Showing posts with label Kenji Mizoguchi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kenji Mizoguchi. Show all posts

Friday, August 12, 2011

The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums (Kenji Mizoguchi, 1939)

With some 60 films to his name a mere 16 years after starting in the film industry, Kenji Mizoguchi certainly had enough on-the-job training to get his act down. Nevertheless, 1939's The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums represents such a stylistic leap it almost seems less an evolution than a complete rebirth. It is not the master's first great work — in fact, I might even continue to argue for the powerful (and more defiantly upbeat) The Straits of Love and Hate, released two years earlier — but it is the true emergence of Mizoguchi the master, ironing out the style of immaculate compositions and increasingly sophisticated historical detail (courtesy of designer Hiroshi Mizutani, who had started working with Mizguchi on Straits) that would become his forte.

Admirers routinely (and correctly) note the nobility of Mizoguchi's female characters, but that implies placement on a pedestal that, despite their recurring Madonna/whore dynamics and martyrdom, these fully human characters do not reside upon. Not all of the women in The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums is a saint; many, in fact, are gossipy and territorial, geishas tugging at men as if quarreling over a kimono. But even these sweet-talking gaggles do not feel like mere props in Mizoguchi's world, instead perpetuating a clear but unforced social commentary on the insular nature of the occupational caste system that defines each person in his period pictures. The men of the film, Kabuki actors in late-1800s Japan, are also isolated by the social restrictions of their professions, forced to adhere to strict codes of conduct even when far nobler actions prove to be outside that set of manners.

Opening on a theatrical troupe preparing for a performance, Mizoguchi establishes Kikuosuke (stage actor Shotaro Hanayagi in his film debut), the lead of the production and the adoptive son of the troupe's resident master, a famed actor named Kikugoro. The performance clearly pleases the crowd, but Kiku's on-stage antics are exaggerated, and the rest of the troupe mocks him off-stage. To his face, of course, they are nothing but complimentary, something Kiku accepts even if he suspects the falsity of the praise everyone lavishes upon "young master." Only Otoku (Kakuko Mori), the wet nurse for Kiku's brother (and the belated biological son who prompts Kikugoro's disdain for the one he adopted), is honest with the man. She meekly advises Kiku "Don't let the flattery go to your head," and the ham, refreshed by her candor, soon falls for her. Naturally, this cannot be. Better for Kiku to squander money carousing with geishas than to fall in love with a servant of a different variety.

Mizoguchi's framing is so precisely and carefully composed that it borders on the avant-garde. Extremely long takes feature frequent camera movement, repositioning the frame into yet another painterly composition. He confines the action to one plane, generally the middle distance, and routinely he opens up the frame by way of a sliding wall, turning the middle plane into the foreground as the action suddenly moves backward into another room. Even the theatrical productions exist around Mizoguchi's camera: the show the first troupe puts on climaxes with a false embankment pushed back by foreground design and given more proximity by a backdrop that gives the setup a feeling of relative closeness. His refusal to use a close-up, even when the film moves into more melodramatic territory of female sacrifice, is telling. He prefers to let each composition soak in meaning rather than forcing the overused emotional shortcut of the close-up. His camera, frequently tilted just enough to move outside of eye-level, and he pivots the camera to arrange the mise-en-scène diagonally around the characters to create tension and uncertainty.


As the film progresses, Kiku, having renounced his family to live with the banished Otoku, moves further and further down the ladder with each failed performance. Through it all, Otoku continues to encourage him, even finding the silver lining in their suffering, saying it will improve his art. When Kiku's mother confronted Otoku about a potential relationship, she cut off the poor woman's defense of supporting and nurturing by saying "You're Kozo's wet nurse, not Kikuosuke's." That's exactly what she comes to resemble as the narrative continues, always the one to hold Kiku to her bosom and provide comfort. Compare her unwavering support to the slow dimming of the film's lighting by cinematographers Yozô Fuji and Minoru Miki: by the film's final act, in which a now much-practiced Kiku at last establishes himself as an actor and Otoku sacrifices their relationship to help her husband win back his father's graces, the lighting is full-on chiaroscuro. Even when Mizoguchi has the woman confirm to the expected gender roles, he makes inescapably clear through his compositions how disgusted he is by them and how devastating such norms are to those with true devotions.

The social critique here is more subsumed into the narrative than in his previous efforts, more fluidly integrated into his formal mastery. That flecks his theatrical touch with a more downbeat cynicism that stabilizes, even lightly chills his work. When Kiku finally gives his breakthrough performance, the one that will lead him back to the city and his family, Mizoguchi pulls back and frames Kiku's moment of triumph in extreme long shot, capturing the rapturous response of the audience but also dwarfing the man within the frame, proving how unworthy this moment was for the six years of isolation and hardship through which the actor put himself and his wife. But nothing compares to the sinister rhythm of the final shots, cross-cutting between Otoku dying of tuberculosis after being belatedly approved of by Kikugoro as her now-feted husband gloriously sails down a canal just outside the window she does not have the strength to get up and look out of. The juxtaposition of her wilting body, at last fully consumed to send her love into stardom, and Kiku officiously bowing and waving to adoring crowds that despised him until so recently, is one of Mizoguchi's most memorable endings, and terrible in impact.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

The Straits of Love and Hate

It is an unspeakable tragedy and outrage that Mizoguchi Kenji's follow-up to his one-two punch of Osaka Elegy and Sisters of the Gion should exist today in a hissing, deeply scarred print with such horribly translated subtitles I imagine even the "Navajo English" Jean-Luc Godard used for his latest film are more coherent. So terrible are the subtitles that this review will be brief because I simply could not figure out what was really being said -- hell, I had to scour the Internet to make sure I'd even got a basic understanding of the plot right (in some respects, I hadn't). Even then, trying to find anything on the film was itself a chore. How could The Straits of Love and Hate have fallen so completely through the cracks, even among cinephiles?

It makes no sense, especially when you consider that its formal meticulousness makes it simply one of the most beautiful films ever made, and certainly one of the most daring uses of deep focus in the pre-Citizen Kane era. Compositions place characters in the middle and background planes, almost entirely forbidding close-ups. Yet the emotional complexity of the film -- which could partially be explained by the botched subtitles keeping any obvious dialogue, if it exists, out of the equation -- makes these characters so piercing that you forget how consistently the director refuses to take visual shortcuts.

After using the more cramped, if still elegant, mise-en-scène of his previous two features to emphasize the crush of society on women, Mizoguchi literally pulls back to tell the tale of a country girl impregnated by her lover, a feckless and irresponsible son of the local innkeeper whose rejection compels her to join a traveling kabuki troupe to get away. By placing the characters farther away from the lens, Mizoguchi surrounds them with space, to the point that the cramped 1:37:1 aspect ratio might as well be a three-projector Cinerama show.

The composition stresses the transience of the characters, highlighting the various places the troupe visits. Less literally, these shots convey the sense of doubt. Ofumi (Fumiko Yamaji) does not know how she will live and support a child on the meager subsistence of acting, and the entire troupe must share her concern when they play to half-empty halls and the handful of tiny theaters that remain for this kind of attraction. Where melodrama filled his previous features and meshed well with his ornate style, the mood and behavior in The Straits of Love and Hate is quieter, more realistic, even as the direction leaps forward.

Mizoguchi focuses upon the small travails of life, the trouble of quieting a screaming baby on a packed train, the timidity of a potential relationship with another member of the troupe. People speak of money issues the way that we still do today, with that fatalistic sigh and chuckle made from the world weighing down on you and forcing air out of your lungs. Prostitution becomes such a way of life that those trapped in it speak as if it were no different than any other job.

That such frank and subtle action is framed so immaculately could lead one to suspect a disconnect between direction and performance, but Mizoguchi's camera only enhances the film's power. Having moved in the direction of longer takes of alternating static shots and graceful track-pans between Osaka Elegy and Sisters of the Gion, the director takes an even bolder step here. Some shots are so perfectly constructed that they surprised me. An early scene places Ofumi in the foreground and her lover farther back, yet when they pivot, they line up on a diagonal plane. Suddenly, the cramped room where they argue opens up as another character climbs down the stairs to enter the background perpendicular to the preceding action. The simple act of a man coming down some stairs has a jarring effect because of the way that even basic staging can suddenly change, even in a static shot. Before this remarkable scene, the director uses a tracking shot to follow a group of characters who remain on the same plane even when their path curves and the camera must pan as it tracks to follow the action. Familiar tracks through rooms bring back Mizoguchi's penchant for crossing through rooms to emphasize the physical barriers rather than simply jumping into each room with a quick edit. At times, I wondered if he set the film with a kabuki troupe to take advantage of the labyrinthine structures of kabuki theaters, which allow for numerous shots of such powerful formalism that the mise-en-scène almost looks avant-garde.

Once again, Mizoguchi centers the action on a woman character, going so far as to tell the story of the source material from the opposite angle. Leo Tolstoy's novel Resurrection was a popular book among Japanese filmmakers, who made adaptations before and after this 1937 work. But rather than stay with the man who deals with his guilt for impregnating and denouncing a servant, Mizoguchi changes course and follows the wronged woman, showing how the horrors of the real world that seem even worse to a sheltered brat like Tolstoy's nobleman Nekhlyudov can actually offer some degree of fulfillment for those who've lived in it all their lives.

Compared to the tragedy that flecks most of the director's movies, The Straits of Love and Hate displays a hard-won optimism that reflects the complexity of the emotional arc. Though Ofumi has plenty of worries concerning her new lifestyle, she has the freedom to choose a life of doubt with the potential for liberty than a secure living as the servant of a lover whose penitence upon meeting Ofumi again does not guarantee he won't flake again. If Ofumi returns, she'll simply be a slave, waiting on her husband and dealing with his judgmental father, the man who could so callously blame her for his son's indiscretion. The film's ambiguities and realistic contradictions mirror the production, during which, according to some, the feminist, beloved Mizoguchi forced his lead actress to rehearse a scene 700 times. Even setting aside the gender questions this raises, such a story -- if true -- speaks to the relationship between believable flaws and unyielding perfectionism that make The Straits of Love and Hate one of the mostly unjustly ignored films of all time. Let us pray that restorative work is done one of these days.