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 here at LNTAM, 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.
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Walking Kurosawa's Road. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Walking Kurosawa's Road. Sort by date Show all posts
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Walking Kurosawa's Road: Sanshiro Sugata
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.
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Thursday, May 3, 2012
Walking Kurosawa's Road: The Most Beautiful
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."
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."
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Walking Kurosawa's Road: The Men Who Tread on the Tiger's Tail
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 Men Who Tread On the Tiger's Tail (aka 虎の尾を踏む男達 aka "Tora no o wo fumu otokotachi?") (Akira Kurosawa, 1945) Set-bound tale of a feudal lord's attempt to make it back to friendly territory after a successful naval campaign against his enemies. But, to get there, Lord Yashitsune Minamoto (Hanshirô Iwai) must travel through land controlled by one of his enemies, Togashi (Susumu Fujita), who is on the lookout for him and will kill him if he is found. To get through, he poses as a porter, accompanied by six samurai, led by Beiko (Denjirô Ôkôchi), acting as monks on a religious pilgrimage to raise funds for a temple to be built in Kyoto.
It's a tale of suspense, with very little action, save for the subterfuges, disguise, flummery, and appeals to Kataoka's patriotism and faith (which are legitimate but used for false purposes), knowing that any slip-ups will mean death by sword by a very large collection of border guards. So, in other words, all of the heroes are lying and using the best instincts of their foe against him. Hardly the high-minded ideals one associates with dedication to country or God. In fact, the only of the group that isn't decidedly two-faced is the comic relief, another porter (played by Kenichi Enomoto), who could be Japan's answer to Jerry Lewis in his early career, whose frequent panic attacks could give it all away at any second. You'd want to strangle Enomoto's porter, if he wasn't so entertaining and a tonic against the heavy earnestness of the rest of the movie.
The film was made during the last days of the Pacific War during World War II, which is why the only segment filmed on location is the forest scenes at the beginning. The rest was filmed at Toho Studios and filming was briefly interrupted to listen to Hirohito's surrender speech ending hostilities. Toho and Kurosawa were visited by John Ford during the filming, and one of the first people to see The Men Who Tread on the Tiger's Tail upon completion was British director Michael Powell. However, the film was banned by the Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers (led by General MacArthur) for its depictions of feudalism (in the attempt to make the Japanese less tied to their heritage and more embracing of American culture), but if they'd taken a more careful look at the film, they'd find that it was making a statement against the very cultural fanaticism the SCAP was trying to prevent. Oh, well. The result was that the film was banned until 1952.
One can't help but think that this might have had an influence in his next two films, where the war's ending and the Allied occupation of Japan played very important roles.
The Men Who Tread On the Tiger's Tail (aka 虎の尾を踏む男達 aka "Tora no o wo fumu otokotachi?") (Akira Kurosawa, 1945) Set-bound tale of a feudal lord's attempt to make it back to friendly territory after a successful naval campaign against his enemies. But, to get there, Lord Yashitsune Minamoto (Hanshirô Iwai) must travel through land controlled by one of his enemies, Togashi (Susumu Fujita), who is on the lookout for him and will kill him if he is found. To get through, he poses as a porter, accompanied by six samurai, led by Beiko (Denjirô Ôkôchi), acting as monks on a religious pilgrimage to raise funds for a temple to be built in Kyoto.
It's a tale of suspense, with very little action, save for the subterfuges, disguise, flummery, and appeals to Kataoka's patriotism and faith (which are legitimate but used for false purposes), knowing that any slip-ups will mean death by sword by a very large collection of border guards. So, in other words, all of the heroes are lying and using the best instincts of their foe against him. Hardly the high-minded ideals one associates with dedication to country or God. In fact, the only of the group that isn't decidedly two-faced is the comic relief, another porter (played by Kenichi Enomoto), who could be Japan's answer to Jerry Lewis in his early career, whose frequent panic attacks could give it all away at any second. You'd want to strangle Enomoto's porter, if he wasn't so entertaining and a tonic against the heavy earnestness of the rest of the movie.
The film was made during the last days of the Pacific War during World War II, which is why the only segment filmed on location is the forest scenes at the beginning. The rest was filmed at Toho Studios and filming was briefly interrupted to listen to Hirohito's surrender speech ending hostilities. Toho and Kurosawa were visited by John Ford during the filming, and one of the first people to see The Men Who Tread on the Tiger's Tail upon completion was British director Michael Powell. However, the film was banned by the Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers (led by General MacArthur) for its depictions of feudalism (in the attempt to make the Japanese less tied to their heritage and more embracing of American culture), but if they'd taken a more careful look at the film, they'd find that it was making a statement against the very cultural fanaticism the SCAP was trying to prevent. Oh, well. The result was that the film was banned until 1952.
One can't help but think that this might have had an influence in his next two films, where the war's ending and the Allied occupation of Japan played very important roles.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Walking Kurosawa's Road: Sanshiro Sugata Part 2
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 Part 2 (Akira Kurosawa, 1945) Any director thinking that "they don't do sequels," should bear in mind that Kurosawa did one...with only his third feature film. Before embarking on his next project, the soon-to-be Japanese Master was pressed by his financiers to follow up his popular judo film with a continuation of the story, following the path of Sanshiro, now two years in self-imposed exile, having abandoned his position as Judo champion.
Things have changed, but he hasn't. The city he comes back to is now under occupation, and the disciplines that Sanshiro struggled so mightily to learn, seem to have little significance in this new atmosphere.
Returning home, his acclaim is widespread, but he's dissatisfied. A promoter tries to entice him into participating in a match with an American heavyweight champion for money, something both against the rules of Sanshiro's dojo and his own hard-fought-for beliefs, He attends, however, and is disgusted when the martial artist roped into the match is summarily pummelled before the crowd of blood-thirsty Americans and Japanese.
Things had changed for Japan, as well. Defeated in World War II, and occupied by the United States, the country that Kurosawa made the sequel in was far different from the one in which he'd made the original. And one can tell by the very first sequence, he bristled at it (despite the fact that the first film, made during the war, was chopped up by Japan's ministry, to the point where no original print exists). Imagine my shock when the first words heard in this film are in English. They come from a belligerent American sailor hectoring, then threatening his rickshaw-driver—the abuse comes in a different language, but the opening is parallel to the situation in the first film, only now it's Sanshiro who comes to the aid of the driver, in the position (flat on his back) that he was in at the beginning of the first film, before his transformation.
He retreats to his Master's dojo, but sinks into a deep depression while, simultaneously, training that young rickshaw driver he'd earlier saved. His disciplines start to fall away, as he begins to drink, his fortunes falling as his young student's rises. The dojo provides no respite and relief—he is challenged to a fight by a tag-team of brothers, the Higaki's (also brothers to Gennosuki Higaki, the previous film's final combatant), one extremely aggressive and the other, deeply insane, to exact revenge on their fallen kin. He also reunites (discretely) with the woman who loves him, and with Gennosuki, who is now in ill health and seeks a reconciliation before he dies, a far cry from his brothers' path of vengeance.
The battles Sanshiro must fight—and avoids fighting—are much like the battles raging in his own mind. With his fame, and abilities still intact, he is caught in a dilemma of purpose—should he fight with the stakes becoming decreasingly honorable? And how long can he maintain his reputation while avoiding confrontation (and does he even want that reputation—with its incumbent honor—anymore, given how cheaply and shallow the value others impose on it are? Is his reputation worth it in such a world? And will the matches with his own demons (represented by the brothers) keep him from maintaining his own "wa?"
It's a universal problem negotiating the minefields, internal and external, that dot our lives. But, there's something else going on here, given the context and the environment in which Kurosawa made this film. This was his first post-war film after the Japanese surrender (Kurosawa paused in the filming of The Men Who Tread on the Tiger's Tail in order to listen to Emperor Hirohito's "Gyokuon-hōsō") and for the nation this was a crushing, demoralizing defeat, especially given the fervor that the government had invested in its people.
How does a nation, especially one so steeped in tradition and pride, endure after such a concession? Kurosawa encapsulates the answer in the fighting brothers who have challenged Sanshiro, one incapacitated by an epileptic "spell," the other who fights the master on a hilltop—not of frantic wind-swept grass as the first film—but a precipice blasted by snow. After a long struggle, where Sanshiro is mostly passively defensive, the revenge seeking Higaki is defeated and sent tumbling down the hill. He is saved and tended to by Sanshiro, while under the baleful watch of the younger Higaki brother, who in a moment of clarity, understands Sanshiro's purpose and responds to his brother's lament with the same words...and a beaming smile.
The influence of the good, the dedicated, the humble, and the charitable perseveres in this world of defeat and cynicism. One could take the position for seeking revenge, but how much better it is to have grace—not curling up and dying, of course—and follow the better path, as this most popular of Japanese heroes, demonstrates.
This may be the greatest sequel in all of film. But more than that, it is a gift from an up-and-coming master filmmaker to his nation, at its most desperate hour, in gratitude for the opportunities he had been given, and providing balm, solace, and wisdom, to go on. It is an amazing film, inside of itself, and outside in the world in which it was made.
Sanshiro Sugata Part 2 (Akira Kurosawa, 1945) Any director thinking that "they don't do sequels," should bear in mind that Kurosawa did one...with only his third feature film. Before embarking on his next project, the soon-to-be Japanese Master was pressed by his financiers to follow up his popular judo film with a continuation of the story, following the path of Sanshiro, now two years in self-imposed exile, having abandoned his position as Judo champion.Things have changed, but he hasn't. The city he comes back to is now under occupation, and the disciplines that Sanshiro struggled so mightily to learn, seem to have little significance in this new atmosphere.
Returning home, his acclaim is widespread, but he's dissatisfied. A promoter tries to entice him into participating in a match with an American heavyweight champion for money, something both against the rules of Sanshiro's dojo and his own hard-fought-for beliefs, He attends, however, and is disgusted when the martial artist roped into the match is summarily pummelled before the crowd of blood-thirsty Americans and Japanese.
Things had changed for Japan, as well. Defeated in World War II, and occupied by the United States, the country that Kurosawa made the sequel in was far different from the one in which he'd made the original. And one can tell by the very first sequence, he bristled at it (despite the fact that the first film, made during the war, was chopped up by Japan's ministry, to the point where no original print exists). Imagine my shock when the first words heard in this film are in English. They come from a belligerent American sailor hectoring, then threatening his rickshaw-driver—the abuse comes in a different language, but the opening is parallel to the situation in the first film, only now it's Sanshiro who comes to the aid of the driver, in the position (flat on his back) that he was in at the beginning of the first film, before his transformation.
He retreats to his Master's dojo, but sinks into a deep depression while, simultaneously, training that young rickshaw driver he'd earlier saved. His disciplines start to fall away, as he begins to drink, his fortunes falling as his young student's rises. The dojo provides no respite and relief—he is challenged to a fight by a tag-team of brothers, the Higaki's (also brothers to Gennosuki Higaki, the previous film's final combatant), one extremely aggressive and the other, deeply insane, to exact revenge on their fallen kin. He also reunites (discretely) with the woman who loves him, and with Gennosuki, who is now in ill health and seeks a reconciliation before he dies, a far cry from his brothers' path of vengeance.
The battles Sanshiro must fight—and avoids fighting—are much like the battles raging in his own mind. With his fame, and abilities still intact, he is caught in a dilemma of purpose—should he fight with the stakes becoming decreasingly honorable? And how long can he maintain his reputation while avoiding confrontation (and does he even want that reputation—with its incumbent honor—anymore, given how cheaply and shallow the value others impose on it are? Is his reputation worth it in such a world? And will the matches with his own demons (represented by the brothers) keep him from maintaining his own "wa?"
It's a universal problem negotiating the minefields, internal and external, that dot our lives. But, there's something else going on here, given the context and the environment in which Kurosawa made this film. This was his first post-war film after the Japanese surrender (Kurosawa paused in the filming of The Men Who Tread on the Tiger's Tail in order to listen to Emperor Hirohito's "Gyokuon-hōsō") and for the nation this was a crushing, demoralizing defeat, especially given the fervor that the government had invested in its people.
How does a nation, especially one so steeped in tradition and pride, endure after such a concession? Kurosawa encapsulates the answer in the fighting brothers who have challenged Sanshiro, one incapacitated by an epileptic "spell," the other who fights the master on a hilltop—not of frantic wind-swept grass as the first film—but a precipice blasted by snow. After a long struggle, where Sanshiro is mostly passively defensive, the revenge seeking Higaki is defeated and sent tumbling down the hill. He is saved and tended to by Sanshiro, while under the baleful watch of the younger Higaki brother, who in a moment of clarity, understands Sanshiro's purpose and responds to his brother's lament with the same words...and a beaming smile.
This may be the greatest sequel in all of film. But more than that, it is a gift from an up-and-coming master filmmaker to his nation, at its most desperate hour, in gratitude for the opportunities he had been given, and providing balm, solace, and wisdom, to go on. It is an amazing film, inside of itself, and outside in the world in which it was made.
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