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. 

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.