Cinema Talk

One of the few remaining films made by Sadao Yamanaka is a comedic approach to the “Tange Sazen” (one eyed, one-armed samurai) folklore. It’s a bit unsettling to find out that the genius behind the great humanistic drama, Humanity and Paper Balloons was the same guy who would do what sounds like a conventional comedy type film. Thankfully, Pot Worth a Million Ryo is anything but conventional, Yamanaka is able to filter film through his own viewpoint and the result is a masterpiece. Remarkable on every level, but even more remarkable considering how doomed it would be in anyone else’s hands.

A samurai lord gives away a very old pot as a wedding “present” for his younger brother, only to find out the pot actually contains information on the whereabouts of a golden treasure. Unaware of it’s value, the younger brother’s wife sells the pot to the junk collectors. The younger brother discovers the value of the pot and uses it as an excuse to escape from the house and/or pressures he is facing in his marriage. Through a series of far-fetched coincidences, the pot lands up in the hands of Tange Sazen who has adopted a orphan who uses the pot as a fishbowl.

Don’t let the plot synopsis fool you, while there is plenty of silly hijinks, there’s also a lot of subtle humor going on underneath. By this point, Yamanaka had already perfected his style (well, at least as he would in his life) and he could begin to focusing on meshing all “genre” conventions into something completely unique. Early on in the film, the pot is passed from person to person, in a sequence that predates a similar structure featured in more canonized classics like The Phantom of Liberty and L’Argent.

As mentioned before, the film is a bit more dark than it’s film noir-comedy vibe would have you believe. Once again Yamanaka is depicting the ahem, “lower class.” There’s actually a lot of very cynical deadpan humor interwoven into the more superficial comedy. The social content understandably dates the film somewhat but it never becomes particularly overbearing, a problem plaguing many modern film-makers. Just as equal important, is the relationship between Tange Sazen and his geisha (?) wife. Together they create moments that can range from tender to plain silly. It sounds corny, but their constant bickering eventually brings their makeshift family (complimented by the orphan boy) closer together.

Kim Kyung-soo is an out-of-work actor. One night, he recieves a phone call from an old friend, he remains unenthusiastic, but still takes him up on a reunion offer. Kyung-soo meets his old friend, and is introduced to a dancer named Myung-suk, who is not only familiar with his acting, but also madly in love with him. They waste no time becoming acquaintances and before the night is over, they’re in bed together. Kyung-soo cannot make a commitment, unfortunately, and he has to travel back home to Seoul. On the train ride home, he meets Sun-young and another romance begins. In this case, Kyung-soo is the one left alone and heartbroken.

With the possible exception of Woman on the Beach, this is Hong’s least complex narrative structure. It ultimately plays out like a slightly more-abridged retelling of The Brown Bunny but with a larger focus on the relationship, as usual with Hong. Kyung-soo certainly comes off as being pathetic but he may very well be the most sympathetic male character in any of Hong’s films. This is not much of an accomplishment, though, seeing as how Hong is well-known for depicting the confusion brought on by romantic relationships. This film is no different, of course, but it feels slightly more personal than the rest of the director’s filmography.

The more personal tone comes with a trade-off: this is the first time in any of Hong’s films that any one line of dialogue wasn’t completely convincing. There’s this slightly silly verbal motif throughout the film that actually brings to mind the fatherly advice in Mizoguchi’s Sansho the Bailiff. This problem is not overwhelming, thankfully, especially considering how great this is to my last Hong experience, The Day a Pig Fell Into the Well. If you like seeing drunk people argue and be awkward (which you should) then this film will impress you a great deal, as will the rest of Hong’s oeuvre.

Only one year prior to this film, Kenji Mizoguchi made Gion Bayashi – a wonderful slice-of-life type drama that reflects the director at his most subdued. That film is much more along the lines of Ozu and Naruse. In 1954, along with this film, Mizoguchi also made Sansho the Bailiff, a poetic but slightly too sentimental film that is often regarded as his greatest achievement. The contrast in style isn’t too overwhelming but both of those films represent two sides of Mizoguchi’s film making. Yet, Chikamatsu Monogatari doesn’t really fall into either category. It is melodramatic and theatrical, but it’s emotional impact is unaffected and unparalleled.

Osan is married to the wealthy Ishun, but their relationship is strictly superficial. Confusion in the city leads to many accusing her of having an affair with Mohei. They flee the city, at first to avoid punishment. However, as they continue to dodge Ishun’s men, their relationship grows. They fall hopelessly in love and the final result is, as the title implies, tragic.

Mizoguchi has quite an infamous off-screen reputation. He was stabbed by a prostitute, threw tantrums, beat his actors, and even worse, trashed Naruse. For better or worse, I had never see this type of anger manifested in any of his films. In a sort of similar fashion, Vincent Gallo is not completely likable off the screen but in a film like The Brown Bunny we see him, or at least we see what we think of him. In other words, he (along with the film) is self-indulgent, which tends to be used as a negative term in film criticism. Chikamatsu Monogatari is extremely self-indulgent, but for me, that’s part of it’s appeal. I’d hate to say the film is endearing simply because Mizoguchi decides to be so transparent in his feelings but that’s why it “got” to me.

Of course, a lot of the film’s unrelentless romanticism is most likely a result of the story’s source, a bunraku play written by Monzaemon Chikamatsu in the 17th century. At times, the dramatic coincidences and the theatrical acting become unbearable, especially when put up against Gion Bayashi but this film ends up feeling a lot more genuine. As great as Gion is, it’s pretty much just a Naruse/Ozu film with some of Mizoguchi’s usual stylistic touches. This, on the other hand, feels like a true Mizoguchi film – harm treatment of the main characters in a story that gets more and more tragic by the minute. 

The sheer melodrama of the typical Mizoguchi story arc is not something that appeals to me greatly but Mizoguchi himself feels well aware of the cinematic limitations that such a narrative brings. He indulges in enough human agony that the film, while over-the-top, never lapses into self-parody. Even though such a story obviously couldn’t occur today, the character’s emotions are undoubtedly real. If one can’t adjust to such relentless heartbreak, they can at least appreciate the film’s beautiful cinematography. I’ve always liked Mizoguchi quite a bit, but my respect for him (at least as filmmaker) greatly increased after watching this. It seems that most Mizoguchi fans don’t see this the way I do; a flawed, misunderstood masterpiece that displays all of his faults but more importantly, all of his strengths.

Working on a biographical documentary doesn’t seem to cramp Shunji Iwai’s technical ambitions. In an almost remarkable achievement, he, as the title suggests, tells the Kon Ichikawa story but without any voice over. The story is instead told through inter titles, clips, animated still photographs (a misstep on Iwai’s part), and reenacted childhood occurrences. It seems as though Iwai has filtered his usual stylistic excess into something that’s suppose to be “classy” but I like this film quite a bit in any case.

Of course, I should admit up front that I am a fan of Ichikawa’s films but I still think there were many positive factors provided by Iwai, himself. The inter titles, in particular, gain an almost poetic profoundness. I also like Iwai’s decision to reenact some unimportant events in Ichikawa’s early life as well as his decision to not reenact anything that happened to Ichikawa once he became an adult. I suppose the film could be blamed for giving Ichikawa’s life a “tragic” tilt but it’s nowhere near as bad as the characterization in the Cassavetes documentary that appears on the Criterion set. In all honesty, I was almost in tears by the end. This is to Iwai’s credit as he gives the film a very (Chris Marker-esque) memory mood and applies to the relationship between Ichikawa and his screen writing collaborator/wife Natto Wada. The announcement of her death is just as tragic as anything I’ve seen in a fictional film. This does have problems, though, like bad music and the animated stock footage. There’s self-indulgent touches as well, but this is Iwai’s love letter to Ichikawa and little could be done to make it better.

On the surface, this may seem to be an early example of the Japanese exploitation films that would become very popular about five years later. In fact, this film occasionally feels like Seijun Suzuki’s own interpretation, if only for the technicolor cinematography and the presence of some sleazy elements. However, past the surface, this is still very much a Tomu Uchida film. His compassion towards his character and the issues they face, is handled delicately and his semi-cynical humor is as apparent as ever. Still, I’d be lying if I said this was on the same level as Uchida’s own Bloody Spear on Mount Fuji.

Sano, a wealthy silk merchant, has it all financially, but a scar on his face has crippled his love life. On a trip to Yoshiwara, he meets Otsuru, the only prostitute willing to spend time with him. As an ex-convict, she is also looked down upon by her peers. Sano realizes that she may be the only woman who isn’t disgusted by him and he invests almost all his money into setting her free. The feeling is not mutual, Otsuru is using Sano’s money to begin a new life with her husband, a man whose existence is unknown to Sano.

Tomu Uchida is, once again, delicate in establishing his character and once again, he makes the occasional violent outbursts have real emotional repercussions. He also structures the action sequence – in relation to the rest of the narrative – in the same way as Bloody Spear but both instances are spread out and paced in a way that when the fights do start, they usually feel spontaneous. I might even go as far as to say that the motivations for violent acts are completely warranted but it might sound like I have some issues myself.

If I do have one particularly large problem with this film it’s that Uchida has begun to oversimplify characterization. From the moment Otsuru appears on the screen, it’s made very clear that she is deceitful. When we see Sano, we are suppose to immediately sympathasize with him – he’s lonely, old, honest and giving. The film unintentionally implies that if you are a nice person, mean people will come and take advantage of you. Once one thinks about it more, Otsuru’s intentions seem quite rationale. A rich old guy comes along willing to give you everything, society has taught you that he is an awful person, and without his help, you’ll be stuck becoming a nobody. Uchida doesn’t give this point of view much thought.

Perhaps it’s good that this is considered to be one of his lesser, yet (ironically) more easily obtainable, films. Otherwise, his reputation as a liberal humanist might be thrown into question (at least by me) by such a lack of female characterization. Then again, Sano’s response to her at the end of the film doesn’t look particularly noble. I guess it’s a testament to Uchida’s skill as a filmmaker that his adaptation of an old kabuki play can make someone ponder so much.