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: Sanshiro Sugata (1943)

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.


Sanshiro Sugata (aka: 姿三四郎; aka Judo Saga) (Akira Kurosawa, 1943) Every hero's journey begins with the first step; it is true in this film's story and in reel life, this being the first full-length feature of legendary film director and stylist Akira Kurosawa. One already sees reflections and echoes of the Master's work and influence rippling out from this one, even as it, itself, builds on the reverberations of Western film-making traditions.

Made during the Second World War and heavily cut by the Japanese government for sentiments that some petty bureaucrat probably imagined might hurt the war effort, Kurosawa's first big effort and first success has never recovered from the sword of the censor—the missing pieces have never been found. 

But, what there is proves enlightening...and telling.

It is a hero's journey. Sugata (Susumu Fujita) is a novice fighter who wants to learn jujitsu, but is given short shrift by the school of martial artists he joins.  When they hear a master of the rival judo order is in town, the entire group decides to confront the man, Shogoro Yano (Denjirô Ôkôchi). In a fight at a canal's edge, Yano takes on all comers, dispatching them into the frigid water—the first of many examples of the "last man standing" scenes that would dominate Kurosawa's film and his students, Sergio Leone (and also Clint Eastwood). Those impressive results are all Sugata needs to switch disciplines, studying the ways of judo with Yano.

But, what the apprentice gains in skill he lacks in discipline, squandering his unfocused talents getting into sporadic street-fights that disappoint his Master.  In a desperate bid to win Yano's respect, Sugata dives into the freezing waters at the judo temple, risking his life, but also gaining an understanding of "satori," represented by the sight of a single blooming flower, growing straight and tall in the frigid waters. The strength of Nature is revealed to him, and the apprentice has found the inner truth to master his craft. 

At that point, Sugata becomes renowned as the toughest fighter in town to beat, and he is challenged by jujitsu fighters determined to best him. One can't help seeing the "gunslinger" analogy here, as the new guns and old challenge the now-humble, wiser Sugata to matches of skill to the death, like he was the "fastest draw." Just as, no doubt, Kurosawa drew on Westerns for his martial arts saga, his work would come full-circle, inspiring Westernized versions of his work—specifically, The Magnificent 7 and A Fistful of Dollars.

It's an analogy to life itself—you make your way through it, and you may have what it takes, but it is only by knowing oneself and seeing the Bigger Picture that one can truly make a success of life.  Already, Kurosawa is tackling big themes.  But, you can already see his command of staging with Nature acting as an emotional well-storm, culminating in a passionate fight between two rivals for one woman's hand, on a wind-swept hill of violently whipping tall grass.

I have so many Kurosawa film reviews sitting in various drafts, never feeling secure in my grasp of his work, so I've decided I'm going to start at the beginning and work my way through his career. In the next few weeks, you'll be seeing more and more of his films cropping up here, a result of my own faltering tentative journey observing his remarkable work. Hopefully, somewhere along the path, focusing on his work, I can achieve some wisdom about it.

Walking Kurosawa's Road: The Most Beautiful (1944)

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 Most Beautiful (aka 一番美しく, aka Ichiban utsukushiku) (Akira Kurosawa, 1944) Kurosawa's second film as director was one I was willing to skip for its reputation as a documentary. That would have been a mis-step, as it's a curious combination of fiction and non-fiction—doing it's job, certainly, as a record of civilian efforts during the Japanese war effort, but Kurosawa used the documentary as a spine for a story about the workers, their motivations and their interaction, which did far more towards the purpose than merely showing parades and workers huddled over machines.

So, does that make it a documentary? Not really. Is any propaganda piece truly a documentary, or is it advocacy? Across the ocean, the Americans were making documentaries (by film-makers like Frank Capra, John Ford, John Huston, Darryl F. Zanuck, and George Stevens) that mixed real footage with special effects and dramatized scenes, so the issue seems moot, not even worth bringing up.  But, it seems an essential piece of the Kurosawa puzzle.

Tasked with showing the efforts of the Nippon Kogaku optics factory in Hiratsuke that provided lenses for gunsights for Japanese Zeros (the original subject for the documentary, but shelved for budgetary reasons). The factory gave its full cooperation—the actors lived in the workers' dormitories and trained on their equipment. There are brief montages of the women workers at their jobs in the factory-settings and lots of shots of parading workers in formation with flags and instruments—a precision team showing off. There are lots of shots of that so the documentary aspect is satisfied.

But, that wasn't enough for Kurosawa. There's no story. The women working is "different" (certainly for that time) and inspiring; the parades, decorative. Fine for the results required by the government. But, all the parades in the world won't create a sense of sacrifice for the "common" man (or woman) to work towards victory; those are just pictures. What inspires those images?  What creates the precision, the dedication required for the effort?

So Kurosawa weaves a story of one dormitory of women who are given a goal: prove yourselves. An emergency effort is set up for maximum performance: the men must put out 100% effort; the women, 50%. The women (respectfully) revolt. Why half the effort of the men, when they can do just as much? The factory relents, granting permission to push the limits and see what they can do. Emboldened, the women knuckle down and re-double the work.

But it comes at a cost. The health of the women suffer. One actually leaves, taken home by her strict father who fears for her safety. The support for her by her co-workers impresses him, and he bows in respect, but she leaves anyway.*  Conflicts arise. The women begin to bicker over their relative efforts. But, the results are what matter, and the women win the respect of their peers, their supervisors and managers...and themselves.  

Kurosawa once said The Most Beautiful is the film of his "closest to my heart." Whether that's because it's his favorite, or because it's where he met, directed, argued with on-set and married actress Yôko Yaguchi would be speculation.

* She returns later in the film, and prances around, giddy with her return, but the emotion is not met by her co-workers, who leave to see what happened to their supervisor, who journeyed to retrieve her.  "It's good you're back, but get to work."

Walking Kurosawa's Road: Drunken Angel

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.


Drunken Angel aka "Yoidore tenshi" aka 酔いどれ天使 (Akira Kurosawa, 1948) Corruption is at the heart and soul of Kurosawa's third film—the story of a village doctor and his realtionship with the town, and in particular, one yakuza gangster suffering from tuberculosis. Kurosawa, making films under the post-war U.S. occupation, uses corruption as a mataphor for the West's influence on Japanese culture, by showing his yakuza as criminals straight out of a Warner Bros. picture. Toshirô Mifune's Matsunaga (his first role in a Kurosawa film) reminds one of a young Anthony Quinn, and Reisaburo Yamamoto's hood is reminiscent of Bogart at his shadiest.

But the focus of the film is Doctor Sanada (Takashi Shimura), a portrait straight out of a John Ford movie of a self-medicating physician, battling disease as best he can, when the source of much of it lies in the heart of the very city he is serving. A river now is clogged with garbage, refuse and God knows what else, and pestilence carrying mosquitoes are everywhere, especially given the fetid heat of the town. 

It's enough to drive a doctor to sake to drown the depression that must come from daily fighting a losing battle. Not just because the town is turning rancid, but because most of the towns-people ignore what he says—kids wash in the river even when the doc yells at them about typhus, TB patients are out getting drunk, but he can't help himself—"Once you get a patient, you can't stop fussing over them" says his assistant Miyo (Chieko Nakakita from One Wonderful Sunday). But, his bluntness and lousy bedside manner guarantees he'll never get a more cushy, high paying practice.

Early on, he's visited by a young tough, complaining that he slammed his hand in a door. Sanada unwraps the makeshift bandage and eyes the young hoodlum—this is more than slamming a hand in a door. "There was a nail in it," says Matsunaga (Mifune) lamely. But, when Sanada explores the wound, he pulls out a bullet. "You call that a nail?" he gives the kid a look as he drops it on the table. "I won't make any trouble," grins Matsunaga. "I hear you take care of my guys." Sanada is not impressed. "I'm warning you," he tells the tough. "I'm pretty pricey. I make it a policy to rip off deadbeats."

But, the gangster is also subject to coughing fits. And Sanada insists on testing him for tuberculosis. Matsunaga is reluctant, but the doctor brow-beats him into it with cutting remarks—"You've always got a line, don't you?" Matsunaga will snear at him at one point. But, when he listens to the young man's breathing, Sanada is sure he's got a hole in his lung, but an X-ray will confirm the diagnosis. Matsunaga lashes out at him in anger, admittedly as much as he can do with a bandaged hand. But, the doctor seeks him out the next day and insists that he get an X-ray taken with a specialist.

Later on at dinner, Sanada wonders why he cares—he speculates because the yakuza reminds him of himself at that age, all-attitude and posturing. There's another concern: Matsunaga's old boss, Okada (Yamamoto) will be getting out of prison soon, after four years, and Miyo, Sanada's assistant, used to be his moll. And Miyo is consumed with guilt and fear—guilt that she might bring Okada's wrath on the doctor's house and practice and fear of being found out by her old lover. She confesses that it might be better just to go back to him once he's sprung. But, Sanada will have nothing of it and tells her to stay with her new life.

Matsunaga visits the the doctor again and tells him he tore up the X-rays. This enrages Sanada, accusing Matsunaga of being a coward for not facing his fears, despite the trappings of being a tough guy in the yakuza. They fight again, but eventually, he does bring the X-rays for Sanada to examine, and he learns the truth—the TB is far more advanced than thought. And Matsunaga promises Sanada that he will give up drinking and smoking in an attempt to beat the disease.

But, Okada gets released, and one of the first things he does is seek out Matsunaga, gets him drunk and humiliates him in a power play to establish who is boss of the town. After so brief an attempt to heal himself, Matsunaga is worse than ever, coughing up blood, and Sanada is sent for to see after him. Rather than berate him, the doctor opens up a music box and tells the gangster to "dream of your childhood."

But, Matsunaga's dreams, instead, are troubled and have nothing to do with childhood. In a surreal sequence, he dreams of himself, well-dressed, walking along the beach, the waves tempestuous and violent. He finds a coffin adrift in the waves, and, breaking it open with an ax, finds his diseased self in the coffin, which rises from the coffin and chases him down the beach. He wakes up just before he is caught by his fate.

Matsunaga is under attack, from without and within. At the time Sanada is berating him to save his own life, Matsunaga ignores him to attack Okada to try and retain his status, and hold off Okada's attempts to bullying Miyo back—although why he cares is unclear as he's stolen Matsunaga's social-climbing girlfriend (Michiyo Kogure). Dr. Sanada, though, is just belligerent enough to think he can hold off Okada himself—plus, he has another more traditional, "rational" (his favorite term) strategy by getting the police involved.

But, Matsunaga has a code of the yakuza to follow—Okada has no such code, evidently. So, he leaves his sick-bed, gets dressed, gets by Miyo, who's tries to stop him (he locks her in a room) and goes out to take on Okada. Sick and weak, he goes to Okada to fight it out, in one of the most inelegant fight sequences ever not choreographed. Where Kurosawa has kept the camera-expressiveness down, the fight is filmed at odd angles and the actors are encouraged to over-emote like animals. It's a bizarre scene, clumsy and desperate...and deadly.

Drunken Angel marks a turning point for Kurosawa. He has been expressive, emotional, surely, but this film may be his first masterpiece. Everything comes together and supports the disparate elements that clash and unite throughout the film.

It also should be noted that it is the first film where Kurosawa featured the actor Toshirô Mifune,who would be the cornerstone of so many of Kurosawa's films. Every actor in Drunken Angel is at the top of their game, but Mifune's portrayal of a once-vibrant tough systematically dying by his own actions is impressive in tis ability to evoke tragedy. Kurosawa re-worked the screenplay once he knew what he had in Mifune's performance, taking some of the emphasis from Shimura's doctor to the charismatic self-destructive tough, giving the film a more tragic air befitting the toxic environment in which the the film is set. But, despite the hopeless setting, the film-maker manages to give his two protagonists moments of redemption, allowing the doctor to appreciate one small victory in a moment of tragedy in his efforts to eradicate the TB epidemic, and for Matsunaga an honorable death, his body coated with white paint, indicating purity.

Kurosawa begins the film with the fetid, bubbling swamp and keeps returning to it throughout the film. But, he ends it in the city as two of the film's survivors disappear into a throng of people, supplying the viewer with a final image, providing us, as well, with a kind of redemption, certainly one of hope.

Walking Kurosawa's Road: One Wonderful Sunday

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.

One Wonderful Sunday (aka 素晴らしき日曜日 Subarashiki Nichiyōbi)(1947) 35 yen. That's all that one young lovers, Yuzo and Masako (Isao Numasaki and Chieko Nakakita) have to spend on their weekly Tokyo sojourn, where they meet to spend time with each other and away from their humdrum jobs that don't pay much more than their rent money. It would be cause for celebration, but they are constantly surrounded by limitations and disappointments. For young lovers, 35 yen doesn't buy much of dreams.

It is the time of American occupation and Westernization is everywhere—in the fashion, in the music, and the kids are playing stick-ball in the street. Western classical music is playing at concerts (and director Kurosawa uses it on the soundtrack), and nightclubs have the same feel and aesthetic of ones in New York (upstairs, anyway).

But, times are hard. Yuzo and Masako have dreams. But, everything they encounter on this Sunday wakes them up to reality. They want to get married, but they can't because they can't afford to, but, on a whim, go house-shopping. A new building is nice but is far out of their price range. More affordable is a dingy interior apartment with no windows which the former tenant, who is glad to leave, doesn't even recommend. Masako tours the places with hope, but Yuzo becomes more discouraged, despite her efforts to cheer him up. 

He'll stay that way until they see a handful of kids playing stick-ball in the streets, the kids imitating their favorite players. Yuzo asks to take a turn batting, but a solid hit manages to crash into a bakery, smashing sweet rolls that the baker insists they buy—even if he offers a discount. They split the food between themselves and the kids, and head for the zoo, but the caged animals only depresses Yuzo and reminds him of his own situation. He has a brainstorm: an Army buddy of his has opened a snazzy nightclub-restaurant and Yuzo decides to take Masako to show off the place and maybe impress her—and maybe get a job there.

The owner won't even see him; Yuzo is consigned to a backroom which he shares with a black marketer, who tells him the owner won't even see him and probably will buy him off with a drink and maybe some cash. That's exactly what happens, but Yuzo is too proud to take the money. But, he doesn't get a job, either.

The two decide to go to a concert—Schubert's "Unfinished Symphony," significantly—they have just enough money to afford general seating tickets. But, while they're waiting in line, scalpers buy up all the cheaper general tickets, leaving only the more expensive seats...which they can't afford for both of them. Yuzo challenges the scalpers and gets beaten up for his outrage. The rage and humiliation he feels makes him want to break off the date and go back to his apartment. Masako follows him seeking to console him. But, Yuzo feels such a loss of face that he turns on Masako, asserting himself physically, which makes her feel betrayed and fearful and she runs out of the apartment, leaving Yuzo alone.

She eventually comes back and all Yuzo can do is apologize to her for his behavior. For him, it's all or nothing. But Masako's more nuanced approach to life sways him to go out with her again to have tea with their remaining funds. They can just afford it...until they get the bill. What they've ordered is more expensive and they can't afford it. Yuzo barters his coat to make the difference.

But, that experience inspires him. He fantasizes with Masako that they will start their own tea shop and restaurant, with good food "for the masses" with no hidden fees and quality. He has learned to take a bad experience and turn it into something positive, a trait that inspires a final act in which the rules of reality are broken, and, like Kurosawa does in the film, makes the most out of a situation that on the surface seems limiting, but by exploiting the potential and using the means available with imagination, turns into something that can only be described as "magical."

One Wonderful Sunday is a fine example of making the best of limited means. At the time before the film's production, Toho Studios had suffered from a walkout of its top actors who'd left to form their own production company. Toho began a search for new actors and, unsure of the box office potential of films without known stars, lowered the budgets of potential films to avoid risking disaster at the box office. Kurosawa, with his co-script-writer Keinosuki Uekusa, a childhood friend, took a page from the post-war Italian films (which would be called "neo-realist" once the scholars got hold of them) and filmed on location with hidden cameras and the simplest of stories with a small roster of characters. The limited means kept the film costs low along with the risks and allowed Toho to continue operating with contemporary, personal films.

Kurosawa always favored location work, using natural environments and incorporating it in the fabric of the story-telling, letting Nature inform and even comment on the story. Here, the two lovers are subject to rainstorms making them take cover, dousing their hopes, and the very wind becomes mystical in the finale.

You work with what you have, and Kurosawa in the finale has the two lovers reach a crisis point between hope and despair and as Kurosawa has exhausted every element—the two lovers, the empty orchestra shell they visit, and the bleak and lonely wind that blows through it—he turns to the last participant in the process, the audience, in much the same way as Peter Pan asks the audience of the theater-piece to clap to save the life of Tinkerbelle. That moment is a bit twee—it is for children's benefit, after all—but in Kurosawa's working, it is an act of desperation, as he moves the camera forward, isolating Masako as she turns to address the audience:

"Ladies and gentlemen, a round of applause! Please find it in your hearts to cheer him one! Please! There are so many poor young lovers like us in this world. Please give us all a big hand. We're freezing in the cold winds of this world. Do it for poor young lovers everywhere. Please cheer us on. Please help us dream beautiful dreams. Please, a round of applause. Please. Please applaud. Please! All of you!"

Kurosawa was distressed that audiences in Japan did not clap. They did in France, though, when the film made its way to the City of Lovers, and the film ends with Schubert's sublime Symphony No. 8, considered the first of the "Romantic" symphonies, but has been hung with the mantle of "Unfinished." And on those notes, Kurosawa leaves the lovers with their story unresolved.

It's a beautiful film, small in scope, and with no pageantry at all, but full of risk and feeling and a certain amount of desperation both in its story and in its making.

I hope, given the opportunity, I would have applauded.