Kurosawa has fun: My Blu-ray review of Hidden Fortress

In Rashomon, Akira Kurosawa used the samurai genre to examine the limits of human knowledge and objectivity. In Seven Samurai, he told an epic story of small-scale war and a feudal system in crisis. In Throne of Blood, he adapted Macbeth to meditate on fate. In The Hidden Fortress, he pretty much just had fun.

The first of three samurai action comedies he would make very close together, Hidden Fortress is easily his most entertaining movie. Some of his basic themes of humanism and charity sneak through, but this is really just a sit-back-and-enjoy popcorn movie. No surprise that it was a major influence on George Lucas’ first Star Wars flick.

Watching The Hidden Fortress again–this time on Blu-ray–I was struck by how conservatively it accepts the Japanese feudal class system–at least on the surface. The most high-ranking character in the story, Princess Yuki, is also the most noble in the positive sense of the word. She’s willing to sacrifice for others, shows tremendous courage and stamina, and can’t bear to see her people suffer.

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By comparison, the two comic peasants who bring us into the film and through whom we see much of the story, are petty, greedy, untrustworthy, and usually stupid. The only other significant lower-class character–a peasant girl who comes in about half-way through the movie, is a good and trustworthy person. But she’s totally subservient to her betters. When wounded in a battle, she begs to be left behind because she’s not worth saving.

This is a far cry from the topsy-turvy class system of The Seven Samurai.

Or is it? Princess Yuki ‘s compassion comes off as an exception, not the rule for the ruling class. And she brings out compassion in others, shaming them into being less proper and more caring. This is especially true with the film’s main hero, a loyal general played by the greatest action star of them all, Toshiro Mifune. imageStrong, determined, and graceful as a big cat (and just as deadly), he holds the camera whenever he’s onscreen. He uses his wits more than his sword on this journey–smuggling the princess and a fortune in gold out of enemy territory. But when violence is called for, he’s in complete control. In one sequence he furiously gallops a horse at full speed, with both hands holding his sword aloft for action. In a theater with a good audience, that scene never fails to bring cheers.

Overall, The Hidden Fortress is more suspense than action. The main characters–growing from two to five over the course of the story–must sneak passed checkpoints, disappear into crowds, and go unnoticed by soldiers looking for them…as they contend with their own conflicting motives.

For more on The Hidden Fortress, see Kurosawa Diary, Part 15: The Hidden Fortress.

First Impression

imageCriterion packages The Hidden Fortress in the company’s standard-sized transparent plastic box, with an illustration of Princess Yuki on the cover.

Inside, on the left, you’ll find a small booklet, taken up mostly with an article by Catherine Russell called “Three Good Men and a Princess.” The booklet also includes a few paragraphs on the transfer, and other information on the Blu-ray release.

On the right side, a Blu-ray disc and DVD are stacked together. You have to remove the Blu-ray to get to the DVD. Within the limits of the format, they contain the same content.

How It Looks

The Hidden Fortress was the first of six consecutive films Kurosawa shot in Toho Studio’s Cinemascope clone, TohoScope. (These six were also his last black and white films.) Kurosawa and cinematographer Ichio Yamazeki were clearly having fun with the new, wide frame. They place the two arguing peasants on opposite sides of the screen. Or they line all four or five main characters together. They’re enjoying the new toy and binging us in for the fun.

But they’re also using it to tell the story and create location. the wide screen emphasizes the setting, and The Hidden Fortress used it to bring us the deserts, forests, and river crossings that make the story so compelling. Apparently, no one told them that shooting deep focus was impossible with the anamorphic scope lens, so they went ahead and did it over and over.

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Criterion’s 2K transfer is very good, but not exceptional. Details are sharp and clear most of the time, but occasionally they’re soft. Contrast is acceptable.

How It Sounds

The Hidden Fortress was originally released in Perspecta Stereo–sometimes called Perspecta Sound because it wasn’t real stereo. It was a standard mono optical soundtrack with sub-audio cues that could turn each of the three front speakers on and off. In other words, you could have different sounds coming out of different speakers at different times, but not different sounds coming out of different speakers at the same time.

Most theatrical audiences, in Japan, the US, and elsewhere, have only heard it in mono.

This release contains both mono and restored Perspecta versions. On the Blu-ray, the mono version is presented in uncompressed PCM; the Perspecta in lossless DTS-HD Master Audio. I listened to the opening credits music in both versions, and preferred the Perspecta, which sounded fuller and more impressive.

As near as I can tell, Kurosawa used the Perspecta’s fake stereo twice. In both cases, it was for an important sound effect off to the side.

Overall, the sound was very good for a Japanese film of this era.

And the Extras

  • Commentary by Stephen Prince: One of Prince’s best commentaries. He goes into depth about widescreen, Kurosawa’s use of short lenses as well as the long ones he’s associated with, the film’s influence on not only George Lucas but also Sergio Leone, John Ford’s influence on the film, and the themes and moral view of what’s clearly Kurosawa’s least moralistic movie. This is a new commentary recorded in 2013.
  • Akira Kurosawa: It is Wonderful to Create: 40 minutes. Just about every Criterion Kurosawa release has the appropriate episode from this 2003 Japanese documentary mini-series. This episode has little about the story and the use of widescreen. But it has some amusing stories about horses.
  • George Lucas on Akira Kurosawa: 8 minutes. The creator of Star Wars, who turned the two comic peasants of The Hidden Fortress into C3PO and R2D2, talks about how he discovered Kurosawa in college, his use of the camera, and, of course, the influence on his work. From the earlier DVD release.
  • Trailer

The Hidden Fortress Blu-ray goes on sale today.

Kurosawa Diary, Part 30: Madadayo

And so I come to Akira Kurosawa’s last film, made five years before he died. When I watched Madadayo last night at the Pacific Film Archive, I completed my journey through all of Kurosawa’s works in (mostly) chronological order. That same screening also ended the PFA’s own, non-chronological retrospective of the same 30 films.

Madadayo never received a regular theatrical release in the United States. I saw it on DVD about 10 years ago. Last night was my second viewing of it, and my first theatrically.

A few days ago, I described Kurosawa’s penultimate film, Rhapsody in August, as “pleasant.” But compared to its successor, it’s more like King Lear (or Ran). Madadayo is so relentlessly  upbeat it seldom rises above the banal. The story (and that’s way too strong a word to describe what unfolds onscreen) concerns a beloved professor who retires early to pursue a writing career. He turns 60 not long after his retirement in 1943, and the movie ends on his 77th birthday. Despite being bombed out of his home, his life between these events are extraordinarily uneventful.

Much of the film involves social calls from former students, especially four madadayo particularly close ones who appear to devote their lives to their old professor’s happiness (his wife is equally devoted). They organize annual banquets in his honor. They buy undeveloped land adjoining his house to make sure that nothing blocks the sunlight. They take time off work to help him find his cat.

Yes, Madadayo is so bereft of conflict that it devotes a full half hour to a search for a missing cat. Everyone–local schoolchildren, shop owners, the cop on the beat—get involved with the search. After all, what could be more important than finding this old couple’s cat? And the whole cat sequence ends on an anti-climax.

When they aren’t looking for missing cats, the former students enjoy their old professor’s witty comments and his clever/cute ways of discouraging miscreants. These often are witty and clever, but they never justify the oversized belly laughs of the characters onscreen. Kurosawa seems obliged to tell the audience “This is really, really funny” when something is, in fact, only mildly amusing.

It’s easy to view Madadayo as being indirectly autobiographical. Kurosawa was an old artist, beloved by much of the world, when he made this movie about an old professor, beloved by his former students. (The film is based on the memoirs of professor-turned-author Hyakken Uchida.) The protagonist is a ripe 77 when the movie ends; this was the third film Kurosawa completed after turning that age.

One wants a great artistic career to end with a masterpiece, but they seldom do. Akira Kurosawa made an astonishing number of masterpieces and near-masterpieces in his 50 years of filmmaking. But he ended his career with a movie as bland as unseasoned white rice.

Kurosawa Diary, Part 29: Rhapsody in August

Little actually happens in Akira Kurosawa’s 29th and penultimate film, Rhapsody in August, and nothing really bad. Something horrendous happened 45 years earlier (the atom bombing of Nagasaki), but that’s ancient history. It’s time for Japan and America to forgive and, if not forget, then to honor the memory together. Six years after the devastatingly pessimistic Ran, Kurosawa made an optimistic movie that can best be described as “pleasant.”

I first saw Rhapsody during it’s American first run. I saw it for the second time last night at the Pacific Film Archive. Yes, this was another screening in the PFA’s Akira Kurosawa Centennial series, and part of my personal project of watching all of his films in chronological order.

Rhapsody came out in 1991. That’s significant because his previous film, Dreams, came out in 1990. The last time Kurosawa released new films in consecutive years (a once common occurrence)  had been Sanjuro and High and Low in 1962/63.

Perhaps he got this one done quickly because his modest intentions made it easier to finance and shoot the picture. It’s a chamber piece, set in the present day, with a small cast and few settings. The photography—so beautiful in his last four films—here seldom rises above functional. The picture runs only 98 minutes—extremely short for Kurosawa.

But modest intentions bring modest results. Rhapsody in August is a fine motion rhapsodyaugust picture that does everything Kurosawa probably wanted it to do. It makes its points about familial love, healing, forgiveness, and the horrors of war without ever feeling didactic. Watching it is a sweet and enjoyable experience. But no one should mistake it for a masterpiece.

The story focuses on four teenagers—all siblings and first cousins—spending the summer with their grandmother in her rural home near Nagasaki. Long ago, her husband (the kids’ grandfather) had been incinerated in the blast. The kids’ parents are in Hawaii, visiting a uncle who immigrated long ago, made a fortune in the pineapple business, married a Caucasian, and became an American.

The first half simply observes the teenagers and their loving-but-teasing relationships with each other and their grandmother. It includes a tour of important Nagasaki sites—a way to introduce us to a modern city with memorials to one horrific event within living memory.

In the second half, the parents return, bringing generational conflict with them. Their interest in long-lost relatives are mercenary—they hope the connection will lead to better jobs. And they’re terrified of offending their American cousins with any reminder of the war and especially the atom bomb. These attitudes offend both the teenagers and the grandmother.

The parents come as close to villains as does anyone in Rhapsody, which means they’re not villains, at all. They learn from and apologize for their mistakes. One thing I noticed on this second viewing: The parents are dressed in formal business attire when we meet them. They dress more casually as the story progresses, until they end up in tee-shirts and jeans like their kids.

Near the end, the Hawaiian uncle’s half-white son turns up for a visit. He’s played by Richard Gere—the only time Kurosawa ever used an American movie star (if you don’t count Martin Scorsese in Dreams). The make-up department did little or nothing to make Gere look half-Japanese. I think I noticed the slightest alternation in the shape of his eyes. But even in close-ups, and with me in the second row, I can’t be certain. He certainly looked whiter than any of the half-white/half-Asian people I’ve known.

His character, of course, is a very nice guy. Everyone in this movie is very nice.

In his classic period, Kurosawa showed us a world full of cruelty and indifference, and celebrated those who fought it with kindness and charity. In later works, especially Ran, the world is just as bad, but kindness and charity no longer help. But in Rhapsody, bad things happened long ago, but kindness and charity are bringing us together.

Maybe he was getting optimistic in his old age. Or maybe just senile. But at the age of 81, he could still make a good movie.

Kurosawa Diary, Part 28: Dreams

Warner Brothers called this film Akira Kurosawa’s Dreams when they released it in 1990. The name is appropriate, and not only because Kurosawa wrote and directed the film. The eight vignettes that make up his only anthology feature are, allegedly, based on Kurosawa’s own dreams.

I was recovering from a herniated disc, and under doctor’s orders to avoid sitting, throughout Dreams’ short theatrical run in 1990. I therefore first saw it on Laserdisc, soon after its video release. I watched it for the second time, on a rented DVD, last night as part of my project to watch all of Kurosawa’s films in the order they were made. I’ve never seen it theatrically.

Anthology films—features that lack a narrative drive and tell multiple stories one after the other—usually suffer from inconsistencies. Some sections may be good, and some bad. In Dreams, however, the bad far outweigh the good. I mean that in two ways: It contains more bad sequences than good ones, and while the worst parts are truly wretched, the best are merely pretty good.

It starts with a pretty good one, “Sunshine Through the Rain,” about a boy who sneaks into the woods and watches a fox wedding—something forbidden to humans. Hedreams then must face the consequences. But the story cuts off way too soon, like a movie with the last two reels missing. The best sequence, “Mount Fuji in Red,” starts like a Godzilla movie, with terrified crowds fleeing special effects. A nuclear power plant has exploded, and all of Japan will soon die of radiation poisoning. A businessman, a mother clinging to her child, and the young-man Kurosawa alter ego who’s basically the film’s star discuss what to do as death approaches.

The remaining six stories range from the agonizingly boring to the annoyingly preachy to the unintentionally funny. Leading that last category is “Crows.” The sight and sound of Martin Scorsese as Vincent Van Gogh, complete with red wig and beard, but speaking English in his own New York accent, deserves the Mystery Science Theater treatment.

I said earlier that these films are “allegedly” based on Kurosawa’s dreams. Dreams can be a lot of things, but they’re seldom preachy. Most of the stories here are didactic little message pictures that tell you exactly what you should think and feel about the subject at hand. With one exception (the anti-war “The Tunnel”), they all examine humanity’s relationship with nature. That’s an important subject, but preaching doesn’t help.

This was the first film since The Men Who Tread on the Tiger’s Tail that Kurosawa wrote and directed all by himself. He was one of several screenwriters on each of the 23 films made in-between, which include all of his masterpieces. Maybe he needed other people’s contributions at that early stage to avoid his worst excesses.

One thing Dreams has going for it: Like the three films that preceded it, it’s visually beautiful. Takao Saitô’s and Shôji Ueda’s photography, much of it of an enhanced version of the natural world, is just stunning to look at. And it’s complimented by Industrial Light and Magic’s special effects, done at the height of that company’s pre-digital golden age.

But all that beauty is at the service of an uneven, preachy film.

Kurosawa Diary, Part 27: Ran

I doubt anyone else ever made a movie as sad, as tragic, as despairing of the human condition, and yet so beautiful as Akira Kurosawa’s Ran. To give yourself over to it is to experience, in your gut, that many people are capable of unspeakable evil, that these people tend to come out on top, and that while these people inevitably pay the price for their ambitions, so do countless innocents. And kindness and charity—those all-important themes from Kurosawa’s classic period—are futile.

I first saw Ran when it opened in Bay Area theaters in 1985 or 86. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen it, since. I own the DVD. Yet when I watched a beautiful new print at the Pacific Film Archive last night (part of its mammoth Akira Kurosawa Centennial series), I felt like I was watching it for the first time. I attending the screening, of course, as part of my project to see all of Kurosawa’s films in the order he made them.

Like it’s predecessor, Kagemusha, Ran is a big, expensive, visually stunning epic, filled with pageantry, action (considerably more than Kagemusha), gruesome violence, and some of the most beautiful images ever caught on film. But unlike ramKagemusha, Ran makes you care about the people in its story—even the ones (and there are plenty) guilty of horrific crimes.

Kurosawa based Ran loosely on King Lear—easily Shakespeare’s saddest play. An aging warlord (Tatsuya Nakadai) attempts to retire, intending to divide his domains amongst his three sons. But when the younger son gives him good advice instead of flattery, the old man disinherits him. The results are disastrous. (The word Ran loosely translates into English as chaos.)

Although Kurosawa changed the heirs’ genders, he echos Lear’s daughters in the warlord’s daughters-in-law. His eldest son’s wife is as evil as Goneril and Regan put together (with Lady Macbeth thrown in), and makes for one of the greatest villainesses ever. The middle son’s wife, a religious Buddhist, is as loving and forgiving as Cordelia, despite having considerably more to forgive. Both wives come from families that were slaughtered by the now-retiring warlord back when he wasn’t looking for retirement, but for ways to conquer and massacre  his neighbors.

Here Kurosawa truly transcends Shakespeare. We’re told nothing about how Lear ruled Britain; his tragic flaw is simply an old man’s weakness for flattery. But Nakadai’s warlord has a history of aggression and deceit so cruel that even the evil daughter-in-law’s actions seem understandable if not justified. Before the film is over, the Lear character will come face-to-face with his horrible past in a devastating realization.

Midway through Ran, Kurosawa gives us one of the biggest, most powerful battle scenes ever filmed. Massive in scale and shocking in its brutality, it is neither fun, suspenseful, nor exciting. But its images–including one of a soldier, in shock, holding his severed arm with the one still attached to his body–are not easy to forget.

Kurosawa’s humanism, which disappeared in Kagemusha, comes back full-force with Ran. But it’s the humanism of despair. People suffer, and whether they deserve it or not, we must share their pain and extend our empathy. But nothing—nothing at all—can relieve that suffering.

Akira Kurosawa in 75 years old when Ran opened. It was only his fourth film in 20 years. One can’t help wondering if the experience of those years—rejection from the Japanese film industry he’d once conquered, spending more time trying to raise money and less making films—effected his world view. Like Lear, he’d lost what he had once ruled.

Ran was his last epic, his last big-budget film, and his last samurai movie set in pre-modern Japan. In my opinion, and in many others’, it was also his last masterpiece. He would make three other films, but they would be modest works in budget, ambition, and quality.

Note: This post was corrected on 9/7/10. My thanks to Art Rothstein for pointing out that I had misspelled Kagemusha.

Kurosawa Diary, Part 26: Kagemusha

When I started my project of watching every Kurosawa film in the order they were made, the first question I asked myself was “Even Kagemusha?” It wasn’t that his big Coppola-and-Lucas spectacle was his worst film (it isn’t). But unlike the other bad ones I’d seen, I had revisited this one on DVD—seeing the full cut for the first time—only a few years ago. The boredom remained in my memory.

Like most young men in the spring of 1980, I eagerly awaited the release of The Empire Strikes Back. But I awaited the release of Kagemusha even more. Empire didn’t disappoint, but Kagemusha did. I caught it at a revival screening a couple of years later to see if I had missed something. I hadn’t. More than 20 years later, I rented the Criterion DVD, hoping that Kurosawa’s full cut of the film would improve it. (The original American release had about 20 minutes cut out.) It didn’t. I watched it again last night, on a rented Blu-ray disc. I still don’t like it.

So what’s the problem with this film? After all, it’s visually gorgeous, filled with one beautiful image after another. It’s a vast historical epic (a favorite genre of mine) dramatizing a major turning point in Japanese history. Its story of a common thief masquerading as a great warlord, at the bidding of the deceased warlord’s family, offers plenty of opportunity for Kurosawa’s sense of tragedy, comedy, and humanism.

But , Kagemusha is dead at its core. Kurosawa’s great humanism has disappeared kagamushaalmost entirely, replaced instead with pageantry and spectacle. Yes, Throne of Blood has a similar flaw, but nowhere near to this degree. And the earlier film’s fast pace, dynamic action, and strong underlying story hold it together. Not this time. Kagemusha is Kurosawa’s first really bad film since The Idiot, made 29 years beforehand. And even his weakest films from those 29 years (including Throne of Blood) had been very, very good.

Kurosawa focused on the wrong part of Kagemusha’s story. Instead of staying with this commoner forced to behave like a king, he keeps his camera on the real aristocrats—high-borne members of the warlord’s family, plus those leading the clans at war with his. He gives us three groups of cruelly ambitious men with massive entitlement issues, and we’re supposed to care about which side wins?

This is easily Kurosawa’s most conservative post-war film (during the war he had contend with fascist censors). The clan leaders can kill as many innocent people as they like because that is their right. Commoners are there to serve. The film’s point-of-view never questions or criticizes these assumptions.

Which brings us to the thief. In the first scene, he expresses a very reasonable view—that his crimes pale compared to those of the warlord. But later, after he has been set free, he comes back on his own to serve his dead lord. Where did that loyalty come from? Nothing has indicated that as part of his character. Nor can it be called story convenience; the nobles could easily have forced his cooperation. It appears to come only from Kurosawa’s celebration—in this film only—of respect for manor-borne authority figures.

Much has been said about the casting of the lead role. Kurosawa originally cast Shintaro Katsu, best known as the original Zatoichi, but fired him on the first day of shooting. Tatsuya Nakadai was a last-minute replacement in the dual role of the warlord and the thief. Perhaps Katsu, or Toshiro Mifune, would have been a better choice than Nakadai—a talented actor but one with little warmth or humor.

But another lead would not have saved Kagemusha. Kurosawa made a three-hour film fixated on military pageantry and aristocrat worship. Somehow, he left out most of the humanity.

Three other points of interest:

With all of his samurai films, this was the second (after The Men Who Tread on the Tiger’s Tail) and last to deal with major, Japanese historical figures. The three warring lords at the center of Kagemusha really existed, and in the late 16th century really fought for control of the splintered country. The eventual victor, Ieyasu Tokugawa, would create a dynasty that ruled Japan for nearly three centures.

This was Kurosawa’s first film financed and released (outside of Japan) by a major American studio [correction made 8/25; I originally said only rather than first]. 20th Century Fox took on this responsibility because George Lucas and Francis Coppola agreed to put their names on it as executive producers. The discussion that led to this deal started at a 1978 party put together by the Pacific Film Archive. I was volunteering that summer at the PFA, and I wrote the press release announcing the agreement.

My favorite regular Kurosawa actor, Takashi Shimura, turns up in a brief part. It was his first appearance in a Kurosawa film since Red Beard, 15 years earlier. (Of course, Kurosawa only made two other films in those 15 years, and one wasn’t Japanese.) Thye actor didn’t live long enough to appear in Kurosawa’s next film, Ran.

Note: This post was corrected on 9/7/10. My thanks to Art Rothstein for pointing out that I had misspelled Kagemusha.

Kurosawa Diary, Part 25: Dersu Uzala

Akira Kurosawa’s 25th film, Dersu Uzala, sits alone amongst his other work. It’s his only film not set and shot in Japan and without Japanese actors or dialog. It’s the only one shot in a large format—Sovscope 70, the Russian equivalent of Todd-AO and Super Panavision 70. And it won him his only Best Foreign Film Academy Award.

And it was the first Kurosawa film I saw in first run. (Well, American first run, which came nearly two years after playing the American festival circuit.) I first saw it at the Surf Theater, and much as I loved the movie, I kept thinking about how much better it would look on the giant screen of the UC (memories of dead theaters!), the place where I eventually saw it I don’t remember how many times. Like Lawrence of Arabia and 2001, I consider Dersu Uzala an exclusively big-screen experience–not appropriate for television (although I’m willing to reconsider if a really good Blu-ray version comes out). When I saw it three years ago in New York, it was the first time in years.

Last night, as part of my project of watching all of Kurosawa’s films in chronological order, I caught it last night at the Pacific Film Archive. It was part of their mammoth Akira Kurosawa Centennial series.

Set in the early 20th century and based on a true story, Dersu Uzala examines the dersuuzalafriendship of two men from very different worlds—a cartographer in the Czarist army exploring a remote part of Siberia, and an indigenous hunter he hires as a guide. The hunter, Dersu Uzala, at first seems odd, quaint, and superstitious. Captain Arsenyev and his men (mostly the men) find him amusing. But his skills, knowledge, and basic humanity soon win them over.

Judged solely on the film’s first half (or maybe even first two thirds), this is Kurosawa’s most upbeat picture. People are challenged and even threatened by a harsh natural environment, but they treat other human beings with kindness and compassion. And even that harsh natural environment is gorgeous to look at (this is easily Kurosawa’s most beautiful film), and its dangers can always be overcome by knowledge, quick thinking, and hard work.

But the picture turns dark in the second half. A confrontation with unseen bandits brings human cruelty into the forest. That sequence, which ends rather anti-climatically, is just a taste. The real problems come with a far more mundane threat: old age. It’s tough enough on all of us, but for a man who lives by himself in the forest, it’s a threat on a whole different level.

Near the end, this film brimming with beautiful nature photography, contains one of the saddest images in film: An old man, sitting on the floor, starring through the grate of a wood-burning furnace, watching what little he can see of the flames within.

Old age appears to be hurting the film Dersu Uzala as well. The print the PFA screened, probably the same one I saw in New York, is in sorry condition. And yet, I’ve been told, it’s the best print in North America. Someone has got to restore this film before it’s too late.

I’ll be finishing this Kurosawa project very quickly, seeing the remaining five films in 11 days. This speed-up will allow me to catch as many of them as possible (three, actually) at the PFA.

Kurosawa Diary, Part 24: Dodes’ka-den

Akira Kurosawa’s first color film, Dodes’ka-den, bursts with vibrant hues like a Technicolor musical. Yet it is arguably his most depressing work. A commercial flop when initially released (its failure so upset the director he attempted suicide), it has never gained a classic reputation. That’s too bad, because it deserves one.

I rediscovered Dodes’ka-den last night at the Pacific Film Archive, where it was screened as part of their summer-long Akira Kurosawa Centennial series. I had seen it twice before—in the late ‘70s at the Roxie and in the early ‘80s, also at the PFA. It was high-time I revisited it.

(Speaking of Dodes’ka-den and the PFA, it was the first film the Archive ever screened, back in 1971. Craig Valenza ran the projectors back then, and as the PFA’s head projectionist, still did it last night. Read this interview with him if you’re curious.)

Five years before Nashville, Kurosawa invented the art-house genre forever associated with Robert Altman: a collage of interweaving stories, set in the same general location, with the characters occasionally connectiing. And I doubt that anyone ever did it better.

Kurosawa set Dodes’ka-den (his first film in five years, and his last one for another five) in a slum—almost a shantytown. The houses look rickety and thrown together. There’s no running water except a single outdoor spigot where women gather to wash their clothes and gossip (providing something of a Greek chorus). He built the exterior set in a city dump, turning it into an island of squalor in a sea of trash.

The stories he sets in these locations, like those in Red Beard, illustrate the grinding, dodeskaden physical and moral decay of poverty. A drunk abuses his overworked teenage niece. A blind man refuses to speak to anyone, including the former lover coming to beg forgiveness. An amiable man tries to pretend he doesn’t know that his wife constantly cheats and that his children are not really his. A homeless man and his young son live out of the dead shell of an automobile, and talk about the beautiful house they will build.

But unlike Red Beard, charity does little help, and occasional harm. One act of charity leads to the recipient’s death. Another good soul, acting out of kindness and concern, gets stabbed for his efforts. (No wonder this wasn’t a commercial success.)

Yet there are touches of humor and useful kindness, most coming from an elderly engraver who helps his neighbors in small, clever, and often funny ways. And there are the two habitually drunken workers whose long-suffering wives trade husbands. (Alcohol and sex appear to be the main ways these people cope with their misery.)

And tying it all together is the “trolley freak,” a mentally-disabled boy who thinks he’s a trolley car conductor, and spends his days driving his imaginary streetcar through the neighborhood saying “dodes’ka-den, dodes’ka-den, dodes’ka-den” (roughly translated as “clickity-clack”).

There’s a joke about Charlie Chaplin: He fought talkies longer than anyone else, but when he finally accepted them, he wouldn’t shut up. The same applies to Kurosawa and color. Dodes’ka-den pops with bold, vibrant colors that often become surreal and expressionistic. The result makes this depressing subject matter visually beautiful. (Kurosawa studied painting before he became a filmmaker.) The music track also seems meant for a happier film.

Others disagree, but to my mind, the joyful colors and music increase the sense of stark hopelessness by suggesting that life should be better. And the technique isn’t always happy. Kurosawa exaggerates the color of a sick man’s face, and the result isn’t pretty. And the music is used sparingly.

I hadn’t remembered just how good Dodes’ka-den is. This really is another Kurosawa masterpiece.

Kurosawa Diary, Part 23: Transition

With the release of Red Beard, we come to an important turning point in Kurosawa’s career, although not one that he was aware of at the time. From here on in, he would make fewer, and far more somber, motion pictures.

Counting years, his career was less than half over. He had been making movies for 22 years when he completed Red Beard, and it would be another 28 before finishing his last film, Madadayo. But counting films, he was nearing the end. He directed 23 films in those 22 years; he would make only seven in the remaining 28.

He spent the late 1960s working on two Hollywood projects that failed to pan out—at least for Kurosawa. When he was fired from the last of these, Tora, Tora, Tora, he returned to a very different Japanese film industry, one that was reluctant to invest in Kurosawa’s famously huge budgets. From here on in, he would spend more time trying to raise money for films—often from non-Japanese sources–than he spent actually making them.

So its not surprising that his later films are darker, more pessimistic than those of what I consider his “classic” period (Ikiru through Red Beard). Kurosawa’s universe is still cruel and indifferent, but now, charitable acts don’t help.

He also lost collaborators, the most important of which was Toshiro Mifune. No one really knows why Kurosawa stopped casting the actor he had turned into Japan’s biggest movie star.

There are other differences, the most obvious being color. With the exception of two short shots in High and Low, everything he made up until that time had been in black and white. Now he was shooting in color. Sometimes he used it effectively, but all too often he used it garishly. As a whole, his color work lacks the sharp-edged, urgent intimacy of his black and white.

And finally, he lost quality. He made eleven films in the previous 13 years, and these ranged from very good to amongst the greatest ever made. Of his seven later films, only Ran and perhaps Dersu Usala hold up against those eleven.

There’s another change, concerning not Kurosawa or the films, themselves, but how I will view them for this project. In August, the Pacific Film Archive will screen Kurosawa’s last seven films in something close to the order they were made. I’ll therefore be able to see most of them on the big screen.

Kurosawa Diary, Part 22: Red Beard

We live in a cruel and indifferent universe, so we must act with kindness and charity. That’s the dominant theme of Akira Kurosawa’s works. But that theme was never stated as clearly, as forcefully, or as didactically as in Red Beard, the final work of Kurosawa’s most productive and artistically successful period.

I don’t remember how often I’ve seen Red Beard. I remember seeing it for the first time at Wheeler Auditorium, probably in the late 1970’s. I saw it at least one other time theatrically, at the UC Theater. My wife bought me the Criterion DVD soon after it was released. I revisited that DVD last night, as part of my project of watching all of Kurosawa’s films in chronological order.

A sprawling, three-hour epic, Red Beard was Kurosawa’s most ambitious film since Seven Samurai. But unlike the previous epic, this one can in no way be considered an action film. There’s one fight scene, played for cheers and laughs, just before the intermission. Kurosawa wasn’t interested in swordplay here, but in the grinding, sickening, dehumanizing effects of poverty.

Yet the film was a hit when it opened in Japan in 1965. Kurosawa was a commercial filmmaker, and it’s hard to think of another of his films with a more unambiguously happy ending.

Set in the mid-19th century, Red Beard concerns itself with the staff and patients at aredbeard medical clinic serving those at the low end of the economic spectrum. Toshiro Mifune plays the title character, the gruff but idealistic doctor who runs the clinic. This is a man who’s not above blackmailing a government official to keep his little hospital alive or even to help an individual patient, but who then feels guilty for doing so.

We get to know the clinic and its leader through the eyes of a young, proud doctor assigned to work there as an intern (Yûzô Kayama). With a planned career path that includes becoming the Shogun’s personal physician, the last thing this man wants is to waste time at a charity hospital (he arrives thinking he’s just making a social call). You can probably guess his character arc; as I said, Kurosawa was a commercial filmmaker.

Along the way, we meet a great many people living in the clinic’s sphere, including another young doctor, women doing the clinic’s manual labor, and assorted patients. A happy life seems nearly impossible for the later—life itself is a constant struggle and insult. The only true happiness comes from helping others, and embracing that particular struggle.

Red Beard was Kurosawa’s last film with actor/movie star Toshiro Mifune, ending a collaboration that started 17 years and 15 films earlier with Drunken Angel. Both films were about a charitable doctor working in a slum clinic, and the effect that doctor has on a less-altruistic young man. In Drunken Angel, Mifune played the young man; in Red Beard, he was the doctor. Their work together had come full circle.

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