Death By Bamboo: A Review of Hara Kiri

Seppuku (切腹), or Hara Kiri to Western audiences, has been hailed as the quintessential masterpiece of Japanese post-war director Kobayashi Masaki, and also one of the greatest samurai movies of all time. The film was released by Shochiku Studios, presented in 2.35:1 aspect ratio and black and white, in the fall of 1962 and immediately captured the attention and imagination of critics and audiences domestically and abroad.

It won the Special Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival in 1963. It is a masterfully executed movie, with the top actors and producers of the time. Kobayashi collaborated with writer Hashimoto Shinobu, the screenwriter behind Golden Age classics like Rashomon, Seven Samurai, and Ikiru, to make this 133 minute critique of samurai culture and feudalistic society. At first glance, many audiences would classify Seppuku as a samurai movie through and through, on level with other jidai-geki (period dramas) that examined bushido (way of the warrior) and how the samurai lived by it. Critics and scholars of Japanese film, however, would disagree. Instead of the normal chanbara (violent, without much plot or character development), renown film historian Donald Richie described Seppuku as an “anti-samurai” film for the negative critique of authority and the overrated “way of the warrior.” According to Richie and other Asian film scholars, including Joan Mellen, Kobayashi’s films all share the common thread of resisting authority and the powerless individual rebelling against the corrupt, organized group. Kobayashi was particularly interested in breaking down the exalted tradition of bushido, and exposing the faulted men who built it up in the first place. He overturns the force of bushido and its pretentiousness and wastefulness by depicting the fallacies constructed and maintained by the over-zealous elites that keep up the status quo at the expense of the individual at the bottom of the pecking order. Kobayashi shows the illusion of heroism and sacrifice with a smart ronin and a group of conceited, and by no means perfect, leaders in the samurai class.

The film opens with the ronin Tsugumo Hanshiro, played by the forceful Nakadai Tatsuya, asking to commit honorable seppuku (death by disembowelment) in the forecourt of the Edo residence of the powerful Iya Clan. From the chief retainer at the house, Saito Kageyu, played by Mikuni Rentaro, the audience learns in flash back of a younger samurai coming to them not long before asking for the same privilege. This samurai, Chijiwa Motome (Ishihama Akira) was from the same disbanded Fukushima Clan as Tsugumo, and was quickly granted his wish of suicide, if forcefully and unnecessarily painfully. Saito also prepares to let Tsugumo die in the front court, but proceedings are halted when Tsugumo requests three particularly skilled Iya samurai to be his seconds. None of the men are present, and while servants look for them, Tsugumo relates his story of how he came to Edo. It turned out that he had known Chijiwa since he was young and had taken him as a son-in-law. Having no money to support his family, Chijiwa had gone to the Iya Clan to try to extort money from them. Of course, he was unsuccessful. Tsugumo set out on a quest of revenge; he defeated and took the top knots of the three samurai (the same three he requested) that had forced Chijiwa to commit seppuku, and then went to the Iya Clan itself with the intention of exposing their worst lies and carefully hidden secrets, and then killing himself. He fights off many members of the house single handedly, and eventually stabs himself to death. Saito, angry and confused at his best samurai, orders their immediate death and carefully covers up the carnage of the day to report to his Daimyo lord. Through his curious characters and plot twists, Kobayashi attacks the worst lies and traits that characterized feudal society and how the aggressively oppressive group squashed the individual voice out of existence.

Seppuku is a quintessential work of Kobayashi’s, for its contextual analysis of the worst parts of greater Japanese society and its technical inventiveness that sets it apart from other samurai, and indeed Japanese, movies. This film is about the lies and fallacies that are carefully hidden by the institution at the expense of the individual; the heavy organized group oppresses those at that bottom by pretending they have everything of importance, while in reality, they have everything to lose. Tsugumo is the oppressed party in this movie, representing the dissident individual disgusted with the treatment of himself and of his son-in-law Chijiwa at the hands of the pretentious and hollow Iya Clan. The Iya Clan, therefore, is the institution that Kobayashi seeks to subvert and undermine.

Kobayashi uses the recurring symbol of samurai armor to symbolize, not only the Iya Clan that practically worships it, but all organized states and mainstream societies. The armor has a hard, showy exterior that protects and hides the terrible secret inside: emptiness. Kobayashi has multiple long shots of the armor seated in its full grandeur, and also tight close-ups, where the mask fills the whole frame; the empty eye sockets are lidded in shadow, as if withdrawn so that no one will discover its faulty interior. By the end of the film, it has been knocked off its lofty perch by Tsugumo in the course of his fight, but after his death, servants carefully returned it to its original stateliness. Kobayashi’s message is clear: the oppressed may fight and successfully make a point, but the institution is simply too big for any one man to bring down, and so will continue on as usual. The cycle continues, as it covers up the lies the individual exposed and makes a promise to work harder so that no one will discover them again.

If one could describe in one word the technical film elements of this film, the word would be “sharp.” There is little in this film, including the music and camera work that could be described as soft, harmonious, or delicate. Kobayashi and his cinematographer, Miyajima Yoshio, make use of unconventional, more Western-style techniques that heighten the intensity and emotion of every scene, leaving painfully little up to the imagination. The fighting and death scenes are particularly well done in this way, and also are used to show stunning realizations and emotions by Rentaro and Ishihama (Saito and Chijiwa, respectively). Camera shots are tense, fast moving, and off-balance, often making use of the off-center Dutch angle that emote fear, pain, anger, and sadness. Even the cuts are short and jarring, and while there are some long takes, there are no soft dissolves or wipes to separate one scene from another. There are many close ups on the characters’ faces that fill the whole frame, demonstrating exceptional facial acting by the actors.The camera is usually in high focus, taking in every detail of the actors’ faces, from the roots of their hairline, to the pores and sweat on their skin, to the obvious expressions of their feelings. What is curious is that Nakadai rarely gets his own close-up. He never shows the kind of emotion that Rentaro and Ishihama must be credited for. His character is somehow transcendent of that kind of weakness and commands an aura that instead tells the camera to stay back. The zooming close up of his face at the beginning, after hearing of Chijiwa’s fate, becomes unnecessary at his blank and unaffected expression. What he is not exempt from, however, is the expert use of the black and white contrast. Intense lighting throws highlights and shadows into deep contrast, emphasizing every detail. The contrast of black (or dark grey that represents crimson red) on white is beautiful in this film, but becomes horribly real in the scenes of seppuku, while objects in shades of light grey fade unimportantly into the back ground. It is interesting that Kobayashi, making a movie about lies and fake constructions of identity and behavior, is using such realistic techniques that give the sense of intimacy with the camera subjects, whether the audience likes it or not.

The sound, as well, is exceptional and also displays notes of tension and emotion. The dialogue is crisp and blunt, all spoken in the deep husky voices of the nearly completely male cast. Nakadai helms the movie with the deepest, most intimidating voice of them all, showing a strong force of character and will. The sounds of steel on steel are clipped and brief, but resonate loudly in the audience’s ears. Takemitsu Toru’s score for this film suits it impeccably, using what sounds like traditional Japanese drum and string instruments; the sharp, percussive sounds often signal the painful realizations by the characters and usually accompanies a change of frame or tense close up. It does not help to alleviate the stress of the characters and audience, but rather seeks to drive it still higher.

Kobayashi is a champion of the underdog, particularly if he stands alone against a group all bent on his destruction. Kobayashi uses his actors and camerawork to their absolute highest potential to illustrate his points of the individual versus the group. The painful scene of Chijiwa’s suicide is just one of these examples that show the individual’s plight. Chijiwa’s head is bent, as if resigned to his fate, while the high-seated Saito looks down on him. Chijiwa is surrounded by dozens of hostile samurai, all facing him, ready to witness his untimely death.

Later, when Tsugumo is seated in the same spot, Kobayashi uses high angles looking down on the courtyard from the house’s roof, showing Tsugumo’s lone dark frame encircled by the same horde of dangerous men. Again, Tsugumo seems to be above such intimidation, and keeps his head high and defiant. In both these cases, the audience can see the weight and strength of the group pressing in from all sides on the individuals. Kobayashi fits some hope for the individual in to the fight scene between Tsugumo and the Iya retainers. One man is ultimately powerless against the sheer weight of the institution, so Tsugumo’s fighting style is one that uses no power of his own, but uses the opposing group’s own forces against them. Tsugumo’s valiant last stand involves him throwing the hallowed suit of armor to the floor, not before using it as a shield against his opponents. His final act of seppuku is one of a man cornered by overwhelming numbers, and cruelly cut short by the desperate use of firearms on the part of the Iya samurai. The Iya samurai, themselves are unremarkable (apart from the three already shamed and dispatched) and move in unison against Tsugumo, like one big breathing animal, relying on their strength in numbers more than actual skill. In both these scenes, the group oppresses the individual and drives him out of relevance and importance for the sake of their own maintained dominance.

Perhaps the most important scene in the movie is the last one, when Saito is writing a report of the day’s events for his Lord Bennosuke. Interspersed with close ups of Saito’s face are shots of faceless servants clearing the evidence of the carnage and mistakes. They wipe blood off the walls, throw away the shameful severed topknots of their top samurai, and pick up the dissembled suit of armor. Saito’s voice over describes the woven tale of lies to cover up the dead and disgraced Iya samurai, and the “unremarkable” death of ronin Tsugumo Hanshiro. The final shot of the film is the empty face of the armor’s mask, maintaining the façade of indefatigability and continuing to hide the emptiness and lies that fill its interior. The last lingering questions are these: was Tsugumo successful? In Kobayashi’s mind, the fallacies of the organized regime can be discovered and resisted if one is of strong enough mind and heart, like Tsugumo. Thus, he accomplished what any single person could hope to do, in discovering the biggest falsehoods by the institution and challenging it directly. Kobayashi never wanted Tsugumo to bring down the entire Iya Clan single handedly because that would be unrealistic and, worse, uninteresting.

Kobayashi Masaki’s rightly named masterpiece, Seppuku, is demonstrative of his thematic style in the clear criticism and undermining of authority and crushing oppressiveness against individual dissidents. He carefully exposes the hidden lies that hold up the most powerful institutions. Through his expert use of technical resources and acting, he crafts a film of outstanding social content and artistic expression. Symbols and attention arresting camera work addresses the issue of the flawed organized group and having those same fallacies pointed out by a singularly brave character, and the subsequent silencing of him by force, only to rebuild and continue on as though nothing of consequence had happened. Seppuku is truly an “anti-samurai” film, for the unconventional and thoroughly non-traditional ideas and elements ingrained in it, but because of this, is all the more important to the samurai genre for the demonstration of its favorite supercilious tropes.

Works Cited and Links:

Eggert, Brian. "The Definitives - Harakiri (1962)." Deep Focus Review. 3 Sept. 2009. Web. 13 Nov. 2011. http://www.deepfocusreview.com/reviews/harakiri.asp

Introduction by Donald Richie. Criterion Collection “Hara Kiri” DVD. New York, NY: Nov. 2005.

Mellen, Joan. “Hara Kiri: Kobayashi and History.” Criterion Collection “Hara Kiri” DVD Booklet. New York, NY: 2005.

Peterson, S. "Japanese Bushido." Japanese Bushido. Web. 13 Nov. 2011. http://www.japanesebushido.org/

"Samurai Cinema." Wikipedia. Web. 14 Nov. 2011. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samurai_cinema

“Seppuku.” Festival De Cannes. Web. 13 Nov. 2011. http://www.festival-cannes.com/en/archives/ficheFilm/id/3126/year/1963.html

Priestesses, Monks, and Fanboys! OH MY

As an starter, I send you this link about our favorite contemporary Fanboys: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJNBfBr-OGU Enjoy!

Introduction

Japanese religious ideals are rooted in its cultural past, but were changed or exaggerated drastically during the Meiji Restoration and later decades of the Militarist regime. Post-war Japanese cinema shows these changes and scrutinizes and criticizes the things that were lost or changed beyond recognition during these troubled years. The religious traditions or obsessive followings that defined Japan since ancient times or in recent years are represented with varying degrees of sympathy, ridicule, or even fear. Shinto is not often discussed, but exists in the background as a symbol of the State Shinto and deified Emperor from the turn of the century. The fanatic obsessions with Militarism and Nationalism that defined war-time politics and society, arguably a religion in the vein of Communism and totalitarian government, are questioned and contrasted to more rational and humanist schools of thought. Finally, Buddhism gathers the most sympathetic representation because of the contrastingly peaceful and compassionate doctrines, providing an explanation for the Japanese people’s suffering and also providing a way out of their worst times.

Three films from the post-war Golden Age of Japanese cinema show these religious themes in the context of simple stories in ancient or more contemporary settings. Mizoguchi Kenji’s classic masterpieces Ugestu (Ugestu Monogatari 1953) and Sansho the Bailiff (Sanshō Dayū 1954) are quintessential to understanding the sentiments of his time, to see all the influences, ancient and contemporary, acting upon the Japanese people: Shinto, fanatic Militarism, and Buddhism. Sansho is one of the only films that examined Shinto, and even that very briefly. Ugetsu is useful in shedding light on the nature of fanaticism, in showing its source, duration, and lasting consequences. Ichikawa Kon’s The Burmese Harp (Biruma no Tategoto 1956) is a more contemporary story but makes direct references to the Militarists and their fanatical motivations towards the shrouded future. In examining Buddhism, Sansho the Bailiff is again insightful as it reminds its audience of the core values of Buddhism and comforts them in its promise in an end to their suffering. The Burmese Harp expands on that and shows the way forward to the end by the compassionate and peaceful practices associated with Buddhism. These post-war films are masterpieces of thematic and cinematographic work, and are thus windows into the sentiments and problems on the forefront of the mind of every Japanese.

Shinto

Shinto is the oldest spiritual tradition of Japan, existing long before the coming of other religious and political influences from abroad. Having survived in various forms into the 19^th Century, it was elevated to the status of official state religion during the Meiji Restoration. State Shinto affected the Japanese’s perception of the Emperor; he became the irrefutable god of the Japanese people and his “divine” words spelled disaster for the events of the 1930’s and 40’s. This particular religious tradition is not often discussed in Japanese cinema, but acts as a background reminder of the deified Emperor and his reverberating effects across Japanese society and history.

In Mizoguchi Kenji’s 1954 classic, Sansho the Bailiff Shinto is briefly referenced with pointed symbolism and a passive critique of State Shinto. The small role of the Shinto priestess is the only direct reference, but the significance of this character is great for the thematic message of the film. Shinto is important to the thematic metaphors of the film in that it is connected with all associations, including the deified Emperor. The priestess herself is evil and deceitful, and by extension, Shinto and the Emperor himself also hold this image. Although the role is small, the effects are important to the plot line and characters in the movie, as the Emperor was vastly important to Japanese politics, society, and history. Sansho includes small representation of Shinto is symbolic of State Shinto and the god-like Emperor of Japan, but the effects of both are likened to the cause of the momentous events that would follow as a consequence of their actions.

Fanaticism

I got the opportunity to talk with someone this past summer with quite the…..international perspective. Having lived in various parts of the world throughout his life and being fluent in four languages, he was remarkably well versed in world cultural histories and sociological tendencies, particularly in America, Europe, and the Middle East. He described Stalinist Communism as a religion. He had a simple reason for this: that when a Communist is asked why something might be a certain way, his answer is “Because Marx/Lenin/Stalin says so.” This is the same answer that a religious person would give when asked the same question: “Because Jesus/Muhammad/The Gods say so.” Fanaticism is a religion; it rules society and politics when taken to the state level. This same fanaticism described the Militarist regime following the Meiji Restoration in Japan, affecting everything down to the everyday lives and thought processes of the Japanese people. Fanaticism at the level of the war-time Japanese government is represented and examined in the post-war eras of Japanese cinema.

Another of Mizoguchi’s most famous films, Ugestu offers commentary on the nature of fanaticism and puts it in the perspective of its source, duration, and consequences. The male leads in Ugestu, Genjuro and Tobei, are rather juvenile and needlessly ambitious for their various ends, whether the glory of a samurai, or a wealthy, beautiful wife. Their portrayal is irrational, emotional and determined in achieving unrealistic goals. These goals—glory and women—come and go quickly, leaving only a vague and distant memory, but lasting consequences, in the loss of self-importance for one wife and death for the other. In pursuing unimportant and transient things to the very end, Genjuro and Tobei forget the more essential and closer-to-home entities in their lives, like their wives’ and families’ wellbeing. The women, on the other hand, are rational, thoughtful, and practical as they try to live as best they can without the help of their fanciful husbands. Mizoguchi offers a critique on the nature of fanaticism and creates an allegory for the Militarist in Japan; the male-run political system quickly leaves reason and rationality behind to follow their own ambitions and relegating their real duties to the back seat—like the general wellbeing of the general populace. The consequences of fanatic behaviors are, indeed, unfortunate as shown in history and in Ugestu. Genjuro’s wife Miyagi dies as a side effect of his absence and Tobei’s wife is forced into prostitution because he abandoned her to become a samurai. Similarly, the Japanese people are neglected and sacrificed for the cause of the Militarist parties in their government. Fanaticism in Ugestu is on a smaller scale than what ruled Japan for decades, but Mizoguchi accurately describes its causes and effects for all parties involved.

The Burmese Harp is a unique post-war film in that it directly references the war and portrays it from a soldier’s point of view. The protagonists are cast as the “good guys,” but it would not be complete without the over-zealous soldiers who refuse to surrender. This is a direct representation of the fanatic militarists that ruled Japan through war-time, and Ichikawa, like Mizoguchi, tries to shed light on the nature of their fanaticism and possible reasons for it. The Militarists are directly contrasted with the “good guys” Captain Inoue and Corporal Mizushima and make drastic departures from what is rational and benevolently-motivated to the point of idiocy and rashness. Ichikawa has some hope for them, and they are not all bad in that they do have doubts about the objects of their obsessions. The careful acting in the all-important cave scene is crucial—the wide eyed soldiers, doubtful glances toward their commander, hesitations and faltered steps forward—what does that say about fanatical militarism?

It seems the soldiers are unsure how to act, thinking about what has always been true—never to surrender—and what might have changed—the possibility of losing. Unable to think clearly on the matter, they stick to what they knew to be true and act out of a combination of fear of the consequences and their sense of duty to their defeated Emperor.The possibility of change is scary and thus incomprehensible, so they cling to their fanaticism, having been left with little else. The saddest part is that they stick to their beliefs until the very end and lose their lives for the already lost cause. This is an interesting representation of fanaticism and differs than the one in Ugestu for thehesitant steps that the Militarists make. They seem to be answering to a higher power and are blinded by their devotion to it and by their fear of losing that power. Fanaticism in Japan had that affect on the people in that everyone belonged to it, without necessarily understanding its consequences, source, or nature. Can they be blamed for this?

Buddhism

We turn finally to Buddhism, which is an extremely important element in Japanese culture and likewise in Japanese cinema. Sansho the Bailiff gives insight into the importance of Buddhism in the everyday life of a Japanese, and reminds the fatigued survivors of the worst war in living memory that there is some good still left in the world. The representation of the spiritual tradition is a sympathetic one, showing Buddhist practices and figures in a good light. In the story, the Bodhisattva statues are central to the plot and thematic scheme, either of the mother figure Kannon or the child and traveler patron Jizou. The talisman that Zushio keeps around his neck is his only connection to his illustrious heritage, a reminder of his revered and benevolent father, a source of inspiration and protection when he needs it, and the object that identifies him to his mother.

Zushio’s father, himself represents a Bodhisattva—an Enlightened being who remained behind to help others reach Enlightenment, and certainly a beloved and essentially good character. Other Buddhist symbols are referenced, such as the temple and its residing monks, which give shelter and healing to Zushio when he is on the run from his former master. These slave drivers represent the institution, “The System,” if you will, that held Japan in its vice-like grip for decades before being finally defeated; thus the temple is a haven from these robotic hunters, and is one that continues to provide structure and help even after their departure. Pervading throughout the entire film is the presence of the Four Noble Truths in Buddhist theology, which decree the presence of suffering in the world and the way to end that suffering. Zushio’s father and sister had realized the path to Nirvana, and passed soundlessly from the transient world. Mizoguchi’s benevolent representation of Buddhism stands in contrast to the less than friendly ones devoted to Shinto and fanatic Militarism, and he is careful to remind his audience of the core values of peace, serenity, and compassion that Buddhism so vehemently teaches.

Like in its representation of Militarism, The Burmese Harp is literal in its representation of certain religious ideals that existed in Japan. The Japanese soldier that realizes his own path to Enlightenment and stays behind to help the Japanese that could never go home find peace is a direct reference to Bodhisattvas.

Corporal Mizushima leaves behind his material world, his former company and friends, and transcends into a higher plane of understanding that signals his passage into Nirvana. His personal sacrifice becomes irrelevant as he gains this new knowledge and sets out on his quest to bring humanity back to the world. We join Mizushima in his quest and ask the same questions that he does about the world: Why do we suffer? Why must it happen? How can we, as human beings, inflict this pain and suffering onto our fellows? Buddhism answers this easily with its premises of the Four Noble Truths. It promises an end to the suffering, in that it and everything else we hold dearest in the world will eventually slip away because of impermanence and delusions of what does matter. This spiritual journey of the audience is gradually and easily brings them back to the core teachings of Buddhism, letting them realize the disparities between that kind of life and their current situation, and giving them the inspiration to move forward in the new vein of compassion and peaceful benevolence. The suffering that pervaded the previous years has past and the only way to progress is to continue on the path to Enlightenment with love and compassion. The Burmese Harp is particularly effective in showing the Buddhist ideals that help the Japanese audience understand Buddhism at its core and be inspired to move ahead under its benevolent teachings.

Conclusion

The post-war work of Kichikawa Ken and Mizoguchi Kenji are incredibly effective in purveying the sentiments and issues of modern Japan, as they grapple with their perceptions of the past and the uncertain future. Of the religious followings of the time—Shinto, fanatic Militarism, and Buddhism—the filmmakers favor Buddhism for its teachings of peace, and its promise to the end of suffering the former two brought in the past and as a way to peace and Enlightenment in the future. Thus, the representations of Shinto and Militarism is less than sympathetic, leaning more on the audience’s perceptions of the defamed Emperor and irrational fanatic behaviors. Buddhism stands alone as the best way forward, contrasting the current and past states of suffering with benevolence and peace. While some of these ideals embody ancient principles and others reflect modern attitudes, they have nonetheless left their permanent mark on the minds and sensitivities of the Japanese people.

Some Helpful Links:

Japanese Nationalism: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_nationalism

State Shinto: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/State_Shinto

The Four Noble Truths: http://www.thebigview.com/buddhism/fourtruths.html
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