Mizoguchi's Strategies that Provoke Contemplation of and Involvement with His Pictures
by Daniel Blumensev
Like Yasujirō Ozu and Akira Kurosawa, Kenji Mizoguchi is one of the three undisputed masters of Japanese cinema. During his thirty-three year career, Mizoguchi had made an astonishing eighty-six films, double and triple the amount of Ozu and Kurosawa, respectfully (Le Fanu 2005: 35). Having started making films during the silent, it was only thirty years later that Mizoguchi’s cinema became recognized in the west when three of his pictures Life of Oharu (1952), Ugetsu Monogatari (1953) and Sanshō Dayū (1954), won the top prizes at the Venice Film Festival three years in a row (Bordwell 2005: 89). Mizoguchi came to be known as the first ‘feminist’ director, making many films about the struggles and brutalities faced by Japanese women such as Osaka Elegy (1936) and Life of Oharu, for example. The prevalent theme of feminism in the director’s work comes from Mizoguchi’s fourteen year old sister being put up for adoption, when the director was a child in the beginning of the twentieth century, and eventually forced to become a geisha (ibid). This event deeply influenced the director’s life, opinions, and films (ibid).
The two things that make Mizoguchi one of the greatest directors of world cinema, with Cahiers du Cinema even naming him ‘the greatest of all cineastes’, are his films’ profound and deeply moving narratives, adapting novels about the unfairness of life in old Japan as well as grief-and-moral-and-spirit-filled Japanese folk tales, and his masterful filmmaking style, particularly that of his ‘one scene, one shot’ approach, born out of his love for theatre (Russell 2011: 53). Mizoguchi films his scenes in long smooth undisrupted still, panning, tracking or tilting shots, and it is these profound narratives and his filmmaking style which provoke contemplation of and involvement with his films. Mizoguchi’s masterful treatment of his films’ narratives and themes as well as his filmmaking style will both be analysed towards their achievement of contemplation of and involvement with Mizoguchi’s oeuvres, with Sanshō Dayū and Ugetsu Monogatari being the pictures under scrutiny.
The two things that make Mizoguchi one of the greatest directors of world cinema, with Cahiers du Cinema even naming him ‘the greatest of all cineastes’, are his films’ profound and deeply moving narratives, adapting novels about the unfairness of life in old Japan as well as grief-and-moral-and-spirit-filled Japanese folk tales, and his masterful filmmaking style, particularly that of his ‘one scene, one shot’ approach, born out of his love for theatre (Russell 2011: 53). Mizoguchi films his scenes in long smooth undisrupted still, panning, tracking or tilting shots, and it is these profound narratives and his filmmaking style which provoke contemplation of and involvement with his films. Mizoguchi’s masterful treatment of his films’ narratives and themes as well as his filmmaking style will both be analysed towards their achievement of contemplation of and involvement with Mizoguchi’s oeuvres, with Sanshō Dayū and Ugetsu Monogatari being the pictures under scrutiny.
Starting with the most foreground element of Mizoguchi’s pictures, being their screenplays, both films under scrutiny contain at least one or more of these issues: the unfairness of life, mistreatment of humans, grief, death, morals or spirits. Starting off with one of Mizoguchi’s most internationally acclaimed works, Ugetsu is based on eighteenth century Japanese author Ueda Akinari’s 1776 novel Ugetsu Monogatari also known as Tales of Rain and the Moon (Le Fanu 2005: 35). The film’s prologue reads “Early spring, 16th century, a period of civil war. Lake Biwa in Omi province.” More specifically, Ugetsu is set in the Azuchi-Momoyama period of Japan, a period that lasted from 1568 to 1600 (Elison 1983) and the film is about two peasant families and their struggle through civil war. Genjurō (Masayuki Mori), the father of the main family centered on in the film, leaves his wife Miyagi (Kinuyo Tanaka) and their young son Genichi (Ikio Sawamura) to sell his pottery at a town not overrun by Shibata Katsuie’s army. Genjurō then becomes seduced by a spirit from the dead called Lady Wakasa (Machiko Kyō), falling in love with her and abandoning his wife and son. Tobei (Eitaro Ozawa), a friend of Genjurō and husband of Ohama (Mitsuko Mito), dreams of becoming a samurai and as Genjurō, leaves his wife in order to achieve this dream. Both men, disillusioned and tortured by war, end up either unintentionally killing or harming their wives. This brief synopsis of Ugetsu already provokes contemplation and involvement with it as it raises questions about moral dilemmas or whether the two husbands can really be blamed for abandoning their wives to peril or is it simply the great overwhelming, disillusioning effect of war that sweeps over every individual who is involved in it, making the husbands’ some-what not entirely responsible for the tragic outcomes of their wives.
Ugetsu’s two major interconnecting narrative themes that evoke contemplation of and involvement with the picture are the psychology of people during time of war and their shifted or lack of morality because of it as well as this Yomihon literature-based film’s mystical and supernatural elements.
Ugetsu’s two major interconnecting narrative themes that evoke contemplation of and involvement with the picture are the psychology of people during time of war and their shifted or lack of morality because of it as well as this Yomihon literature-based film’s mystical and supernatural elements.
The main moral dilemma in Ugetsu is whether Genjurō and Tobei are truly to be blamed for the destructive outcomes of their wives. This dilemma starts during the marketplace scene in Nagahama when Genjurō, helped by Tobei and his wife Ohama, is selling his pottery. The first to be deceived is Genjurō. After having left his wife and son behind in an attempt to protect them from the pirates on the sea, Genjurō becomes entranced by a beautiful princess from Kutsuki manor who buys some pottery from him, with her nurse asking Genjurō to deliver the pottery to their manor. Not a moment passes when Tobei notices the castle guard galloping past on their horses. His wife Ohama, conscious about Tobei’s Samurai obsession, warns him: ‘Don’t look! You’ll get crazy eyes!’ but the impulsive Tobei tells his wife to shut-up and, with an indeed crazy-eyed look, says that ‘With a suit of armour, I could be a Samurai’. Tobei runs off, abandoning his wife and friend with the parting words ‘Let me go, I’ll be a great Samurai next time we meet’, thinking only about himself and ultimately lured away by an illusion of a better life and a chance of happiness in this time of chaos. Dodging Ohama who has run after him, Tobei stops at a nearby stand selling armour and without thinking, buys a suit of armour and a spear with the viable share of money he got from selling the pottery, in order to look like a Samurai. The outcome of Tobei’s blinded actions instantly leads to his wife, who has now come to an open field outside Nagahama looking for her husband, being raped by a group of soldiers. Both men have now been infected with ‘crazy eyes’, both in selfish pursuits for their respected happiness and fortune.
Genjurō visits Kutsuki manor and gets seduced by Lady Wakasa who convinces him to marry her. Being unable to grasp his luck, Genjurō decides to stay at the manor with Lady Wakasa, in luxury. Completely mesmerised by Lady Wakasa, Genjurō outrightly forgets about his wife and child. The pottery maker is having a dream-like exuberant time with his new fiancée, bathing in the hot baths together, picnicking and running and rolling around in the grass in a beautiful scenic area with the view of the sea and the mountains behind them. ‘I never imagined such pleasures existed’ exclaims Genjurō. Pure paradise. At this point in the film, Mizoguchi cleverly cuts to now show what Genjurō left behind. Nakanogō is now under attack and Miyagi gets stabbed by runaway soldiers who steal food from her, and the abandoned wife collapses on a field with Genichi on her back. This is the last we see of the ‘real’ Miyagi. By the end of the film Genjurō learns that his wife had been killed by the soldiers of the fallen army. Thus Genjurō, by his weak-spirited actions, has ultimately killed his wife.
Genjurō visits Kutsuki manor and gets seduced by Lady Wakasa who convinces him to marry her. Being unable to grasp his luck, Genjurō decides to stay at the manor with Lady Wakasa, in luxury. Completely mesmerised by Lady Wakasa, Genjurō outrightly forgets about his wife and child. The pottery maker is having a dream-like exuberant time with his new fiancée, bathing in the hot baths together, picnicking and running and rolling around in the grass in a beautiful scenic area with the view of the sea and the mountains behind them. ‘I never imagined such pleasures existed’ exclaims Genjurō. Pure paradise. At this point in the film, Mizoguchi cleverly cuts to now show what Genjurō left behind. Nakanogō is now under attack and Miyagi gets stabbed by runaway soldiers who steal food from her, and the abandoned wife collapses on a field with Genichi on her back. This is the last we see of the ‘real’ Miyagi. By the end of the film Genjurō learns that his wife had been killed by the soldiers of the fallen army. Thus Genjurō, by his weak-spirited actions, has ultimately killed his wife.
Tobei’s impulsiveness brings a similar yet less detrimental result towards his family as well. The soldier-resembling peasant steals the head of a general and brings it to the chief of the winning side. He lies telling the chief that he killed this great general himself. The chief laughs, not believing that a mere foot soldier could kill Taksuhige Fuwa, but rewards Tobei nevertheless with armour, a horse and a retinue. Riding proudly through the marketplace of a town at night, the locals stare at this ‘great samurai’ and persuade him to stay the night. Although eager to return home to present his new self to Ohama, Tobei accepts the townspeoples’ offer. He visits a brothel and finds his wife working there. Ohama cries out and is devastated as to what shame and exploitation Tobei’s foolish dreams brought her to. Tobei, in utter shock at what has become of his wife because of him, tells her: ‘Without you, my success means nothing’. Tobei says that he thought Ohama would be proud if he made good, and that he never dreamed Ohama would be brought to this. Tobei swears he’ll buy back his wife’s honor. At the end of the picture, the two return home to Nakanogō and Tobei throws his armour into the river. The actions of both Genjurō and Tobei prove detrimental towards their respected wives. This particular narrative proves contemplative because of the morality of the husbands’ actions and towards the possible inevitability of one’s behavior during a time of war.
Mizoguchi’s Ueda-based narrative makes one involved with and contemplate about how immoral the two husbands have acted, having abandoned their wives because of some foolish sense of happiness, but also about whether Genjurō’s and Tobei’s actions could have been due to the Devil’s Apple scenario: are the husbands’ wholly to blame for their actions or can we forgive them on the terms of the inevitability of human weakness at a time of peril? Although Tobei’s abandonment of his wife is morally wrong, one can clearly observe his weakness in character, that Tobei just tried to survive, by running off to become a samurai and stealing the head of a general and ultimately gaining success because of it. Ugetsu’s narrative in fact teaches one that abandoning one’s family is wrong even during the time of war, as Tobei’s actions lead to Ohama being sexually and mentally exploited, however whether Tobei can be forgiven on a basis of mere stupidity and weakness provokes contemplation and involvement with Mizoguchi’s picture. Same goes for Genjurō. The peasant is weak-spirited and chooses an easy opportunity for bliss and Genjurō is mesmerized by the incredible luck of this paradise having presented itself to him. Genjurō even accepts bigamy for this bliss. Thus the psychology of the individual during wartime and the way war changes people as well as the moral implications of the two is a great narrative theme in which Mizoguchi provokes contemplation of and involvement with Ugetsu.
Mizoguchi’s Ueda-based narrative makes one involved with and contemplate about how immoral the two husbands have acted, having abandoned their wives because of some foolish sense of happiness, but also about whether Genjurō’s and Tobei’s actions could have been due to the Devil’s Apple scenario: are the husbands’ wholly to blame for their actions or can we forgive them on the terms of the inevitability of human weakness at a time of peril? Although Tobei’s abandonment of his wife is morally wrong, one can clearly observe his weakness in character, that Tobei just tried to survive, by running off to become a samurai and stealing the head of a general and ultimately gaining success because of it. Ugetsu’s narrative in fact teaches one that abandoning one’s family is wrong even during the time of war, as Tobei’s actions lead to Ohama being sexually and mentally exploited, however whether Tobei can be forgiven on a basis of mere stupidity and weakness provokes contemplation and involvement with Mizoguchi’s picture. Same goes for Genjurō. The peasant is weak-spirited and chooses an easy opportunity for bliss and Genjurō is mesmerized by the incredible luck of this paradise having presented itself to him. Genjurō even accepts bigamy for this bliss. Thus the psychology of the individual during wartime and the way war changes people as well as the moral implications of the two is a great narrative theme in which Mizoguchi provokes contemplation of and involvement with Ugetsu.
Ugetsu’s other narrative theme that evokes great contemplation and involvement from the viewer is that of the mystical and supernatural. Mizoguchi based Ugetsu on two tales in particular from Ueda’s book: The House in the Thicket and The Lust of the White Serpent (Russell 2011: 55). Ugetsu the novel was known as Yomihon literature, one that was prevalent in Japan in the Edo period 1603–1867 and generally contained moralistic ‘…Historical narratives describing the supernatural, the fantastic and the miraculous’ (Araki, Shirane 2008: 483). With the moralistic side of Ugetsu’s narrative already analysed, its supernatural side opens up for even more contemplation and involvement with the picture. In the middle of Ugetsu, Genjurō meets a priest that tells him that he will be in great danger if he does not return to his family. Genjurō mentions that he is happy living with Lady Wakasa but the priest reveals that she is a spirit from the dead. Genjurō does not believe this at first but follows the priest in order to be helped anyway. The peasant then returns to Kutsuki manor, admits he is married and that he wishes to return home. Lady Wakasa becomes furious and does not let him leave. Lady Wakasa and her nurse admit they are spirits and that the Lady returned to this world to experience the pleasures of love that she did not get a chance to experience being alive as she was killed. The Lady and her nurse notice the Buddhist symbols the priest had painted on Genjurō’s back. Being frightened by these exorcising symbols, the two spirits fail to stop Genjurō from leaving the manor. Genjurō passes out outside the manor and is awoken the next morning by soldiers, discovering that the manor is nothing more than a pile of burnt wood and rubble. He then returns home, looking for his wife.
This twist in Ugetsu’s narrative, altering the audiences’ perception of reality, provokes great contemplation and involvement with the film. One learns that because Lady Wakasa is a spirit, Genjurō is naïve, a dreamer and prone to hallucination. He imagines his wife trying on a Kimono earlier in the picture, and now he ‘sees’ two ghosts that other cannot see. In the Wakasa manor, we ‘hear’ the Lady’s late father’s voice, learning that whenever Lady Wakasa dances, her father sings. This incorporation of mystics makes the viewer greatly involved with the picture, firstly thinking what he saw was real and what was supernatural up to this point in the picture and then until the end, contemplating on this now evident supernatural inclusion in Ugetsu’s narrative. At the marketplace when Genjurō tells a merchant to deliver his goods to Kutsuki manor, the merchant becomes petrified, telling Genjurō to take back his money, to take the goods and leave immediately. At this point Genjurō had not yet learned that Lady Wakasa is a spirit, so his reaction to the merchant is of simple surprise and confusion. The viewer contemplates on Genjurō’s naivety: it is not his fault that he is seduced by the spirit, he could not help it. Genjurō is of weak character, thus whether it is truly his fault that his wife dies is put to contemplation once again. Ugetsu’s mystical elements do not cease here.
This twist in Ugetsu’s narrative, altering the audiences’ perception of reality, provokes great contemplation and involvement with the film. One learns that because Lady Wakasa is a spirit, Genjurō is naïve, a dreamer and prone to hallucination. He imagines his wife trying on a Kimono earlier in the picture, and now he ‘sees’ two ghosts that other cannot see. In the Wakasa manor, we ‘hear’ the Lady’s late father’s voice, learning that whenever Lady Wakasa dances, her father sings. This incorporation of mystics makes the viewer greatly involved with the picture, firstly thinking what he saw was real and what was supernatural up to this point in the picture and then until the end, contemplating on this now evident supernatural inclusion in Ugetsu’s narrative. At the marketplace when Genjurō tells a merchant to deliver his goods to Kutsuki manor, the merchant becomes petrified, telling Genjurō to take back his money, to take the goods and leave immediately. At this point Genjurō had not yet learned that Lady Wakasa is a spirit, so his reaction to the merchant is of simple surprise and confusion. The viewer contemplates on Genjurō’s naivety: it is not his fault that he is seduced by the spirit, he could not help it. Genjurō is of weak character, thus whether it is truly his fault that his wife dies is put to contemplation once again. Ugetsu’s mystical elements do not cease here.
During the end of the picture, Genjurō returns home. The house is dark and empty and Miyagi is not there, but then she magically appears, cooking next to a lit fire. The audience immediately realize Miyagi is simply Genjurō’s illusion due to Mizoguchi’s filmmaking (which will be scrutinized shorty), however the writing and direction of Miyagi in this scene provokes great contemplation and involvement. Miyagi is delighted to see Genjurō but when he tries to apologize, she does not let him. Genjurō holds Genichi, who is also there, and falls asleep. While Genjurō is sleeping, instead of falling into his arms and falling asleep in peace and happiness next to her husband, Miyagi, calm and drifting as if a ghost, finishes up some errands and starts knitting. This completely unnatural direction of what Miyagi should really be doing when reunited with her husband proves extremely contemplative and involving for the viewer as he becomes completely heartbroken, further understanding that Miyagi is a spirit and that she is indeed dead.
Robin Wood claims that ‘Mizoguchi’s [characters] move…towards union, mystical rather than physical, even when some are dead’ (Wood 2006: 230). After learning the next morning that his wife is dead, the final scene of the picture consists of Genjurō having picked up his pottery again and having returned to his normal life, without Miyagi, and only with Genichi. Yet ‘without Miyagi’ is not entirely correct. While spinning his pottery, the viewer hears Miyagi’s voice, ‘I am always with you’ and so forth. Validating Wood’s claim, the contemplative element in this last scene rests upon the fact that Genjurō and Genichi have continued to live their normal lives ‘with’ the spirit of Miyagi. Genjurō gets guided by his wife in his pottery spinning. In the picture’s final shot, Genichi even offers food to his mother, putting it on her grave. Particularly involving and contemplative is the fact that western audiences may not believe in mystics thus whether Genjurō and Genichi are truly ‘with’ Miyagi once again, proves as a great topic of contemplation.
According to Mark Le Fanu, Mizoguchi took art very seriously and believed motion pictures belonged “In the exalted company of music, painting and poetry” (Le Fanu 2005: 35). Ugetsu would not be such a contemplative and engaging masterpiece if it were not for Mizoguchi’s captivating filmmaking. Apart from through the narrative, Mizoguchi expresses Ugetsu’s mystical elements through imagery, title graphics, décor, lighting, composition and music.
Robin Wood claims that ‘Mizoguchi’s [characters] move…towards union, mystical rather than physical, even when some are dead’ (Wood 2006: 230). After learning the next morning that his wife is dead, the final scene of the picture consists of Genjurō having picked up his pottery again and having returned to his normal life, without Miyagi, and only with Genichi. Yet ‘without Miyagi’ is not entirely correct. While spinning his pottery, the viewer hears Miyagi’s voice, ‘I am always with you’ and so forth. Validating Wood’s claim, the contemplative element in this last scene rests upon the fact that Genjurō and Genichi have continued to live their normal lives ‘with’ the spirit of Miyagi. Genjurō gets guided by his wife in his pottery spinning. In the picture’s final shot, Genichi even offers food to his mother, putting it on her grave. Particularly involving and contemplative is the fact that western audiences may not believe in mystics thus whether Genjurō and Genichi are truly ‘with’ Miyagi once again, proves as a great topic of contemplation.
According to Mark Le Fanu, Mizoguchi took art very seriously and believed motion pictures belonged “In the exalted company of music, painting and poetry” (Le Fanu 2005: 35). Ugetsu would not be such a contemplative and engaging masterpiece if it were not for Mizoguchi’s captivating filmmaking. Apart from through the narrative, Mizoguchi expresses Ugetsu’s mystical elements through imagery, title graphics, décor, lighting, composition and music.
Right from the picture’s start, an entrancing almost hypnotic soundtrack commences of a mixture of human chanting, gongs, strings, percussion, piano and flute. Ugetsu’s soundtrack, known as Geza music which is common in Kabuki theatre, composed by Fumio Hayasaka, proves so mystical that the viewer cannot help but be engaged in it (Clarke 2014). The opening credits’ traditional Japanese paintings of flowers and landscapes aid at captivating the audiences right from Ugetsu’s start (Wood 2006: 228). Moving onto the supernatural, when Genjurō first sees Lady Wakasa at the marketplace, Mizoguchi’s choice of her wearing an almost glowing white shawl gives Lady Wakasa her first supernatural touch, her glowing mystical appearance isolates her from everyone else. Perhaps the most contemplative and involving scene in the whole of Ugetsu is the dream-like picnic of Lady Wakasa and Genjurō. After the hot baths scene, Mizoguchi’s camera cross dissolves from the ground and pans up to reveal a breathtaking scenic shot of a lake-side romp with a tree in the background and the lake and mountains in the distance. Mizoguchi’s composition of this breathtakingly beautiful and bright landscape shot in the Ōmi Province, modeled, according to David Bordwell, after a landscape drawn by Ogata Korin, is composed to represent a Garden of Eden for Genjurō and Lady Wakasa (Bordwell 2005: 133). Along with Lady Wakasa’s hypnotic singing and banging of a gong, the viewer becomes completely entraced by this utopian shot, contemplating whether this scene is real or not.
The second most engaging and powerful filmmaking moment in Ugetsu is the appearance of Miyagi in the film’s second to final scene. According to Robin Wood, Mizoguchi did not like to use special effects and instead, represented the supernatural in a naturalistic way (Wood 2006: 235). When Genjurō returns home and sees no one inside, he walks to the left of frame, outside the house. The camera pans and follows Genjurō’s movement. Without cutting, as Genjurō walks back to the right, the camera pans to the right revealing Miyagi sitting next to the fire, in the spot that was completely empty only a few seconds ago, in this same shot. Thus the single take, no cut magical appearance of Miyagi at home next to the fire is a true supernatural illusion, involving the audiences in it completely. Mizoguchi’s filmmaking not only deeply involves audiences in Ugetsu’s mystical theme, but also that of the picture’s theme of the individual versus wartime.
Mizoguchi’s compositions in Ugetsu and Sanshō Dayū, as Robin Wood discusses, place the film’s characters’ destinies in a broader context, a context of the environment around them. The first great example of this is when Miyagi is heading back to Nakanogō with Genichi on her back and she is stabbed by runaway soldiers who steal her food. One thing to note is Mizoguchi’s effective editing of putting this scene right after the Garden of Eden one, in order to connect Genjurō’s responsibility to his wife’s detrimental outcome. This next scene is filmed in one single deep focus long shot, a dominant style of Mizoguchi. The camera starts from high up and then tilts down into the action of soldiers confronting Miyagi, then moves in even more into the action of her being stabbed and then moves out to reveal both Miyagi and the soldiers tragically rolling around in the ground, both victims to the horrors and pointlessness of war. The long single deep focus take involves the audiences in a number of ways. Firstly, like with all of Mizoguchi’s other long takes, such as the single take of Tobei attempting to reconciliate with his wife, the single long take simply involves the audiences with the action. Mizoguchi’s use of long takes makes his scenes play like theatre. Due to one long single take the audiences receive the chance to focus and observe the scene in their own way and not be told what to think by the subjective use of editing. Robin Wood even claims that Mizoguchi’s long takes, sometimes even shot from a distance, give the audience an opportunatiy to contemplate on the scene’s preceedings and consequences (Wood 2006: 233). Furthermore, in Mizoguchi’s framing, diagonals cut across the screen, making corners focal points, leading the viewer’s eyes outwards, always implying a world beyond the frame, particularly in the scene ‘When the boat with the fisherman emerges through the mist at an oblique angle to the boat poled by Ohama’ (Wood 2006: 229). The other profound use of the long take is that Mizoguchi occasionally shoots his long takes from a distance, encorporating the environment into his shots, letting the action of the characters play in relation to the enviroment around them. Referring to the deep focus shot of the struggles of both the stabbed Miyagi and the fallen soldiers, because Mizoguchi also shows the dominating presence of the fields and trees, this philosophical technique, more frequent in Sanshō Dayū than in Ugetsu, places the emotional intensity of the narrative in a wider context, one of space and time, encouraging audiences to view this event in a cosmic perspective (Wood 2006: 231), making one realize that this world is bigger than the problems of certain individuals, and that everyone will soon meet their fate, but the earth stays the same, or in other words, the world moves on: an incredibly profound aspect of Mizoguchi’s later work.
The second most engaging and powerful filmmaking moment in Ugetsu is the appearance of Miyagi in the film’s second to final scene. According to Robin Wood, Mizoguchi did not like to use special effects and instead, represented the supernatural in a naturalistic way (Wood 2006: 235). When Genjurō returns home and sees no one inside, he walks to the left of frame, outside the house. The camera pans and follows Genjurō’s movement. Without cutting, as Genjurō walks back to the right, the camera pans to the right revealing Miyagi sitting next to the fire, in the spot that was completely empty only a few seconds ago, in this same shot. Thus the single take, no cut magical appearance of Miyagi at home next to the fire is a true supernatural illusion, involving the audiences in it completely. Mizoguchi’s filmmaking not only deeply involves audiences in Ugetsu’s mystical theme, but also that of the picture’s theme of the individual versus wartime.
Mizoguchi’s compositions in Ugetsu and Sanshō Dayū, as Robin Wood discusses, place the film’s characters’ destinies in a broader context, a context of the environment around them. The first great example of this is when Miyagi is heading back to Nakanogō with Genichi on her back and she is stabbed by runaway soldiers who steal her food. One thing to note is Mizoguchi’s effective editing of putting this scene right after the Garden of Eden one, in order to connect Genjurō’s responsibility to his wife’s detrimental outcome. This next scene is filmed in one single deep focus long shot, a dominant style of Mizoguchi. The camera starts from high up and then tilts down into the action of soldiers confronting Miyagi, then moves in even more into the action of her being stabbed and then moves out to reveal both Miyagi and the soldiers tragically rolling around in the ground, both victims to the horrors and pointlessness of war. The long single deep focus take involves the audiences in a number of ways. Firstly, like with all of Mizoguchi’s other long takes, such as the single take of Tobei attempting to reconciliate with his wife, the single long take simply involves the audiences with the action. Mizoguchi’s use of long takes makes his scenes play like theatre. Due to one long single take the audiences receive the chance to focus and observe the scene in their own way and not be told what to think by the subjective use of editing. Robin Wood even claims that Mizoguchi’s long takes, sometimes even shot from a distance, give the audience an opportunatiy to contemplate on the scene’s preceedings and consequences (Wood 2006: 233). Furthermore, in Mizoguchi’s framing, diagonals cut across the screen, making corners focal points, leading the viewer’s eyes outwards, always implying a world beyond the frame, particularly in the scene ‘When the boat with the fisherman emerges through the mist at an oblique angle to the boat poled by Ohama’ (Wood 2006: 229). The other profound use of the long take is that Mizoguchi occasionally shoots his long takes from a distance, encorporating the environment into his shots, letting the action of the characters play in relation to the enviroment around them. Referring to the deep focus shot of the struggles of both the stabbed Miyagi and the fallen soldiers, because Mizoguchi also shows the dominating presence of the fields and trees, this philosophical technique, more frequent in Sanshō Dayū than in Ugetsu, places the emotional intensity of the narrative in a wider context, one of space and time, encouraging audiences to view this event in a cosmic perspective (Wood 2006: 231), making one realize that this world is bigger than the problems of certain individuals, and that everyone will soon meet their fate, but the earth stays the same, or in other words, the world moves on: an incredibly profound aspect of Mizoguchi’s later work.
The long shot and the use of deep focus allowing the exposition of the struggles of both Miyagi and the soldiers in one shot provokes great contemplation for the viewer as he understands that everyone is a victim of war and that the soldiers are truly not to blame for harming Miyagi. The final impacting example of the use of long takes is the book ending long take at the start and end of Ugetsu. The picture opens with a high angle panning shot of the Nakanogō fields and its workers and ends with a tilt up (from Genjurō and Genichi working and back in their normal lives) revealing the working on the field once more. The repitition of this shot involves the viewer, making him understand that Genjurō’s story was both unique and typical, that it was simply one story out of billions of individuals, and that every person, like those workers on their fields ‘Treads in his [own] path for spiritual acceptance and assimilation’ (Wood 2006: 237), that life is a stream of experiences and fates, and Mizoguchi’s long shot camerawork mimics the flow of that stream.
The proloque of Sanshō Dayū reads, ‘This tale is set during the late Heian period, an era when mankind had not yet awakened as human beings. It has been retold by the people for centuries, and it is treasured today as one of the world’s great folk tales, full of grief.’ Based on Mori Ōgai’s 1915 short story, Mizoguchi’s period drama set sometime between 794 to 1185, is about a wife Tamaki (Kinuyo Tanaka) and her two children Zushiō (Yoshiaki Hanayagi) and Anju (Kyōko Kagawa) who, while traveling to their exiled husband/father, are captured, separated and sold into slavery. All three go through years of suffering and oppression and discover, along with the audiences, the cruelness of feudal Japan.
One of Sanshō Dayū narrative themes that provokes great contemplation and involvement is morality and human kindness versus human cruelty. Mizoguchi’s treatment of human cruelty is extremely profound. He does not spare Anju nor the father, blinds and lames the mother, and only lets Zushiō fully survive, although his destiny is only to be captured and sold into slavery again as he revoked his position as governor. The director plays with our longing to see the horrible Sanshō brutally pay for his immoral actions, yet Mizoguchi simply decides to exile him, no harm done. This lack of mercy in Ōgai’s story, which Mizoguchi rightly sticks to, evokes great emotional involvement from the viewer who hopes for the survival of the central characters and violent justice for the antagonist, but he does not receive that, ultimately devastated and thenceforth contemplating on the horrors that feudal Japan truly brought, Mizoguchi teases the audiences even in his cinematic choice of not showing the branding of the slaves and the cutting of Tamaki, leaving the audiences to the horrors of their imagination.
Akin to his treatment of human cruelty, Mizoguchi’s treatment of human kindness is just as profound. Sanshō cruelness is immeasurable, whereas his son Tarō’s heart is full of kindness, a quality that is inexplicable in terms of heredity (Wood 2006: 243). This narrative segment makes the original of human goodness a topic for contemplation. The goodness of the minister that aids Zushiō towards the end of the picture is also precarious. Is this priest only helping Zushiō because he has dedicated his life to God? Would this same man not help Zushiō if he were not a priest? Zushiō himself, although being the son of a humane father, starts branding slaves and shows no mercy, almost becoming a monster just like Sanshō. Mizoguchi’s narrative raises questions about the limit of one’s kindness and morality during a time of cruelty. However human kindness does in fact win in a way in Sanshō Dayū as due to following his father’s precepts, as Tamaki tells her son, Zushiō reunites with his mother, and according to Catherine Russell, Sanshō Dayū teaches one ‘That man must be merciful to be human’ (Russell 2011: 67). However Zushiō remembers his father’s humane teachings and goes to find his family and starts committing good due to hearing the voice of his mother and recalling his past: awakened by spiritual family unity, Sanshō Dayū’s next contemplative theme.
The theme of physical separation versus spiritual unity provokes great contemplation and involvement with Mizoguchi’s picture. Ever since the family’s separation, all four kin are able to unite with each other in some way. Zushiō, by reciting his father’s precepts and later by acting according to them, is united with his father. The mother’s song ‘Zushiō…Anju how I long for you…’, which the children learn thanks to a young girl from Sado (the mother’s place of entrapment), unites both the mother to her children and the children to their mother. Analysing the scene in which Zushiō and Anju gather branches to cover a dying slave with, the repetition of Anju and Zushiō falling together due to a branch breaking, which already happened in the beginning of the picture when they were children and were gathering branches for a fire, with their mother calling out to them, unites the brother and sister together in a shared memory. Due to them remembering the past event in this present scene, Zushiō and Anju are united to their mother, remembering her being with them back then. Due to having remembered their mother, Mizoguchi includes the spiritual presence of the mother’s song, though almost inaudible, Zushiō and Anju hear it.
The theme of physical separation versus spiritual unity provokes great contemplation and involvement with Mizoguchi’s picture. Ever since the family’s separation, all four kin are able to unite with each other in some way. Zushiō, by reciting his father’s precepts and later by acting according to them, is united with his father. The mother’s song ‘Zushiō…Anju how I long for you…’, which the children learn thanks to a young girl from Sado (the mother’s place of entrapment), unites both the mother to her children and the children to their mother. Analysing the scene in which Zushiō and Anju gather branches to cover a dying slave with, the repetition of Anju and Zushiō falling together due to a branch breaking, which already happened in the beginning of the picture when they were children and were gathering branches for a fire, with their mother calling out to them, unites the brother and sister together in a shared memory. Due to them remembering the past event in this present scene, Zushiō and Anju are united to their mother, remembering her being with them back then. Due to having remembered their mother, Mizoguchi includes the spiritual presence of the mother’s song, though almost inaudible, Zushiō and Anju hear it.
Furthermore, at the end of the picture, Anju is united with her father in death, Zushiō to his mother in life and the two are united to father and Anju by the Kwannon statuette. The fire and water symbols also unite the family together. Anju’s suicide by drowning unites her spiritually with her late father. Zushiō is united with his mother by the sea. The father’s grave is on a cliff with water in the background, uniting him to Tamaki and Zushiō who are now residing by water, and to Anju who’s soul has been taken by the water. Mizoguchi even unites Tamaki to her husband by cross dissolving from her drinking a watery meal to her husband doing the same. The picture opens with Tamaki and the young children walking next to a stream and ends with Tamaki and Zushiō reunited in view of the sea, with the water also uniting them to father and Anju (Wood 2006: 239). Sanshō Dayū’s last scene becomes even more profound by the visual presence of the sea, making the viewer contemplate and associate water with everything it means and has meant for the family’s unity (Wood 2006: 238). Even in Mizoguchi’s framing, during the shot of the boatmen paddling away Tamaki and the nurse (being in the background), the children are in the foreground of the frame, calling out to their mother: although physically separated, the family is united within the frame (Wood 2006: 232).
In terms of filmmaking, Mizoguchi’s visual compositions in Sanshō Dayū provoke profound contemplation. The contrast between human suffering and the serenity of nature is central to Mizoguchi’s art and vision of life (Wood 2006: 230). Proving Wood’s claim, the shot of Anju’s suicide is not only heartbreaking, but also hauntingly beautiful. The beauty of this shot comes from Mizoguchi blending Anju’s suicide with the trees, putting the forest in the foreground. The beauty of the nature makes one contemplate on how the earth is bigger than the fate of one individual. The old slave praying for Anju’s soul is merely a spec compared to the labyrinth of the forest’s kingdom, overriding the slave, making her fate little and insignificant compared to the supremacy of the earth, just like Anju’s and Mizoguchi’s other characters in Sanshō Dayū and Ugetsu. Along with the last crane up shot in Sanshō Dayū which detaches the audiences from the fate of Zushiō and Tamaki, these three shots create a distancing affect, giving audiences ‘A sense of a heightened, contemplative and serenely accepting perspective on life’ (ibid).
In terms of filmmaking, Mizoguchi’s visual compositions in Sanshō Dayū provoke profound contemplation. The contrast between human suffering and the serenity of nature is central to Mizoguchi’s art and vision of life (Wood 2006: 230). Proving Wood’s claim, the shot of Anju’s suicide is not only heartbreaking, but also hauntingly beautiful. The beauty of this shot comes from Mizoguchi blending Anju’s suicide with the trees, putting the forest in the foreground. The beauty of the nature makes one contemplate on how the earth is bigger than the fate of one individual. The old slave praying for Anju’s soul is merely a spec compared to the labyrinth of the forest’s kingdom, overriding the slave, making her fate little and insignificant compared to the supremacy of the earth, just like Anju’s and Mizoguchi’s other characters in Sanshō Dayū and Ugetsu. Along with the last crane up shot in Sanshō Dayū which detaches the audiences from the fate of Zushiō and Tamaki, these three shots create a distancing affect, giving audiences ‘A sense of a heightened, contemplative and serenely accepting perspective on life’ (ibid).
When Zushiō begs the Minister to hear that he is the son of a noble Governor and when Tamaki attempts to escape the island of Sado by boat, guards in both scenes suddenly emerge into the frame from all sides. Mizoguchi does not cut to show the guards approaching, they simply immerse like flies into these two long shots. This composition which demonstrates the sudden intrusion of hostile forces into the frame that overpower the protagonist, involves the viewer as it expresses ‘[A] sense of the precariousness of things, the continual imminence of disaster [and Mizoguchi’s] characters’ terrible vulnerability in treacherous feudal Japan’, as well as ‘A sense of a world beyond the frame’ always uncertain and subject to sudden change (Wood 2006: 230).
Just like in Ugetsu, Mizoguchi’s long takes in Sanshō Dayū such as the tracking shot of Zushiō trying to be heard by a Minister and the heartbreaking reunion between Zushiō and his mother, would not be as nerve-bending and heartbreaking, respectively, if the audiences’ were not as directly involved in these scenes due to Mizoguchi’s long takes.
Le Fanu claims that ‘In none of [Mizoguchi’s pictures]…does the viewer get the feeling that anything less than the director’s whole energy, taste and sincerity have been deployed in…their making’ (Le Fanu 2005: 35). Kenji Mizoguchi is one of the greatest directors of all time because of his ability to captivate his audiences with his pictures and to evoke great contemplation on them. Mizoguchi masterfully achieves this firstly through his deep and emotionally affecting narratives, such as moral themes of the effects of war on individuals in Ugetsu Monogatari and the limit of human kindness during times of cruelty in Sanshō Dayū as well as through mystical and supernatural themes in Ugetsu and spiritual unity in Sanshō Dayū. However, it is through Mizoguchi’s masterful filmmaking of composition and long single takes that these themes truly provoke involvement with and contemplation of Mizoguchi’s masterpieces.
Just like in Ugetsu, Mizoguchi’s long takes in Sanshō Dayū such as the tracking shot of Zushiō trying to be heard by a Minister and the heartbreaking reunion between Zushiō and his mother, would not be as nerve-bending and heartbreaking, respectively, if the audiences’ were not as directly involved in these scenes due to Mizoguchi’s long takes.
Le Fanu claims that ‘In none of [Mizoguchi’s pictures]…does the viewer get the feeling that anything less than the director’s whole energy, taste and sincerity have been deployed in…their making’ (Le Fanu 2005: 35). Kenji Mizoguchi is one of the greatest directors of all time because of his ability to captivate his audiences with his pictures and to evoke great contemplation on them. Mizoguchi masterfully achieves this firstly through his deep and emotionally affecting narratives, such as moral themes of the effects of war on individuals in Ugetsu Monogatari and the limit of human kindness during times of cruelty in Sanshō Dayū as well as through mystical and supernatural themes in Ugetsu and spiritual unity in Sanshō Dayū. However, it is through Mizoguchi’s masterful filmmaking of composition and long single takes that these themes truly provoke involvement with and contemplation of Mizoguchi’s masterpieces.
Bibliography
Araki, J. and Shirane, H. (2008). Early Modern Japanese Literature. New York: Columbia Univ. Press.
Bordwell, D. (2005). Figures Traced in Light. Berkeley, Calif.: Univ. of California Press.
Clarke, Donald (2014) ‘50 Years, 50 Films Vol II: Ugetsu Monogatari (1953)’ The Irish Times, 13 Sep. Available HTTP: http://www.irishtimes.com/blogs/screenwriter/2014/09/13/50-years-50-films-vol-ii-ugetsu-monogatari-1953/ (5 Jan 2018).
Elison, George (1983) ‘Azuchi-Momoyama History (1568–1600)’ in Edited Collection Kodansha Encyclopedia of Japan. Tokyo: Kodansha International.
Le Fanu, M. (2005). Mizoguchi and Japan. London: BFI Publishing.
McDonald, Keiko (1984). Mizoguchi. Boston: Twayne Publishers.
Russell, Catherine (2011). Classical Japanese Cinema Revisited. New York: The Continuum International Publishing Group.
Wood, R. (2006). Personal Views: Explorations in Film. Wayne State University Press.
Bordwell, D. (2005). Figures Traced in Light. Berkeley, Calif.: Univ. of California Press.
Clarke, Donald (2014) ‘50 Years, 50 Films Vol II: Ugetsu Monogatari (1953)’ The Irish Times, 13 Sep. Available HTTP: http://www.irishtimes.com/blogs/screenwriter/2014/09/13/50-years-50-films-vol-ii-ugetsu-monogatari-1953/ (5 Jan 2018).
Elison, George (1983) ‘Azuchi-Momoyama History (1568–1600)’ in Edited Collection Kodansha Encyclopedia of Japan. Tokyo: Kodansha International.
Le Fanu, M. (2005). Mizoguchi and Japan. London: BFI Publishing.
McDonald, Keiko (1984). Mizoguchi. Boston: Twayne Publishers.
Russell, Catherine (2011). Classical Japanese Cinema Revisited. New York: The Continuum International Publishing Group.
Wood, R. (2006). Personal Views: Explorations in Film. Wayne State University Press.
Filmography
Life of Oharu (1952) Directed by Kenji Mizoguchi [Film]. Japan: Koi Productions.
Osaka Elegy (1936) Directed by Kenji Mizoguchi [Film]. Japan: Daiichi Eiga.
Sanshō Dayū (1954) Directed by Kenji Mizoguchi [Film]. Japan: Daiei Studios
Ugetsu Monogatari (1953) Directed by Kenji Mizoguchi [Film]. Japan: Daiei Studios.
Osaka Elegy (1936) Directed by Kenji Mizoguchi [Film]. Japan: Daiichi Eiga.
Sanshō Dayū (1954) Directed by Kenji Mizoguchi [Film]. Japan: Daiei Studios
Ugetsu Monogatari (1953) Directed by Kenji Mizoguchi [Film]. Japan: Daiei Studios.