KAGEMUSHA (Akira Kurosawa, 1980).
In 16th century Japan, a thief (Tatsuya Nakadai) is spared his life
because of his resemblance to Shingen, a powerful warlord (also played
by Nakadai), and becomes a "shadow warrior," a double used to deceive
the warlord's enemies during battle. But in the midst of a decisive
push against his rivals, Shingen is killed, and has left instructions
that his death be kept a secret for three years so that the war can
be successfully concluded. The bewildered thief must be trained by Shingen's
brother (Tsutomo Yamazaki) to impersonate the dead lord, fooling Shingen's
little grandson and concubines, and acting as a convincing figurehead
for the army.
Kurosawa's theme is how the trappings of power -- the intricate titles,
ceremonies and signals that make up the display of authority -- come
to determine the substance of power itself. Through the perspective
of the outsider, the thief disguised as a lord, the film shows how history
is made through the performance of roles, and men lose themselves by
becoming the parts they play. The conventional idea would be for the
thief to rise to the occasion and become a hero, but Kurosawa's purpose
is far more profound. He uses the outsider to expose the hollowness
of the heroic ideal itself.
Similarly, Kagemusha's spectacular visual elements -- the vivid
period detail, the crowd scenes and panoramic views of armies -- would
seem to lend itself to an epic treatment. But Kurosawa deliberately
undercuts this tendency in interesting ways. Shingen is shot offscreen,
and then later the warlords interrogate the sniper to try to find out
what happened. Or we glimpse the action from the perspective of the
enemy spies, who can never figure out whether Shingen is really dead
or not. A crucial battle is presented as a confusing clash of forces
galloping here and there in the night, with the pseudo-warlord sitting
on a hill with his generals appearing brave and unflappable, when in
fact he has no idea what's going on. And in the final sequence, Kurosawa
doesn't even show the soldiers falling in battle, but only the reactions
of the thief and the ghastly after-effects of carnage.
This deeply critical attitude to war and power, this mixture of irony
and fatalism, makes Kagemusha a troubling and even difficult
experience. It's as if Kurosawa were taking the epic form, the traditional
God's-eye view of human action, and compressing it into the cramped
and fearful space of a single, frail and fallible individual consciousness,
where the panoply of historical action appears like a dreadful, oppressive
dream.
I wish that this brilliant conception was carried off with complete
success. But Nakadai isn't expressive enough as a performer to really
let us into his character (comic actor Shinaro Katsu was originally
cast in the role, but was fired, and you have to wonder if something
vital was lost there). The film's extremely stylized approach tends
to crowd out the human element, which makes the picture seem too detached.
Nevertheless, the partial successes of great artists are more rewarding
than the triumphs of the merely talented, and Kagemusha remains
one of Kurosawa's most vigorous and thought-provoking works.
GERTRUD (Carl Th. Dreyer, 1964).
Gertrud (Nina Pens Rode), a beautiful and accomplished singer, tells
her husband (Bendt Rothe), a prominent lawyer who is about to be appointed
a cabinet minister, that she wants to end their marriage. She needs
a man for whom love is more important than career, and in fact she's
having an affair with a younger man (Baard Owe), a passionate, undisciplined
composer. Meanwhile, her former lover (Ebbe Rode), a famous poet, has
returned to Denmark from a self-imposed exile to receive an award, and
his desire to renew their relationship leads to heartbreak.
The great Dreyer's final work takes place at the turn of the century,
and it has a quiet dignity that is reminiscent of an older style of
theater. The story is told in a series of long takes, with the camera
moving slowly or not at all -- and instead of depicting dialogue with
alternating establishing shots and close-ups, the characters are always
shown together in the frame. In this, as always in his work, Dreyer
found an original way of expressing his theme. Gertrud seeks a love
that is absolute and all-consuming. In contrast, the men (and the society)
around her cannot offer such devotion. The constant visual emphasis
on relationship has the paradoxical effect of expressing the essential
aloneness of the human soul even as it yearns for connection.
In the extremely demanding title role (she is in almost every frame
of the film), Pens Rode is stunning. She communicates an intense inwardness
while maintaining a formal, statuesque quality that lifts the material
(adapted from a domestic drama by Hjalmar Söderberg) to a tragic
level. The black-and-white photography (Henning Bendsten) has the beauty
of fine crystal. The film is completely focused on Gertrud's character
-- her determination, terrible anguish, and ultimate acceptance of a
new destiny. Consequently, there are no stylistic flourishes or distractions.
Dreyer has pared his method down to the essentials, so that the audience
can be utterly absorbed in this one soul's inner journey.
Gertrud believes that nothing in life should matter more than love,
and she refuses to compromise on this point. Dreyer does not try to
convince us that this belief is right or wrong. Gertrud is portrayed
with great sympathy and sensitivity -- she is incredibly strong, intelligent,
and principled -- but her power as a character is not depicted at the
expense of the other characters, who seem real and recognizably human.
They all express their thoughts to one another with profound eloquence,
and it works because the style Dreyer employs allows the work's theatrical
nature to flourish without seeming either static or overtly "cinematic."
The picture got terribly negative reviews when it was first released
(it was even booed at Cannes). This was at the height of the New Wave,
when boldly innovative cutting and camerawork were all the rage. Dreyer's
austere, carefully controlled technique cut against the grain, as did
the period setting and its upper class milieu. But this was one director
who never cared for fashion, and always followed his own star. Fortunately,
time has vindicated the film, and it has gained the respect and admiration
it deserves.
UNDER CAPRICORN (Alfred Hitchcock, 1949).
In the early 19th century, a carefree Irishman named Charles Adare
(Michael Wilding) travels to Australia to make his fortune, with the
help of his cousin, the colonial governor. After encountering disreputable
landowner and ex-convict Sam Flusky (Joseph Cotten), he becomes enmeshed
in an intrigue involving Flusky's highborn wife Henrietta (Ingrid Bergman)
whom he had known as a child in Ireland. Charles encourages Henrietta
to break out of her despair and alcoholism, but meets with disturbing
opposition from the Fluskys' imperious housekeeper (Margaret Leighton).
The story, which bears some superficial similarities to Rebecca,
is more thoughtful in its themes and concerns than is usual with Hitchcock.
Under Capricorn means to say something about how time and hardship
can ruin the idealism of young love. Bergman's character, the movie's
central one, is a touching and intriguing example of the conflict within
a loving spirit between hope for the future and despairing acquiescence
in the defeats of the past. Although it is frequently jarring to hear
the Swedish actress attempt an Irish accent (Cotten doesn't even try
to disguise his American one), she performs valiantly, and breathes
quite a bit of life into her scenes. One long sequence in which she
tells Charles the story of how she eloped with her husband, and the
consequences that ensued, is a minor tour de force of sustained emotional
expression. Sad to say, in spite of her good work, and solid support
from Wilding, the picture struggles to hit its mark throughout, and
ultimately fails.
This was Hitchcock's second independent production (after Rope)
since breaking free from Selznick and the constraints of the Hollywood
studio system. The master's hand is evident in the remarkable use of
long takes and the moving camera, following characters as they glide
from room to room, or travelling from two people talking on the first
floor to someone standing on a balcony above, all without cuts. There
are some striking visual compositions, and even a good shock effect
or two, to remind us that this is a Hitchcock movie. But period films
were never his strong suit, and here the Australian historical setting
seems awkward and unconvincing. Although Jack Cardiff is an eminent
cinematographer, his lush color scheme doesn't fit well with Hitchcock's
brisk editing style. Joseph Cotten is woefully miscast in the important
role of the husband -- the film needed a much stronger and more charismatic
actor who could stand toe to toe with Bergman. Cotten walks about looking
grim and tortured, but he's never convincing. Worst of all, the score
(Richard Addinsell) is much too insistently romantic -- the music is
always intruding on the action, telling us to feel something, when the
film needed something quieter, even perhaps a bit sinister, to help
carry the emotions.
Almost from the beginning of Under Capricorn, the viewer can
sense that the director is unsure of himself and uncomfortable with
the material. And so the film never finds its footing. It's not a complete
loss -- few Hitchcock films are -- there's always Bergman, and the story
has a certain poignancy. But we expect more from the master, and audiences
at the time must have expected more as well, because it was a tremendous,
expensive flop that sunk Hitch's independent production company Transatlantic
and sent him running for cover back to Hollywood.
LOVE ME TONIGHT (Rouben Mamoulian, 1932).
Mamoulian is a candidate for the most underrated director of the studio
era. In the period when movies were finding out just what they could
do with sound, he was in the forefront of innovation. This Paramount
production, the director's favorite among his films, is one of the most
delightful musicals ever made.
A Parisian tailor (Maurice Chevalier) is owed a lot of money by a profligate
count (Charlie Ruggles). He decides to go to the chateau of the count's
uncle (C. Aubrey Smith) to demand payment, and ends up falling in love
with the princess (Jeanette MacDonald) who lives there. Meanwhile, the
count, trying to conceal his debts from his uncle, pretends to the other
aristocrats that the tailor is actually a mysterious baron. But what
will the princess do when she finds out?
Myrna Loy is also on hand as a man-crazy socialite -- she's quite funny,
and so is Charles Butterworth as an eccentric count. The script sparkles
with wit, but more importantly, the music and lyrics were composed especially
for the film by Rodgers & Hart, the brilliant songwriting team that
would soon gain greater fame. The marvelous songs, such as "Isn't it
Romantic?" "Mimi" and the title tune, flow seamlessly with the story,
and there's not a trace of heaviness or self-importance, just light-hearted
fun.
Mamoulian's technique is superb. He uses graceful camera movement,
perfect synchronization of music and editing, and even slow motion,
which was practically unheard of at the time, in an hilarious sequence
involving a stag hunt. The film begins with a Paris street, awakening
to the sounds of various people going to work -- women shaking rugs
out of windows, shoemakers hammering nails into shoes, etc. -- all in
musical time, creating a little symphony of sound effects. From there
on, the entire picture is constructed like a poem, or a concerto, all
with that creamy Paramount visual texture (veteran Lubitsch cameraman
Victor Milner shot the picture), and occasional rhyming dialogue to
accentuate the story's fairy tale aspect.
Chevalier and MacDonald are not always the easiest performers to like,
but they're utterly charming here. In fact, this movie is about as close
to perfect as you could wish for. It is the delicate touch that brings
joy, and this gem, recently released by Kino on DVD in a beatifully
restored print, brings me joy every time I see it.
COME AND SEE (Elem Klimov, 1985).
In 1943 Byelorussia, Florya (Aleksei Kravchenko), a 14-year-old boy
who is eager to fight the Germans, goes off to join the Russian army,
against the pleadings of his mother. But the regiment makes him stay
behind at the camp, and he wanders off on his own, joined by a peasant
girl (Olga Mironova). Rendered partially deaf by aerial bombardment,
and evading capture from German paratroopers, he tries to return home,
but fate guides him to a band of partisans, after which his journey
leads him ever deeper into the inferno of the Nazi invasion.
The picture's rigorously subjective style, hallucinatory imagery, and
refusal to soften or glamorize the realities of war, makes it something
of a milestone in the Soviet World War II film, a genre distinguished,
at its best, by a sense of grief over the great tragedy of that conflict,
which killed an estimated twenty million Russians. In Byelorussia, the
Germans systematically wiped out hundreds of towns, rounding men, women,
and children into barns and burning them alive. By depicting these horrific
events through the eye of a naive boy, Klimov gives them immediacy,
elevating them above the mere recounting of historical fact into the
heightened realm of an actual witnessing, where they appear strange,
grotesque, and unbearable.
Kravchenko's almost wordless performance is riveting. Over the course
of the film we see his face become aged beyond his years, hardening
into a mask of fear and trauma that reflects every atrocity he has seen
and endured. The film is constantly directing our attention to people's
faces, their expressions, their stares and glances, which visually emphasizes
the fact that all these horrors are happening to people, to
someone, the unutterable limits of inhumanity experienced in the souls
and feelings of living beings. Klimov doesn't let the viewer detach
to contemplate psychology or motivation, but brings us down to the stark
level of survival, where his young protagonist lives.
Sometimes the images are lyrical, as in the brilliant sequence in a
forest where Florya and the girl are hiding. The girl dances in the
rain, a stork wanders through a clearing -- the beauty is tinged with
fear and ominous foreboding. When Florya is deafened, the movie's soundtrack
is muffled, and the music and sound effects express his disorientation
and maddening inability to connect with what's going on around him.
At key moments, Klimov always chooses an unexpected image or shot, startling
us out of ordinary perception and keeping us on edge, as in the scene
when Florya and a partisan are stealing a cow and come under fire, and
we suddenly see a close-up of the cow's eye, another uncomprehending
creature subjected to the merciless insanity of this world.
Come and See (even the title alludes to our role as witnesses,
willing or not) is a deeply unsettling experience. This is a film designed
to shake you to the core of your being, a vision of what life looks
like when all we know and cherish is savagely uprooted, when love and
morality are ripped away and humans turn into beasts. In one of the
film's most daring flourishes, Florya vents his rage on a symbol --
a picture of Hitler -- and with each gunshot Klimov moves the newsreel
images of history backwards, undoing in fantasy what can never be undone,
until we are left with the haunting face of a child. The shooting stops;
we can never go back, but we will never -- should never -- forget.
©2004 Chris Dashiell
CineScene
