Film Review: Rashomon

For my film review, I chose to examine a film from one of my favorite directors that was discussed during the course– Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon. This short, but wonderfully complex film was released in 1950, four years prior to Kurosawa’s epic Seven Samurai, at the very beginning of what is considered to be the ‘Golden Age’ of Japanese cinema. In an effort to gain some context about this film, I read up on this film and its acclaimed director’s history in Donald Richie’s A Hundred Years of Japanese Film. In doing so, I believe that I gained even more appreciation for this work and Kurosawa in a general sense.

It seems to me that Rashomon’s success at the 1951 Venice Film Festival, where it won the coveted Golden Lion, propelled Kurosawa into international acclaim; although he was already widely celebrated in Japan for Drunken Angel, released in 1948, and Stray Dog, released in 1949. I found it interesting that, despite its celebrated status in the West, Rashomon was not particularly popular among Japanese audiences of the time (who apparently largely favored work by Yasujirō Ozu). I was left pondering what made Kurosawa’s work less praiseworthy in Japan, than that of contemporaries. Although only speculations are appropriate here, it may be that although Rashomon’s plot is set in Japan, it’s in a historical context that can not be fully identified with by anyone in the world, as nobody from that period in history was alive to see it. In that, Rashomon is much less modern (for the 1950‘s) or ‘Japanese’ than perhaps Ozu’s Tokyo Story, whose setting would’ve been much easier for the original audience to identify with. 

Rashomon is a period film that is set during the Edo era, which occurred between 1603 and 1867 in Japan. This period in time is associated with a marked change in politics, culture, and of course the dominance of the samurai class in the social hierarchy. As Richie pointed out, most (if not all) of Kurosawa’s films deal with social issues in some fashion. I believe that this Edo setting, which appears to be a commonality in Kurosawa’s work, allowed the director an opportunity to comment on society as a whole without overstepping the sociocultural boundaries of the Golden Age, which are still very much associated with the Pacific War and its repercussions. 

By screening an additional film by Kurosawa, and through exposure to other renown directors throughout the course, it quickly became very clear to me that he had a very unique and interesting style of filmmaking. In my personal experience, Kurosawa films clearly impacted how I perceived certain various cinematic elements. Although there are many beyond these select few, for the scope of this essay, the formalistic elements that specifically come to mind when thinking of Seven Samurai and Rashomon are mise-en-scene and performance. I believe that these two elements are are related via the following points, which will be further evaluated at length: 1) Kurosawa’s apparent desire to use films to provide effective, yet complicated, messages and social commentary to the audience; thereby causing a necessity to meticulously consider each aspect of every shot. 2) As well as, Kurosawa’s apparent preference for long shots to convey these message(s); thereby demanding extraordinary focus by the actors. 

I felt that the opening of this film was relatively similar to the opening of Seven Samurai, in that, Kurosawa wordlessly brings his audience into the first scene through a series of long (approximately 5-10 second) shots that cut from one to another. Although not as dramatic as the crying/screaming that occurred during Seven Samurai, he effectively manipulated his camera to draw us into the film after its opening credits. He begins this process by showing a long ranged shot showing an old, worn down, city gate during an ominous rainstorm. At this point, we’re not entirely sure what to make of this rundown building but the film clearly has a sorrowful tone.

Screenshot 1: Opening, long distance shot of city gate

He then brings the audience in, with a shot that’s little closer. The entire gate isn’t in this frame, thereby making us forget about the area around the gate and focus on the area under its sheltering roof, which appears quite clearly in the lower right corner of the frame. 

Screenshot 2: Closer, yet still long shot of city gate

Next, he brings us in even further, with a wide angle shot that narrows the depth of field between the fallen column in the foreground and the two men sitting quietly under the roof. Without a word of dialogue, or even seeing their faces, the audience can’t help but get the feeling that these men are important to the film. 

Screenshot 3: Wide angle shot with narrow depth of field

He then brings us still closer, taking us out of the rain, so that we can make out more of their respective features. But still, we have no idea who these men are or how they will contribute to the film. 

Screenshot 4: Closer shot of two sitting men

Finally, we see these mysterious men in a much closer shot and dialogue begins, albeit very obscurely. All in all, this opening scene is remarkably similar to how Seven Samurai begins. In both of these films, we are slowly drawn into a scene with seated individuals who are reacting to events that we as the audience (at least for the moment) are unaware of. The openings are peaceful, with little to no movement, but somehow tragic in nature. We aren’t allowed to see much, Kurosawa makes certain of that, but we see just enough to make us curious as to why these individuals are so visibly affected. I believe this use of mise-en-scene is a message from Kurosawa to his audience, inviting them to get ‘in the mood’ for his film... as we slowly drift away from our own lives and into his cinematic realm. In doing so, he makes us feel a certain way, before the plot even begins. Thereby, he ensures that his relatively complicated social commentary is approachable by whatever audience happens to be watching. 

Screenshot 5: Two solemn men

Screenshot 6: Similar opening scene in Seven Samurai

Rashomon is a film about a murder of a samurai, and more specifically about the telling of four individuals’ personal description of the murder to an audience. The story of this murder is retold by each individual, whose take on variation is unique. These variations are continually summarized by the woodcutter to two other fellows at the city gate. In this sense this film is a story about the telling of stories. This interesting style of plot, has comes to be known as the “Rashomon Effect” and is prevalent in many modern television shows and films. All of these stories involve a bandit, the samurai, and the samurai’s wife, although the woodcutter (who appears at the start of the film at the city gate) also has an opportunity to tell his side of the tale.

Screenshot 7: The bandit

Screenshot 8: The samurai's wife

Screenshot 9: The samurai speaking from beyond the grave

Screenshot 10: The woodcutter

It would be superfluous for the point of this review to describe each of these stories in detail, but it should be noted that each of these stories conflict. Namely: the bandit (played by Toshiro Mifune who also starred as Kikuchiyo) claimed that he swindled the samurai in front of the samurai’s wife and then killed the samurai in a duel, the wife claimed that she was raped by the bandit and that she accidentally killed her husband when she told him about the rape, the samurai (who speaks from beyond the grave) claimed that he killed himself after the bandit gave him an ultimatum, and the woodcutter claimed that the bandit was in love with the samurai’s wife and narrowly won a duel for her. The film concludes with the woodcutter, who finds a baby at the gate, walking home with a newfound perspective about truth. This complicated style of plot called for very dynamic performances by the actors, who not only had to accommodate Kurosawa’s favoritism of long shots, but also had to act in slightly varied ways to facilitate the an individual’s telling of the tale. As such, I wanted to examine a clip from the film that involved a stellar performance by Machiko Kyo, who played the samurai's wife. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhbPsWQ7BG4

That clip was from the wife’s retelling of the events that are portrayed in the film. Prior to this scene, the woman claims that the bandit fled the forest after raping her. The clip begins when she looks up and sees her husband, sitting very still, who is ashamed for being tied up by the bandit and having been present for his wife’s defilement. She crawls over to him in clear agony, while he makes no effort to free himself or help her. She embraces him and begins to cry, in clear distress, again with her husband not acknowledging her. Confused at this callousness, she looks up at him. Prior to this point, we do not see his face, but just then the camera then cuts over to him briefly and we see his utter lack of emotional response. We are then reverted back to the future, with the woman staring blankly into the camera to comment on her husband’s demeanor and how “my blood turns to ice in my veins” when she thinks of him now. She begins to weep slightly and we cut past to the scene in the forest. The complete confusion is clearly evident, and the samurai’s face is away from the camera. All we see over the ensuing moments is the wife’s transition from shock, to anger, then complete devastation. She is so distraught that she urges her husband to beat her or kill her, anything to spare herself from his unnerving gaze. The camera then transitions to a closeup on her face, where she dramatically covers her eyes to temporarily hide herself from her shame and spare herself from her husband’s response. 

I felt that this clip demonstrated remarkable acting prowess, as it was not merely a combination of many long (30-50 seconds) “Kurosawa shots” but also the fact she was acting almost entirely by herself. The only other interaction that her character had during this clip was with her husband, who’s character clearly gave her very little with which to work off of. I would argue that this type of interaction is even harder than if it had been a typically monologue, because she was forced to act with what is essentially an inanimate object as opposed to directing herself to the audience. The way in which her complex emotions were conveyed, with so little conversational dialogue, really impressed me as an individual who had some acting experience in high school. 

I personally believe that the overall message in this film is concerned with the subjectiveness of truth, and is just as applicable today as it was during its release.  Every individual experience leaves one with a unique perspective that is largely personal. Throughout the film, I was reminded of the quote “history is written by the winners". Although there is no real 'winner' in this film, all of the individuals portrayed on screen can be said to be both equally right and equally wrong. This is because they are each left with a biased opinion of the event which that largely serves their own personal motives; in this film, the concept of trial for justice for the samurai's doesn't seem to be very important because the bandit's testimony is already self-incriminatory. What was important, was that each character got a chance to tell their side of the tale . When the film comes to a close, we know the woodcutter returns to his with a baby who appeared mysterious after all the tales were recounted. This child is the only concrete thing that the film produces, as everything else is entirely retrospective. Perhaps this baby is meant to be representative of the truth that we as the audience take away from this film, as babies are largely the products of their upbringing just as truth is the product of the teller.