurosawa Series: Part Seven

THE BAD SLEEP WELL (1960)

Bouncing off Throne of Blood’s Shakespearean bedrock, I decided to take a look at Kurosawa’s underappreciated The Bad Sleep Well; a film grounded in motifs akin to “Hamlet”, but told in a contemporary setting. As we all know, “Hamlet” entails themes of vengeance and corruption, and as it turned out – perhaps fatefully – corporate corruption was a fixture in newspaper headlines during the time this film was made, so Kurosawa found himself facing adversity and naysayers aplenty prior to the picture’s release. Not only that, the director’s biting commentary on Japanese bureaucracy underwent several rewrites from a total of five screenwriters, including Kurosawa himself.

Kurosawa apparently never trusted himself to pen any of his scripts alone; he typically solicited support from secondary writers to ensure that his own writing wasn’t used as a tool to make his directing easier. However, incorporating such a large amount of writers was bound to generate some difficulty, and that it did, as we can tell from the film’s somewhat erratic structure. Although sloppy toward the end – and even a bit rushed – the film still manages to be as engrossing as possible and the acting is hands down the best I’ve seen in any Kurosawa film.

The film’s opening is pivotal and really sets the vengeful tone that permeates throughout. It’s a wedding scene, but far from celebratory. Being my eleventh Kurosawa film, The Bad Sleep Well allowed me to finally pick up on Kurosawa’s recurrent use of choruses: groups of minor characters that fill the audience in on what’s occurring. In Throne of Blood it was usually a group of gossiping soldiers. Here, it’s a group of gossiping reporters. As we later learn, this is purely a marriage of convenience; the bride and groom being the daughter (Kyoko Kagawa) of a development corporation’s Vice President (Masayuki Mori) and that company’s President’s secretary Nishi (Toshiro Mifune, in a deceptively placid role). One would assume the “convenience” here is merely financial, but it’s far more sinister than that.

The reception encounters several noteworthy interruptions. First, the arrival of a mysterious wedding cake baked to resemble the company’s headquarters; with a single rose jutting out one of the windows. Following this peculiar event, Wada (Kamatari Fujiwara), a corporation employee, is arrested under suspicion of partaking in a bribery scheme and, following his inquiry, attempts suicide by jumping into an active volcano. Wada’s more or less “saved” by Nishi (who’s unveiled as a ruthless man bent on avenging his father’s death) but learns that the calculating secretary plans to use him as an accessory to destroy the corporation from the inside.

Not unlike The Most Beautiful, Kurosawa’s portrayal of Japan’s value system in The Bad Sleep Well would probably seem alien to most westerners. The notion of lower level employees vowing silence and even sacrificing themselves in order to veil their superiors’ unlawful activities sounds absurd to most of us, but in post-war Japan – and perhaps even today – many underling employees like Wada felt a constrained sense of loyalty towards their bosses – for reasons purely pertaining to principle – thus placed their lives on the line to protect them.

The most fascinating juxtaposition I’ve seen in a Kurosawa film so far is between Wada and Nishi. Both are victims of the corporation’s crimes in one way or the other, but only Nishi intends to exact revenge. Wada, even after discovering that his superiors essentially threw him under the bus, still adheres to that deluded sense of loyalty and remains reluctant about assisting Nishi. The most blatant difference between these two men is hatred. Mifune’s subservient demeanor is only a facade used to dupe his boss/father-in-law; the actor’s trademark ire – which Wada lacks – is revealed away from the corporation. He’s accepted the fact that the only way to conquer evil is to become evil. “It’s not easy hating evil,” Nishi confesses. “You have to stoke your own fury until you become evil yourself.”

Kurosawa’s taken several whacks at industrial demoralization (High and Low, Ikiru) but I found this to be his weakest blow. He sets the stage up brilliantly, but seems to have trouble structuring his acts. The concept of driving the corrupt insane paces the film nicely up to a point, but the film hits a dry area towards the end and starts to move unnecessarily slow; only to culminate with a cop-out ending. This filler space, however, is transcended by Mifune’s and Fujiwara’s captivating performances. Kurosawa, like Bergman, knows how to develop and examine his characters, so if the plot ever becomes drab in spots, you can always fall back on the man’s compelling characterizations.

Overall, the film’s tone is dark, bleak and coolly crosses lines most films of this period wouldn’t even consider touching. The inventive camera techniques and noir-esque cinematography – which accentuate the characters' grim qualities – are also worth praising. Often melodramatic, yet boldly expressive, The Bad Sleep Well depicts man at his most cynical.

8.5/10

NOTE: I have finals coming up, so I’ll have to postpone the series – and reviews in general – until the semester ends. I’ll pick it back up around December 6th or so.

Kurosawa Series: Part Six

THRONE OF BLOOD (1957)

There have been countless stage and film adaptations of William Shakespeare’s “Macbeth”, but many film critics hold Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood to be one of the most successful renditions of the classic tragedy. The film was developed during what some consider to be an experimental stage in Kurosawa’s career. Rather than executing a by-the-numbers adaptation of the Shakespearean play, Kurosawa essentially transposes the story of Macbeth to his own ends. While the parallels are obvious, much of the original play has been modified to correspond with feudal Japan. Even the Macbeth character – here referred to as Washizu (Toshiro Mifune) – has been altered to appear somewhat less vindictive; only corrupted after adhering to his lady’s artful persuasion. The entire film represents a sort of moral document on dehumanization really, and while having only seen ten of Kurosawa’s films, I think it’s safe to say that this is his most nihilistic.

Anyone who’s taken a high school literature course should be familiar with “Macbeth”, so I won’t bore you with details on the original. Blood, on the other hand, offers more in terms of cultural relevance – as far as medieval Japan goes – and the ominous elements that Kurosawa so masterfully applies here are worth discussing. More structured and direct than the source material, Blood is told in four temporal blocks, making “Macbeth” feel a little more prolonged – yet a few sequences in Kurosawa’s version still seemed unnecessarily dragged out, but I digress.

Washizu – Macbeth’s equivalent – and Miki (Minoru Chiaki) – Banquo’s equivalent – are two commanders who encounter an enigmatic spirit in a forest maze. The spirit prophesizes that Washizu will rule over a northern garrison, while Miki will command the main fortress. The spirit also foretells that, in time, Washizu will be promoted to Lord of the Forest Castle and Miki’s son will eventually inherit the castle’s throne. Once the first half of the prophecy is realized, Washizu’s ruthless wife Asaji (Isuzu Yamada) advises her husband to speed up the rest of the prophecy by assassinating the current lord of Forest Castle and succeed the throne immediately. Influenced by Lady Asaji’s ambitious proposals, Washizu carries out a covert killing spree to ensure his reign over the Forest Castle.

Free will versus fate was typically what fueled our “Macbeth” discussions in high school, and here Kurosawa seems to imply that free will is purely idealistic and everything and everyone basically correlates with fate. Blood is first and foremost a portrait of Washizu’s indecisiveness, demonstrating how the future lord is ultimately pinned into a corner after Asaji fills his head with apprehension. If you really observe this film, you’ll begin to notice how integral the role of fog is to the plot; mostly as a symbolic implication of Washizu’s confused frame of mind, but also as a reference to the sometimes empty, heartless abyss of man’s soul. Blood also takes several steps further than “Macbeth” as a social critique of feudalism in Japan. As we’re all aware, Kurosawa has never been one to shy away from political agendas and he sums up the terror-filled customs of the feudal era quite clearly in this film.

One would expect an interpretation of “Macbeth” to feature its fair share of theatrics, but the stylization and handling of Blood felt more Spartacus than Olivier-esque. The scope is by far the widest of any “Macbeth” adaptation I’ve seen, yet in many ways just as claustrophobic as a stage version would be. Without completely omitting that dramatic Shakespearean allure, Kurosawa incorporates plenty of classical Noh techniques, largely evident in Mifune’s and Yamada’s – Asaji – facial expressions, which resembled Noh masks in certain scenes.

Certainly not my favorite Kurosawa film – although it's perhaps his most influential – Blood manages to do “Macbeth” justice without following any conventional pattern. It’s essential Kurosawa, and while I wasn’t able to fully invest in the film’s often hammy atmosphere, I couldn’t discount the almost perfectionist approach taken in every frame of this film.

8/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Five

IKIRU (1952)

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD

Never before have I experienced a film that so beautifully encapsulates the human condition. “To live,” – which is the literal translation of Kurosawa’s Ikiru – is a task given to us all at birth, but how does one approach such a task when life itself seems so meaningless? Kurosawa never thought of himself as an existentialist, or as a director who probed the boundaries of existence, but with Ikiru, he does just that by employing an unfulfilled protagonist – who's on the brink of death – in order to emphasize humanity’s search for affirmation. I usually find films that hone in on old age and death to be unbearably somber, but when handled in a manner similar to Bergman’s Wild Strawberries, Ozu’s Tokyo Story and especially this film, I feel engulfed by a wave of optimism. The elderly protagonists portrayed in these films have attained peace of mind upon death, which gives the rest of us not something to look forward to, but one less thing to dread in life.

A narrator opens Ikiru by detailing the uneventful life of Kanji Watanabe (Takashi Shimura), a dull bureaucrat working the monotonous job of chief over a Public Works department. The corporate machine has essentially ruined Watanabe and his wife’s death certainly hasn’t helped in cultivating any form of active lifestyle. He’s unable to confide in his son (Nobuo Kaneko), who along with his daughter-in-law (Kyoko Seki) are oblivious to his despair and only show interest in benefiting from his pension. Making matters worse, the middle-aged chief has just recently been diagnosed – by a peculiarly vague doctor – with stomach cancer and, although uninformed, assumes he only has several months left to live. Watanabe’s cancer serves as the plot’s fulcrum, as it's primarily what drives the aging official on his quest for purpose. Faced with death, Watanabe is awakened to the doldrums of his existence, and from that point forward he seeks to live his life through others.

Similar to High and Low, Kurosawa’s Ikiru is separated into two introspective segments. The first half of the film, of course, summarizes Watanabe’s routine lifestyle and his eventual cancer diagnosis. It also sheds light on Watanabe’s relationships with two young people. The first of these characters is an uninspired novelist (Yunosuke Ito) he meets at a bar. The second is a young subordinate of his named Toyo (Miki Odagiri); who plans to resign due to the tediousness of her position. The loneliness Watanabe was subjected to over the years is momentarily appeased by these characters’ animated ways of life. However, the various activities he partakes in prove inefficient in aiding his journey toward individual purpose. In his old age, the bureaucratic drone begins to realize that he has lived his life in vain – contributing little to society – and no amount of boisterous activity with youngsters would change that.

Near the beginning of Ikiru, we’re shown several working class women who arrive at Watanabe’s department to complain about a sewage pit in their neighborhood. The women – mothers, factory workers, etc. – are given the runaround by virtually every department known to local government; failing to appeal to the better nature of these supposed “social” workers. By this point, Watanabe has finally come to his senses and resolves to vindicate his death by helping others with the power he’s held for years, but never implemented. Determined to accomplish something significant in life, Watanabe sets out to amend the sewage problem by initiating a proposed plan to build a park above the pit. The park is a godsend for Watanabe, and despite enduring severe illness, he succeeds at procuring that desired bliss he had long been searching for. In perhaps the most iconic scene in any Kurosawa film, Watanabe is seen swinging in the newly built park, presumably freezing, but hauntingly content and awaiting his inevitable demise.

Opposed to the first half of the film – seeing Watanabe in action and how he lived – the second portion of Ikiru exposes the aftermath of Watanabe’s death during his wake. The inner fortitude of his soul, expressed by his ungrateful associates, is displayed through flashbacks, mostly recounting his efforts to ensure the park’s completion. The wake scenes add a bittersweet touch on the film’s final moments, because in acknowledging Watanabe’s ambitious goals, all of his former co-workers seem incapable of giving credit to the man who made the park's conception possible. Only through alcohol are they able to understand the behavioral change Watanabe underwent following his “death sentence” and each of them vows to follow his example. Alas, sobriety annuls their dedicated spirits the next day, but the fruits of Watanabe’s labor do not go unappreciated by those who admired his determination the most.

Ikiru is more than simply profound. It’s a meditation on life and death that swells with human qualities capable of affecting us all in distinctive ways. I believe that, above all else – even critical acclaim – Kurosawa wanted viewers to comprehend the notion of living, and how the only way to truly live is by affirming one's place in the world. Life in general may in fact be meaningless, but what this film so vividly represents is man’s position as an individual and how the “meaning of life” is merely subjective.

9/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Four

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL (1944)

Another wartime piece, The Most Beautiful serves as Kurosawa’s most propagandized, and perhaps most patriotic film. Following his successful directorial debut – Sanshiro Sugata – Kurosawa was eager to touch on the subject matter of war, specifically the toils of female factory workers and their outstanding resolve. The film was developed and released in the midst of World War II; three years after the attack on Pearl Harbor and a year prior to the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, so you have to consider the demographic here. This was Kurosawa’s ode to the female working class; a film made for the Japanese by the Japanese. A pseudo-documentary of sorts, Beautiful incorporates social realism in order to evoke the emotions of those who could directly relate to the women onscreen. While not his best film, or his most accessible, Beautiful signifies Kurosawa’s commitment to both his audience and his country.

Generally plot-driven, the film focuses more on situational aspects rather than the characters themselves. Before the film really began to flesh out, it felt reminisce of those History Channel documentaries teachers would use to bore students during high school. Kurosawa refrains from delving too deeply into the context of war, so the film isn't overbearingly didactic, but it's still propaganda. The story itself follows several women working in an optics factory during the second World War who are subjected to injury and illness, yet persevere as a result of their diligence.

To American audiences, the work ethic displayed in Beautiful is utterly foreign; these women are practically droids slaving away over their work instruments without complaint. The hard-working Watanabe – played by Yoko Yaguchi, Kurosawa’s wife – even opts to remain at the factory instead of visiting her dying mother. The women, proving to be the antithesis of corporate sloths, eventually crack under pressure and find their work quota in a slump. Luckily, through the power of song – and volleyball matches that would put Top Gun to shame – the ladies manage to boost their morale and their dropping quota.

In terms of character development, Beautiful disappoints, and even rivals Sanjuro’s forgettable cast. I mentioned above how these women are portrayed as robots essentially, but the performances are equally mechanical. I’m guessing this was intentional; to show the group as a singular unit hell-bent on carrying out its task. Void of identities, save Watanabe, the clan of women represent a body, each worker functioning as a limb; one worker becomes ill, the entire body is affected. From that perspective, the film succeeds as an informative look into Japan's industrial structure during the war. Not only that, the motif of teamwork is powerfully executed – not to mention globally familiar. So whether or not Kurosawa had Americans in mind while making Beautiful is irrelevant. The themes are timeless and there’s still much to be taken from this enjoyable and well-made tribute.

7.5/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Three

THE IDIOT (1951)

Staying with the postwar theme, I decided to take a look at what Kurosawa considered his most-talked-about film, The Idiot. Adapted from the novel by Russian author Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Kurosawa’s Idiot was met with a fair amount of adversity upon its release. The original cut of the film ran at a lengthy 265 minutes, but after an unfavorable screening, the studio forced Kurosawa to make drastic edits, ultimately botching the director’s original creation.

Since this original cut has been declared lost, I’m unable to judge whether or not the version I saw accomplished what Kurosawa intended to convey. I will say that the film succeeds at capturing the existential depths of human emotion via the film’s unbalanced hero, masterfully portrayed by an inscrutable Masayuki Mori, and at turning out an array of pensive character studies. Idiot seemed to bear the same impression as Being There in the sense of counteracting society’s norms with the mindscape of a mentally-challenged man, and how our perception of the world is possibly inferior to those we consider unstable.

Idiot tells the prolonged, oblique tale of Kinji Kameda (Mori) a former war criminal who has just checked out of an asylum where he was branded an “idiot” on account of his epileptic seizures brought on by a past ordeal. Mentally fragile, the presumed ex-con is taken in by friends of his family and eventually forms a platonic relationship with two women. The women, who eventually fall in love with him, are Taeko Nasu (Setsuko Hara), a “spoiled kept woman”, and Ayako (Yoshiko Kuga), the stern daughter of a wealthy landowner. He also befriends a man named Akama – played by Toshiro Mifune in another volatile role – who throws a wrench into Kameda’s love triangle after professing his love for Taeko, but is rejected after she chooses Kameda instead. Kameda’s reticent temperament in the matter is gawked at by everyone involved until he suffers an epileptic relapse, courtesy of the jilted Akama.

The overt theme of Idiot is innocence, brilliantly illustrated by Hokkaido’s wintry, majestic setting and by the virtuous Kameda. This “criminal” is considered a lamb by both his lovers and his enemies, and his behavior and mannerisms are uniquely childlike. His moral wisdom seems to exceed that of his peers, so much in fact that Ayako’s mother often tries to discern ulterior motives behind his Christ-like conduct. The greatest irony of Idiot is translated through Kameda’s effect on those around him and how that effect calls their own sanity into question; this is especially true for the love-addled Akama.

While Idiot is far from a technical feat – the editing is sloppy thanks to extensive cuts – it stands alone as an epic contemplation of empathy and affection. Admittedly, the film is a tad overlong, and I even cringed a little at the thought of experiencing the unadulterated version, but it didn’t necessarily feel like a chore to sit through. The performances are outstanding, Mori's and Mifune’s specifically, and the story, while slow, is emotionally riveting. Kurosawa’s hassles with the film are unfortunate, but his craftsmanship is impervious, immune to studio interference, and undeniably the key ingredient that makes Idiot a superlative entry in his catalogue of achievements.

8.5/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Two

DRUNKEN ANGEL (1948)

Postwar Japan was riddled with censorship following America's occupation of the country in 1945, but Kurosawa refused to let any of that hinder him from creating a subtle testament to the hardships Japanese citizens endured after World War II. With incredible tact, Kurosawa managed to breach the establishment’s censors without detection in his first project with then up-and-comer Toshiro Mifune. The film was called Drunken Angel, an influential triumph that would largely shape Mifune's "tough guy" image in many of his collaborations with Kurosawa.

The public’s demand for cinematic realism was high after the war, and Kurosawa, sensing this, delivered a meditative drama that touched on everything that was politically and socially debauched during the late 40s. Wary of, but not deterred by the censors, he handled his postwar films by merely implying Japan’s poor social conditions rather than highlighting them with bold colors. As Angel progresses, it becomes somewhat of a challenge to catch many of Kurosawa’s social references because they aren’t centerpieces or focal points, but sly implications amidst the sordid backdrop.

The plot, which actually has little to do with Japan’s contempt toward American occupation, addresses a topic I’m quite familiar with. Alcoholism. The story details the trials of alcoholic gangster Matsunaga (Mifune) who's recently been diagnosed with tuberculosis by Doctor Sanada (Takashi Shimura) who coincidentally happens to be an alcoholic himself. Realizing Matsunaga’s condition could be potentially fatal, and considering the gangster’s flagrant drinking habits, the doctor convinces Matsunaga to lay off the sauce for a while and commence rehabilitation. Despite the gangster’s volatile disposition, the doctor’s plan goes swimmingly. This, however, is until Matsunaga’s mob boss reappears and drags the newly formed criminal back into the district’s seedy gangland.

I suppose I have an unhealthy penchant for films that zero in on afflicted alcoholics. It’s almost instinctive of me to connect with these fellow barflies on emotional levels that most would disregard, so naturally I assumed Angel would coincide with my expectations. Alas, I wasn’t able to perceive any likeness between Matsunaga and myself because while our habits may parallel, our conditions differ. I couldn’t possibly place myself in the depraved social state Matsunaga lived under, nor the precarious criminal life he led. This isn’t to say there was an emotional disconnect. Don Birnam he’s not, but Matsunaga nevertheless represents one of Kurosawa’s most shrewdly developed protagonists, and it would be dishonest to say that Mifune’s powerful performance had little effect on me.

8/10

Kurosawa Series: Part One

SANJURO (1962)

Whether you refer to him as Yojimbo or Sanjuro, you can rest assured that the wandering ronin is bound to intervene in matters far out of his jurisdiction. Not unlike his previous escapades in Yojimbo, Kurosawa’s sequel – which was originally slated to be a straight adaptation of Shugoro Yamamoto’s novel “A Break in the Tranquility” – finds our enigmatic antihero meddling in brand new affairs with his unique counterintelligence tricks. I suppose what mostly sets Sanjuro apart from its predecessor is tone.

Yojimbo is comprised of plot traits reminisce of violent spaghetti westerns whose characters typify pure hostility. Sanjuro, on the other hand, is far more delicate – Yojimbo-lite, if you will – and most of the characters aren’t nearly as high-tempered or bloodthirsty as their Yojimbo counterparts. The setting is docile and highly cultured, the characters are more refined in a sense, and the anti-violence themes are prominent. This doesn’t make Sanjuro any less of a great film, but next to Yojimbo, it falls a tad short. Not because it lacks an adrenaline-packed storyline, but because it achieves exactly what Yojimbo achieved with a more condensed formula.

I suppose the most common question regarding sequels and follow-ups is “do I need to watch the first such-and-such to understand the second such-and-such”. Not with Sanjuro – but Yojimbo is highly recommended – because the plot unfolds like an undated entry in the ronin’s diary that could have taken place before our after the first film; although the continuity is questionable considering Yojimbo's antagonist wields a gun. The story reintroduces us to the nameless vagabond (coolly played by Toshiro Mifune) who we find eavesdropping on nine samurai in a shrine. He happens to overhear them discussing upper-rank corruption and how they intend to counteract by consulting with a superintendent, who they have eliminated as a potential threat.

Now, apparently since the clan’s chamberlain resembles a horse and is generally unattractive, he’s considered a prime suspect – the logic there is beyond me – but once our hero emerges and debunks their assertions, the samurai become apprehensive. They begin to realize that their superintendent is the corrupt one, while their chamberlain may be in grave danger. Brash as usual, Sanjuro – as the integral hero is later referred to after dubbing himself with the name – offers to aid the samurai in their mission to thwart the crooked superintendent before he causes any serious damage.

Sanjuro's approach is a double-edged sword of sorts. The film is great at diluting the ronin’s hard-nosed charisma by highlighting several of his flaws and shortcomings. In Yojimbo, I almost assumed he symbolized the second coming of Christ or an embodiment of divine intervention, but here he’s utterly human. He’s placed in an unfamiliar environment that contrasts so brazenly with Yojimbo’s coarse setting, and when he’s told that his violent conduct is essentially his weak point, he silently agrees. I enjoyed that bit of character development, but it doesn’t compensate for the remaining cast’s lack of individuality.

To be frank, we're given a horde of samurai in the beginning, and they remain a horde throughout. Perhaps Seven Samurai was a highflyer; fleshing out its flock of samurai by giving them distinct personalities – which stretched the film out to a whopping three and half hours – but at least there was a sense of singularity amongst everyone. Sanjuro is an extraordinary film, without question, but it seemed plagued by a forgettable cast, whereas Yojimbo featured incredible characterizations, a gripping story and atmosphere, and a clever concept that wasn’t completely rehashed. My favorite of the two should be obvious.

8.5/10

In a mad world, only the mad are sane

KUROSAWA SERIES: OCT. 26 – NOV. 25

In a much needed attempt to breathe some life into this blog, I've decided to commence my first ever “series” dedicated to the films of Akira Kurosawa next week. The projected goal is to watch and review ten Kurosawa films over the next five weeks, and while that certainly doesn’t sound too ambitious, it’s the best I can do between school and work. So every, say, Tuesday and Thursday, I’ll post a new Kurosawa review.

Why Kurosawa? Because the man’s a genius and I’ve been absolutely transfixed by him lately. I also need to explore more of his work; I’ve seen a grand total of four of his films, so this is a great way to accomplish that. I’ve already selected the ten films I plan to watch/review, but depending on how this goes – and whether or not I amass enough followers – I may take requests for my next series.

Heaven isn't always found some place high up

HIGH AND LOW (1963)

So I have this little habit of titling my reviews with quotes corresponding with the films I discuss, however this particular quote – which was initially to be used in the finale of Akira Kurosawa’s High and Low – didn’t make the final cut. Kurosawa instead condenses the climax down to its crudest form, heightens our anticipation, then cuts away right at the scene's boiling point; leaving us utterly spellbound. I may have to consider shuffling around some films in my all-time-top-ten to make room for this monumental masterpiece, because what Kurosawa delivers here is filmmaking handled with the utmost care, paying meticulous attention to every detail.

On the Criterion DVD commentary, it's mentioned that Kurosawa placed great emphasis on the mechanics of filmmaking – editing, lighting, etc. – and acknowledged how these aspects can either make or break a film. Accordingly, Kurosawa treats High and Low like a science, opening the film with theatrically shot long-takes that create a concentrated energy amongst his characters. Similar to Nichols’ Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf or Hitchcock’s Rope, High and Low unfolds like a chamber drama examining the business-oriented routine of affluent capitalists, but quickly unveils itself as a thrilling analysis of Japan’s class structure.

Kingo Gondo (Toshiro Mifune) is a well-heeled – pun intended – executive on the brink of making a crucial decision regarding the buyout of National Shoes, a company specializing in women's footwear. His fellow shareholders advise him to join forces with them in an attempt to collectively overtake the company’s founder; who believes in making durable, long-lasting shoes, which the executives are against due to low profits. Gondo, employed at the company since his youth, adheres to the founder’s philosophies and declines the executives’ proposition. After showing the big-wigs the door, Gondo reveals to his wife (Kyoko Kagawa) and secretary (Tatsuya Mihashi) that he has secretly mortgaged everything he owns in order to set up a leveraged buyout to seize the company for himself. Cruel irony rears its head once his chauffeur’s son – mistaken for Gondo's son – is abducted by a kidnapper, whose initial intent was to extort Gondo. Thrown in a corner, Gondo faces a seemingly impossible predicament: pursue his buyout or sacrifice his fortune to save a chauffeur’s kid.

The narrative brilliantly shifts into the underbelly of Kanagawa and scrutinizes every clue in an effort to weed out the ruthless kidnapper. It is in this semi-slum that we discern the location of our kidnapper and his primary motive. Many would argue that Kurosawa’s title refers to heaven and hell as noted in the film’s climatic ending, however, the title's true connotation is suggested by the position of Gondo’s lavish home: dominantly above the slums below.

Ginjiro, the kidnapper – brilliantly played by Tsutomu Yamazaki – despises Gondo for his wealth and seeks to psychologically and financially weaken him, thus giving him a taste of social deprivation. What Ginjiro fails to realize is that Gondo is far from some transparent aristocrat; Gondo came from poverty and now applies the values instilled through hard labor to his work ethic. Following the kidnapping, Gondo receives an outpouring of sympathy and is duly praised for his valor and fortitude. This leads the media to proclaim that Ginjiro’s attempt at undermining Gondo’s morale was a failure, although Gondo’s accumulating debts say otherwise.

Filmed and set in the sixties, High and Low not only serves as an allegory on class struggle, but also as a testament. Like a time capsule, High and Low harks back to the social shape of Japan during the Vietnam War. We can gather simply by observing the diverse masses carousing in nightclubs that Japan was somewhat of a melting pot in the sixties. In a more honest portrayal of the times, Kurosawa touches on heroin addiction in a bleak alleyway scene. The scene is noteworthy – and my favorite – because every inch of it drips with a sense of realism. Every actor, every effect, every piece of scenery is so bold and convincing that it evokes the most unsettling vibe possible. The moans, whispers, shadows, silhouettes: all bone-chilling.

True to form, Kurosawa paints an incredibly stark portrait of contempt and sacrifice amidst dire circumstances in High and Low. As an audience, we feel compelled to piece together unearthed clues in collaboration with the detectives as they search "high and low" for this cynical madman. The entire film spans across such an adept stage of forthrightness, that Kurosawa practically submerges you into his story and forces you to retain something meaningful from it.

10/10