Walking Kurosawa's Road: Scandal (1950)

The inability to write about the films of Akira Kurosawa to my satisfaction led me to to take a different path: start at the beginning, take each film in sequence, one after the other, and watch the progression of the man from film-maker to Master. I'm hoping I can write more intelligently and more knowledgeably about his work by, step by step, Walking Kurosawa's Road.

 

Scandal (aka "Shūbun" aka 醜聞,  Akira Kurosawa, 1950) The changes that had come over Japan in the post-War occupation had been well-documented in the early works of Kurosawa, but with this film, the director would look at what he saw as the corruption of the Japanese soul, certainly spurred by Western influences, but more for the hunger to make a "big kill". 1950's Scandal can be considered just as pertinent today with its focus on the "bread and circuses" world of celebrity (earned or not) and notoriety, "The price you pay for being famous..." and the manufacture of "fake news" for monetary gain, or gain of any kind. It would lament the fate of honesty when beset on all sides by the forces of moral corruption.

 

It's a very simple story, but with internal complexities, and deft dialogue exchanges that would fit neatly into a film made today. In fact, I wish a lot of people would see it these days. Why that is, after a recap:

Ichiro Aoye (Toshirô Mifune) is spending the day at one of his favorite places, Kappazawa, painting one of his impressionistic works on a favorite theme. He is surrounded by locals who look on in curiosity, commenting on the work in progress. Critics. They are joined by Miyako Saijo (Shirley Yamaguchi), a classical singer, who has missed her bus on the way to a resort hotel in Kaminoyu, and Aoye offers to give her a ride on his motorcycle, as they are staying at the same place. Now, Miyako is a big deal, certainly bigger than a successful artist, and when they get to the resort, she's approached by paparatchi from the scandal sheet "Amour" for an interview, which she refuses, as she is on a retreat and is generally shy of publicity. This does not sit well with the photographers, who are determined to get something to print one way or another.

Their opportunity comes when Miyako and Aoye innocently share some tea on her balcony. The photog's snap away and take it back to their publisher, Hori (Eitarô Ozawa), who publishes the photos with a salacious story—"The Love Story of Miyako Saijo"—which sells flies off the shelves and sets tongues wagging. Aoye returns to town and continues to paint, planning a showing. But, he is recognized on the street from the story, which he knows nothing about, and he motor-bikes over to the Amour offices, demanding to see the latest issue. The editor, Asai (Shin'ichi Himori) gives him a copy and Aoye reads, appalled. He attacks Asai and threatens legal action and stomps out.

Aoye fully intends to sue, but when he approaches Miyako, she is reluctant as she is a private person and doesn't want to encourage further rumors—“I don’t want popularity without respect. I won’t be a freak on display!” But, Aoye holds a press conference condemning the story as lies, while Hori holds his own gathering, standing by his story and casting aspersions on Aoye to drive up circulation. Aoye has trouble finding a lawyer, but the down and out Otokichi Hiruta (Takashi Shimura) approaches him, expressing sympathy and promoting a lawsuit as a cause célèbre against moral corruption. Aoye is doubtful of how successful Hiruta's work would be, but when he visits the attorney's home, he meets the man's tubercular daughter (Yôko Katsuragi) and has a change of heart, even convincing Miyako to be a part of the lawsuit.

The issue of Aoye/Saijo v. Amour Magazine is a pretty cut and dried case of moral good versus evil and audiences would have already picked sides (if they had any conscience at all), so Kurosawa takes the focus off that and switches to the lawyer Hiruta as the character that dominates the last half of the film—a man of divided loyalties (but for a good cause), who runs the risk of ruining the case and letting the slanderers getting off free. Obviously, this was not something Kurosawa was in favor of, as the movie was a condemnation of the "verbal gangsterism" of a Western influenced press (“This was not freedom of expression, I felt, it was violence against a person on the part of those who possess the weapon of publicity. I felt that this new tendency had to be stamped out before it could spread.”). In the same way he showed the increasing prevalence on Japanese culture by including Western songs, like Christmas carols, "Auld Lang Syne", and even "Buttons and Bows" ("East is East and West is West," indeed!).

But, Kurosawa is an excellent storyteller interested in telling an interesting story, as well as—since we're on this good versus evil road—being in sympathy with the good. That lawyer, with his complicated morals and divided loyalties, seemed more in tune with the Japanese he wanted to speak to—the ones who supported the war effort and the ones who sacrificed principle in the post-war chaos—that they could walk the better path and atone and make a better world for the country, rather than the dog-eat-dog one he saw it become. Such a story can come off as a bit preachy, not unlike "A Christmas Carol," and Scandal does for a stretch, but given the wretched cynicism of the Amour publisher character, perhaps it's needed.

One looks at the internet now, in this country, and at the cynical bodies of the legislatures that seem only concerned with lining their pockets and winning no matter what freedoms they step on, and one can only say that Kurosawa's film is still relevant, still truthful, still needed, but laments that the proudly corrupt would just scoff and dismiss (those bastards).

This would be Kurosawa's last film in what most film scholars call his early period; his next film would move away from the present day of Japan and move back into history and Myth and would be released the same year in Japan, but, more importantly, it would be the first of his films released to the West within a year of its Japanese debut (Kurosawa's films were previously withheld, due to either censorship by Japan's American occupiers, or for its controversial content—Drunken Angel made its American debut in 1959, Stray Dog premiered in 1963, The Quiet Duel in 1979, One Wonderful Sunday in 1982!). That next film would see Kurosawa recognized throughout the world as an exceptional voice in the cinema, and start the long string of films most associated with the name Akira Kurosawa.

Walking Kurosawa's Road: The Quiet Duel

The inability to write about the films of Akira Kurosawa to my satisfaction led me to to take a different path: start at the beginning, take each film in sequence, one after the other, and watch the progression of the man from film-maker to Master. I'm hoping I can write more intelligently and more knowledgeably about his work by, step by step, Walking Kurosawa's Road.

The Quiet Duel (aka 静かなる決闘, Shizukanaru Kettō) (Akira Kurosawa, 1949) Watching The Quiet Duel (only released in the U.S. in 1979, made outside Toho Studios, and his only collaboration with Gojira! composer Akira Ifukube), was an interesting lesson in Kurosawa and his direction. The film's not available in usual circles (probably due to its production outside of Toho Studios), but after several attempts to find a copy, I relied on YouTube (never the best source for anything) for viewing. I was a bit distressed to see that there was no translation burned into the print used, but went on viewing, figuring that I'd get a sense of the visual and figure out the story later.

I found that I didn't need translation. Kurosawa was telling the story visually and I got a sense of character, relation, action and drama without being told what I was watching. I may not have the words precisely as intended, but the story and emotion were conveyed.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what cinema should be.

It was almost disappointing to hit the "cc" button and get the translation. It just told me what I already knew. And Kurosawa was telling the story so efficiently, I was surprised about how much information was being conveyed in so short a time.

The Quiet Duel is a particularly timely story—in these pandemic times—of how personal responsibility can affect the lives of others, and the acknowledgment that such personal responsibility is painful, but necessary. That it involves a medical professional affected by a patient is especially poignant now, but the story serves as a universal parable of personal duty versus the anarchy of selfishness.

Or is it the selfishness of anarchy? I tend to get those confused.

During the second World War, Army surgeon Dr. Kyoji Fujisaki (Toshirô Mifune) is working a particularly tough night in the OR. Despite the heat, it's raining buckets, enough that the tent roof is leaking into the surgical area. And the make-shift unit is more chaotic than usual: the lights are going out and the wounded keep coming in an endless stream. One of them is Susuma Nakada (Kenjirô Uemura), just another blasted body that needs to be repaired and on the razor's edge of life and death. Time is of the essence. So, the careful Dr. Kyoji can be forgiven when, in trying to tie off a suture, he takes off one of his surgical gloves to complete the task in order to move on to the next. But, when he reaches for his scalpel, he cuts his finger, bloodied from the soldiers wounds. Iodine is applied, but the damage is done. His blood is mixed with the soldier's. The two are inevitably tied. Blood brothers.

The operation is a success, on the surface. The soldier survives and will go on to a long life. But, the doctor overhears that Nakada has syphilis and sternly tells him (""Get treatment when you get back home. Don't spread your disease. If you do, you'll ruin people's lives.") that he should have it treated, not only for his own health, but the health of others. Nakada scoffs—he's fine, and he's not going to worry about it. But, the doctor has a blood-test done on himself. When the results are brought to him with silence, he already knows the result—he has contracted the disease. He is not fine. He will have to live with the ramifications for the rest of his life.

It is 1946, post-war. Dr. Kyoji returns to civilian life, working in the clinic— "Surgery, Obstetrician and Gynecologist"—of his father Dr. Konsoke Fujisaki (Takashi Shimura), and things have changed a bit. Kyoji is a diligent surgeon, but stoic and a bit of a ram-rod. His father chalks it up to his war experience, but he cannot explain why Kyoji has broken off his six year engagement to Misao Matsumoto (Miki Sanjô). She continues to come by the clinic to cook and to help, but also in a vain attempt to try to learn why the love of her life has decided to postpone their marriage, let alone cancel it completely. She can't get any answers from Kyoji, who is cold and advises that she move on. Neither can his father explain it, who keeps the pictures of the two when they were happy. He loves his son, but it's like he's a stranger now.

Kyoji is not mentioning his syphilis. There's a stigma attached to having a venereal disease, but as long as no blood is exchanged between himself and his patients, he can continue doing his job. But, his reasons for cutting Misao loose are obvious—he loves her still, but does not want to give her the disease and any children they may conceive will suffer horrendous medical consequences. So, he remains silent, but secretly uses the clinic's supply of salvarsan to give himself a weekly injection, so that, maybe, after years of treatment, he might be cured.

But, the depleting supplies of salvarsan have not gone unnoticed. The clinic's new apprentice nurse Rui Minegishi (Noriko Sengoku)—single, pregnant, and working at the clinic somewhat under protest at the suggestion of a local police corporal—is of a cynical disposition and catches the doctor taking the injection—so, it's not vitamins—and it only shows her how duplicitous even a high-and-mighty doctor like Kyoji can be. After all, didn't he dump his fiance with no explanation (as had been done to her)?

When nurse Rui discovers Kyoji's injecting salvarsan, the two form a cautious bond of the disgraced. But, with her knowing the truth, he won't be able to keep the secret contained; he tells his father, who, at last, understands the heavy burden he's been carrying and, now knowing the truth, takes the sad step of telling the Matsumoto family that their daughter has been released from the agreed engagement. Nurse Rui overhears the two doctors come to their understanding and comes away with more respect for Kyoji and an understanding of his burden. She begins to take her nursing duties more seriously, given Kyoji's example.

To the viewer, Kyoji's self-sacrificing altruism would appear to be a little hollow without some display of consequence beyond his own imposed martyrdom. One of the clinic's patients happens to be the wife of Nakada, the soldier Kyoji saved during that fateful operation. Kyoji seeks out the man to implore him to begin treatment for his syphilis and warns him of the ramifications on his child, but Nakada merely dismisses him, tells Kyoji he has no signs of syphilis, and warns him not to interfere with his family. Kyoji can only watch as the wife is not informed and Nature must take its course. 

The Quiet Duel was not released in the U.S. until 1979, maybe because of its origins from a different studio with a different distribution deal—Toho's films made their way to Janus—but maybe due to its subject matter, which might have slowed its showing. It could have been worse—Kurosawa's original plan was to end the film with Mifune's doctor going mad from the disease, but that script could not get past the censors of American Occupied Forces, who balked that the idea would discourage anyone with the disease to get treatment. It shows a bleaker view of life, and of doing the right thing, something that will show up later in Kurosawa's film. One interesting line from Kyoji's father has an interesting depth: "If he'd been happier, he might have been a snob."

The Quiet Duel is not regarded as a great Kurosawa film—it's set-bound, melodramatic, and rather sedate...and is not one of his later films! Those reactions are from folks who know that his best films are ahead, certainly the ones he's most known for. But, just my incident with the sub-titles tells me a lot.  All I need to know, really. Whatever language—or lack of it—that separates the communication of ideas and emotions and content from viewers, is something that Kurosawa has mastered by how he makes a film and the choices he makes. His film could be silent and everything still comes across. Communication is key in film-making with its special blend of telling stories through pictures. No matter the language, no matter the details, Kurosawa still manages to connect with audiences willing to watch and feel. That is what makes a master film-maker.

We'll see you further down the road.