Silence

It is not easy to summarize Masahiro Shinoda's Silence (1971). In a way it's like Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal (1957) if it was set in the 17th century Japan. But that would be a misleading comparison for multiple reasons.

First of all, Silence is not expressionistic at all. Secondly, it is not only about the "silence of God" because Shinoda makes the most of Endo's original novel which criticizes Japan and organized religion as well as exploring a cultural conflict vividly. How does he do that? By telling a story of two Portuguese Catholic priests sneaking into Japan to guide the Japanese Christians in secret, which leads to a long and gruesome aftermath. One might wonder if Shinoda can keep it all together coherently within a single film. He surely manages to do that: the writing is surprisingly fluid in all aspects.

However, the form is not perfect. The jaw-dropping cinematography and powerful editing work well with Takemitsu's musical score, but there are a few irritating inconsistencies. The lighting is odd in the early scenes and the worst offender is the English dialogue. It is written well, but the British actors stumble with it terribly. And it doesn't help a lot when it hasn't even been recorded well. This is a problem when English is used for a third (if not more) of the entire dialogue of the film.

Silence could have become the ultimate clusterfuck of religion, culture and faith if it the glaring flaw had been polished to be less noticable.

Score: 9 out of 10

Samurai Rebellion

(image source)

Masaki Kobayashi's Samurai Rebellion (1967) is a spiritual sequel to Harakiri (1964): Kobayashi's critique of authority in a heavily dramatized form. After Isaburo (Toshiro Mifune) is forced to have his son marry a former mistress of a powerful lord the entire family discovers that the girl isn't as bad as her reputation suggests. Due to a grim turn of events Isaburo and his son decide to disobey the lord's newer orders even though it puts their family in danger.

Even though I would call Samurai Rebellion Kobayashi's bloody revenge story it doesn't involve a lot of action until the final third of the film (which has a lot of it). Most of the focus is on the fascinating central family that is used heavily for the director's strong message that is approached in a possibly better way than in Harakiri. The downside of the screenplay has to be the ending. While the final scenes are perfect it stumbles for 10 minutes before that. The tension generated in the film is released way too early and some of the scenes lose the dramatic impact they were supposed to have. There's also the mystery of Tatsuya Nakadai's character whose relevance is questionable and it almost feels like his role was severely cut in the editing room.

Kobayashi's form is full of menacing energy that stems from the absolutely brilliant photography and the intense yet "slow" editing that hits the viewer like a ton of bricks when it is needed. The approach to the climactic action scenes is surprisingly tame, but they are still powerful enough. Toru Takemitsu's soundtrack is great again. The entire cast delivers magnificent performances and especially Toshiro Mifune is in top form this time.

Samurai Rebellion could have become another masterpiece for Kobayashi in the vein of Harakiri, but the slight (but drastical) mistake near the end hinders the film a bit too much.

Score: 9 out of 10

The Face of Another

The Face of Another (1966) is third collaboration between the director Hiroshi Teshigahara, composer Toru Takemitsu and writer Kobo Abe. The trio's achievements could be seen as pretentious and hilariously gritty, but somehow they always manage to completely enthrall me. It seems almost if their work became more subtle the more they worked together. The Pitfall's experimentality was strongly present throughout the film and even Woman in the Dunes was a bit, but that roughness was fitting for the film. The Face of Another is a significantly more restrained effort because even the unconventional bits flow smoothly.

The main character of the film (played superbly by Tatsuya Nakadai) explores the ambiguous nature of identity after his face is accidentally deformed and then replaced by a new one. Despite its heavy themes the film advances in a clearly comprehensible way that might be a bit ambiguous once in a while, but it never goes to the extremes of the trio's earlier films that are much more obscure (but not necessarily bad that way). The writing is intellectually very stimulating and provokes strong emotional reactions as it follows the questionable ethics of the main character.

Whereas Woman in the Dunes was formally claustrophobic, The Face of the Another is schizophrenic. After the menacing and experimental opening the film's form diverts a little from what is expected from the trio. The intense close-ups are fewer and Takemitsu's wonderful musical score is more subtle than before. The lighting and cinematography are just about as refined and powerful as they can be.

What could have been a misadventure in obscurity and pretension turns out to be yet another masterpiece from the famous Japanese New Wave trio.

Score: 10 out of 10

The Pitfall

The Pitfall (1962) was Hiroshi Teshigahara's debut as a fiction film director. I've got to say that this is an incredibly ambitious film for a debut because it barely keeps itself together during the 90-minute running time. Initially the film seems like a story of two miners trying to make a living, but eventually it ends up becoming a cryptic mystery combined with a ghost story and social critique. There's also a (possibly unintentional) level of dark comedy that becomes dominant on a few instances. The narrative rushes between these different aspects at such a fast pace that I'm not sure what to make of this film even though there are obvious hints of brilliance scattered all over the film.

Even if you think the screenplay fails there's a lot to be enjoyed about the film's form. Takemitsu's sparse and experimental musical score sets the atmosphere all the way from the very first scene with its menacing tone. Segawa's striking black and white cinematography is guaranteed to pull anyone into the film's fascinating world.

The Pitfall was the first of three collaborations between the director Teshigahara, avant-garde novelist Abe, experimental composer Takemitsu and brilliant cinematographer Segawa (the first three collaborators would also make another film together afterwards). One of the other collaborations would be Woman of the Dunes (1964), one of my favorite films of all time. The Pitfall pales in comparison to this masterpiece because it is incapable of handling its own ambition in writing.

Score: 8 out of 10

Woman in the Dunes

Watching Hiroshi Teshigahara's Woman in the Dunes (1964) was a stunning experience. In the movie, an etymologist is searching for insects in the desert only to be eventually trapped in a sandpit with a widow. He is forced to live down there and shovel sand. Even though the premise sounds simple, the film is utterly complex, engaging and, most of all, haunting. It is one of the most famous films of the Japanese New Wave - a cinematic movement I'm extremely interested in.

What I love the most about the film is its rich content. The story can be seen an allegory of a lot of things, but even the allegorical subtleties are a bit meaningless in the end because the film is a stunning portrayal of isolation and existential crisis. Sand's role changes in the film a few times, but its metaphorical power never fades away - it is also probably the finest cinematic depiction of sand in general. The characters are also extremely fascinating: intially they seem rather blank, but the hidden complexity is revealed bit by bit.

The film's claustrophobic and intimate form is haunting and unforgettable. Initially, the shots of the beautiful scenery left me in awe, but as the plot thickens the form becomes very close to the characters - even to the point of extreme close-ups of sand on their skin. The cinematography is simply perfect in its movement and framing. The use of sound is brilliant: after I had watched the film, I left the DVD menu on because I wanted to hear the wind blowing - the effect I had listened to for 140 minutes. The sound design has such a hypnotizing and gripping feeling to it. Toru Takemitsu's awesome musical score blends in with the sound effects brilliantly.

Hiroshi Teshigahara's Woman in the Dunes is one of the finest films I've ever seen and I believe it is even more rewarding on multiple views.

Score: 10 out of 10

Kwaidan

Masaki Kobayashi's Kwaidan (1964) - or Kaidan, as it is spelled in modern Japanese - is based on a famous anthology of ghost stories written by Lafcadio Hearn. The title itself translates as "ghost story" into English. The only thing these four stories have in common is that they deal with ghosts in some way and all of them are genuinely scary.

The first story, Black Hair, is a fairly simple: man leaves his wife so that he can get a better position in the community only to regret his decision later. However, things are not as he had hoped anymore. The message is straightforward yet poignant. The use of sound is extremely otherwordly and brilliant in this segment. Sound effects are often muted or delayed - and that's what makes the story truly menacing. The sound effect of wood being torn apart is used in the musical score in a creepy way.

The second story, Woman of the Snow, also focuses on love, but it takes a totally different approach to the subject. What really sets this story apart is its haunting and bittersweet atmosphere, it is not as directly scary or creepy as the other stories. The way snow is portrayed (even though it was shot on interior sets) is unforgettable. I would even dare to say that this is the most iconic depiction of snow and coldness.

The third story, Hoichi the Earless, is the longest and most intriguing portion of the film. Essentially it is about a blind monk who is cheated by the spirits of the dead. The story takes its precious time to build up tension until it explodes into all directions in the end - before all of it is brought together in the end in an awesome way. This story is something that will never leave your mind at peace.

The final story, In a Cup of Tea, is the most mysterious and surprising segment. I won't go into too much detail because it is something you need to see yourself. The ending is even more ambiguos than the rest of the film put together. It is something you will not see coming, but it is the only logical way to end a film like this. All I can say is that it includes a story about a bodyguard who is haunted by a ghost.

The film's form is consistently brilliant and varies a bit in each story. The use of sound and music is crucial in each one: while the first one is most notable and obvious achievement in sound, the entire film is controlled by sound. The film was completely shot on interior sets and you won't even realise that until you read about it somewhere. All of the sets were hand painted and some of them are really expressionistic and atmospheric. The cinematography is beautiful as well - there is never a moment when Kobayashi's flawless camerawork fails. For example, his use of Dutch angles is perfected here.

Masaki Kobayashi's Kwaidan is a stunning cinematic achievement. I can not recall a film that would have such a brilliant combination of creative sets, stunning cinematography and innovative use of sound. The stories might be a bit simple, but they hold great wisdom that should not be forgotten.

Score: 10 out of 10

Dodesukaden

Akira Kurosawa's first color film Dodesukaden (1970) offers a rich portrayal of poverty-stricken people in Tokyo. Among the massive ensemble, there are two drunkards who swap wives, a boy who drives and maintains an imaginary tram while living alone with his mother and a homeless man who spends his days designing his dream house with his son.

Kurosawa's skill to create unforgettable characters is obvious in Dodesukaden because each one of them is rich even though there isn't a lot of screentime for anyone in particular. When you take into consideration the ridiculous amount of characters, the running time (140 minutes) isn't very long - yet the film manages to delve into all of their lives in enormous detail. The narrative seems to switch between the stories aimlessly, but due to Kurosawa's magical storytelling it never becomes hard to follow the story.

Even though it does not give a favorable image of Tokyo, it never seems critical about the city (or the country, for that matter). The absurd conditions help the film from falling into simple social criticism. The eccentric sets make the film seem independent of the real world - and that's only good because the attention should be on the characters. Kurosawa handles the characters in a genuinely caring and compelling way even though there are strong elements of tragedy. His powerful passion for the characters is directly passed along to the viewers. And that's what makes Dodesukaden great.

Kurosawa's form is fine as well although it is a bit more confusing than in his earlier films. Most of the time, everything works really well in terms of telling the story poignantly. The compositions and pacing are especially good. His use of long takes pays off excellently. His overemphasis of colors is distracting at times which makes the film feel a bit uneven for a moment.

I came to the conclusion that while Dodesukaden is underrated (or at least it isn't given enough attention), it is one of Kurosawa's "lesser" masterpieces. The genuinely interesting characters make the film worthwhile.

Score: 9 out of 10

Harakiri

The story of Masaki Kobayashi's Harakiri (1962) is set into motion when a young and poor man (Akira Ishihama) is forced to do what the title suggest: a suicide by disembowelment. Why did it happen? The movie is set in Japan during the year 1630 which is 11 years after a peace was negotiated among the warring clans. This led to the dissolution of the Geishu clan that had at least 12 000 retainers under its control. All these former retainers were forced to live in poverty. As a result, some of the ex-warriors resorted to threatening the remaining clans by performing harakiri in front of the clan's estate. To avoid this, the clan would have to pay a great amount of gold. As you have probably figured out by now, the harakiri at the beginning of the film was the result of things going horribly wrong. A few months later, an older man (Tatsuya Nakadai) comes to the same clan in order to perform harakiri. As the disembowelment approaches, he begins to tell a story that is essential in order to understand the story and thematics.

The film is almost like a deconstruction of the entire Samurai code. Kobayashi observes the (implied) emptiness of the code in cruel detail. The problems are pointed out in an unflinching way. While the film mostly runs at a relatively calm pace, there are outbursts of arrhythmic violence which work perfectly in order to deliver the message even to the most dim-witted viewers - yet surprisingly the film never seems to be heavy-handed. The narrative is quite straightforward: a linear story with a few flashbacks that are smoothly handled.

I found an interesting point of view in another review (specifically, the Finnish review on Elitisti) which pointed out how the young man is "unknowingly the representative of the past" because back then harakiri was a more personal and flexible act. Now it's just another way for higher-ups to control people.

Kobayashi's form in Harakiri reminds me of Yasujiro Ozu and Hsiao-hsien Hou. His camera is set almost on the ground most of the time like in Ozu's films. Kobayashi also likes to revisit a few compositions in order to establish a connection between two scenes - either for an emotional response or for juxtaposition. This is extremely notable during the first 30 minutes when the two ex-warriors enter the estate at different times. A few key compositions are used for both of these entrances. It's also interesting how a few compositions and patterns of camera movement are used again and again during the rest of the film.

Apart from a few awkward camera zooms and pans, the cinematography is brilliant. The precise and beautiful framing rivals even Ozu, which should say a lot. Kobayashi's use of Dutch angles is extremely masterful: I would even dare to say that Harakiri should be used as an example on how you should use them. The film is very silent most of the time - only the dialogue breaks the silence throughout the film. There are a few instances when music is used - and that makes the film even more haunting.

The second view confirmed my assumption: Masaki Kobayashi's Harakiri is one of the greatest cinematic masterpieces without a doubt. Sadly, it has remained quite unknown to this day.

Score: 10 out of 10