Reeling Backward: "Yojimbo" (1961)

I have a suggestion that may shock some students of Japanese filmmaker Akira Kurosawa: "Yojimbo" is actually a comedy.

The 1961 jidaigeki (period drama) is representative of Kurosawa's career: A lone warrior finds himself at the center of a struggle between two gangs running an isolated town, and works to leverage the situation to his advantage. The movie was greatly inspired by American Westerns, especially the final showdown with a duel in the street (though our hardy protagonist takes on 10 villains, not just one).

In turn, "Yojimbo" became a touchstone for Westerns and other genre films, essentially launching the Spaghetti Western movement with the 1964 Sergio Leone remake, "A Fistful of Dollars." Consider: No "Yojimbo," and today Clint Eastwood would probably be (barely) remembered as a TV star.

So many memes emerged from this film that would affect cinema for decades hence, especially the idea of the "man with no name," where the identity and background of the hero is less important than the actions he takes. Also notable is that the protagonist takes great pains to present himself as an opportunistic mercenary, but repeatedly performs altruistic acts in the face of depravity (often paying a harsh personal price for his good deeds).

But what gets lost in all this discussion about the film's iconic status is just how damn funny it often is.

Start with the rambunctious, percussive musical score by Masaru Satô, especially the jaunty little march that accompanies the ronin (masterless samurai) whenever he is about to take some significant action. Listening to that jig while he saunters boldly up the street gives the impression of a preening rooster reveling in his status as the cock of the walk.

Clearly, the hero himself (Kurosawa mainstay Toshirô Mifune) enjoys the action unfolding in front of him, often commenting upon how entertaining or amusing he finds the conflict between the two gangs. The epitome of this is when he positions himself upon a tower to watch the coming battle between the henchman of Ushitora (Kyû Sazanka) and Seibei (Seizaburô Kawazu) in the street below. He laughs at their posturing and halfhearted charges, which invariably falter as they approach the enemy and actual bloodshed is threatened.

One of the running jokes in the movie is how terrible all the warriors are except for Two Bit -- as the ronin is disparagingly nicknamed by Ushitora's men. Expert combat skills are a hallmark of Kurosawa's films, as evidenced by "The Seven Samurai" and other movies where samurai spend their entire lives honing amazing abilities with the blade. In "Yojimbo," the henchmen recruited by the two sides are runaway farm boys and small-time thieves who rely more on bullying than actual skill.

For all we know, Two Bit may be an only modestly talented combatant, but compared to the scags he's up against, he's a whirlwind who goes through them like butter. He takes on six at once without breaking a sweat, and even the final showdown vs. 10 is only marginally tougher for him.

For Kurosawa to make a movie in which skill at swordplay is so terrible is a pun in of itself ... imagine John Ford making a Western where nobody could hit anything with a six-shooter.

It also seems that the ronin doesn't take himself too seriously, either. As the film opens he comes across a fork in the road, and throws a stick in the air to decide what direction to take. He also declines to give anyone in the town his real name, staring out a the window before offering "Kuwabatake Sanjuro," or "30-year-old mulberry field." He also has the playful habit of tucking his arms inside his robes, reaching through the neck hole to scratch at his whiskers in a display of uncouth casualness.

Whether or not you agree that "Yojimbo" -- the title means "bodyguard" -- is intentionally funny, it's hard to deny that it's one of the truly great Japanese films.

4 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "Dodes'ka-den" (1970)

"Dodes'ka-den" nearly ended Akira Kurosawa's film career -- and his life.

The great Japanese auteur was so devastated by his first color film's failure that he attempted suicide, slashing himself dozens of times with a razor. He recovered, and eventually resumed making movies ... but not for five years.

This gentle drama-comedy about the denizens of a garbage-strewn shantytown is certainly one of Kurosawa's minor works, but I still count myself blessed for having seen it. I saw a brief clip of it years ago in a retrospective of the director's work, and knew I had to see it.

No ronin or samurai or ancient codes of battle honor here. This was one of Kurosawa's rare films set in modern times -- though it still has a lyrical, almost fairy tale quality that makes it feel like it could have been plucked out of ancient mythology.

It's a timeless tale about the disadvantaged and the downtrodden, a celebration of humanity's differences and glorious imperfections.

The title is the Japanese sound for a train or trolley car in motion -- roughly the equivalent of "choo-choo" in English. It's chanted repeatedly by Roku-chan (Yoshitaka Zushi), a mentally challenged boy who lives with his mother in a landscape of hills and valleys shaped by the refuse of humanity.

Roku-chan fantasizes that he is the conductor of one of the trolleys that pass by their house/store every day. He puts on an imaginary hat, lovingly inspects his non-existent train, inserts his key and guides it on a path through the junkyard, shouting "dodeskaden-dodeskaden-dodeskaden-dodeskaden."

The other denizens, of course, consider him insane, and his long-suffering mother repeatedly scrubs graffiti dubbing him "train freak" off their walls. Roku-chan is oblivious, though, and prays to Buddha to "make my mother smarter" -- obviously parroting some of the prayers he's heard her make about him.

I was really intrigued by this pair, and disappointed to learn that they only appear fleetingly in the film, more or less as a framing device for a host of other stories and characters. I would have loved an entire story about just them.

There are too many names and faces for this non-Japanese speaker to keep straight. As is often the case with films featuring a large, ensemble cast and a host of intersecting storylines, we find ourselves intrigued by some and impatient with others. The tale of a grocer whose gaggle of children doubt their own paternity, for example, goes nowhere.

I never could quite understand the tale of the strange, wordless older man who stalks about the shantytown like an apparition, talking to no one and appearing to see nothing. The local harlot once tried to seduce him, but was unnerved by his groaning in his sleep. One day a woman named Ocho shows up and makes herself at home in his shack. She begs him repeatedly for forgiveness, but for what is never made clear. We guess that this is his wife, returned after a long self-imposed exile for the crime that turned him into a walking dead man. But her mission is fruitless, and she eventually leaves without ever being acknowledged.

Also bemusing is the tale of two workmen who return home every day so they can drink themselves into a stupor and complain about how their wives don't treat them right. Kurosawa uses a playful trick with his new medium of color, dressing one man in red and the other in yellow, and even decorating their houses in the same shades. One day the yellow man passes out drunk in the red home, and vice-versa, and they essentially swap wives for awhile. The wives seem content with the change of pace, but the local women who gather at the junkyard's lone faucet to do laundry -- and act as the film's Greek chorus -- are shocked.

The most heartbreaking tale is that of the young girl who lives with her aunt and uncle. Thin and plain, she is compelled to make paper flowers day and night to support her elders. Her uncle is a lazy tyrant, and uses his wife's absence for surgery at the hospital as an opportunity to force himself on the girl. Soon she is pregnant and facing a terrible choice. Her only relief is the kind boy who delivers sake to their home, and sneaks her candy and compliments.

There's also a beggar and his young son who live in the shell of an old automobile. They are slowly constructing an elaborate house using only their imaginations as tools and materials. The man loves to tinker with various styles and ideas, changing things around on a whim. His son is not really an active participant in the building the dream house, only agreeing obediently with his father's latest suggestions and choices.

The boy supports them by begging for food at restaurants in town. One time the father refuses the cook's instruction to boil the fish before eating it, insisting it is sour mackerel pickled in brine, and they both become quite ill. The wise old man who acts as the conscience of the community, and is something of a medicine man, counsels the beggar to seek out a doctor, but is refused. He is not proud, the old man surmises, merely weak.

There are a few other story threads -- a businessman with an embarrassing tic and a harpy of a wife among them -- but there really isn't a central theme or coherent plot in the traditional sense. We're merely peeking in on these vignettes among the garbage, where life is messy but thriving.
And so it goes.

3.5 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "Throne of Blood" (1957)

I'd been wanting to see "Throne of Blood" for years, ever since I saw a short clip of a scene from the film where a Japanese lord is killed by his own men with arrows. It's an arresting moment, full of poetry and violence, as only the great Akira Kurosawa could compose.

After finally seeing the movie, I consider it one of the great director's minor works, even though I know it is widely considered one of his best.

The plot is a more or less straight adaptation of Shakespeare's "Macbeth," transposed to feudal Japan. An ambitious general is egged by his wife into assassinating the Great Lord, and usurps his position. But he is brought down by his own foolishness and suspicion.

Toshiro Mifune, in one of his 16 collaborations with Kurosawa, plays the lead role, Washizu. His wife, Asaji, is played by Isuzu Yamada. Washizu's lifelong friend and comrade is Miki (Minoru Chiaki).

On their way Spider Web Castle -- which is the film's Japanese title -- Miki and Washizu encounter a strange spirit. Bathed in white light and spinning a loom, the old ghost woman makes two predictions: That both men will be promoted that very evening, and that both Washizu and Miki's son will eventually become lord of the castle.

The two generals laugh at this, but indeed upon presenting themselves to the Great Lord they are promoted to the positions the spirit predicted.

Thus begins the deceit of Washizu by his wife. Whispering in his ear a la Lady Macbeth, Asaji convinces Washizu that it is only a matter of time before the Great Lord hears about the prophecy and dispatches him. His choices are but two, she claims: Serve loyally and wait for the execution to come, or dare to grasp the reigns of power and become the Great Lord himself.

His chance arrives when the monarch comes to visit at his fort. Asaji drugs the Great Lord's guards, and puts one of their spears into Washizu's hands. He leaves and returns, almost in a trance, with the weapon, and his hands, covered in blood.

War breaks out, with the Great Lord's son supported by his old enemy. Miki, who had been placed in charge of Spider Web Castle, clearly knows that his old friend murdered their sovereign. Still, he acquiesces to Washizu's ascension to Great Lord in order to keep the peace. Washizu, who is childless, agrees to appoint Miki's son his heir.

But still the scheming continues. After inviting Miki and his son to a celebration feast, Washizu secretly dispatches as assassin to slay them before they arrive. He sees the ghost of Miki in the empty seat where his friend should be, and goes into a panic that alienates his other guests.

Washizu seeks out the forest spirit again, who tells him that he will not be defeated in battle before the very trees of the forest rise up against Spider Web Castle. Renewed with confidence against such an impossibility ever happening, he boasts to his soldiers about the prophecy.

But when his enemies cut down the trees and use them as cover, the men turn on their lord and slay him with arrows.

This death scene, coming at the very end, is just a startling sequence. Wild-eyed, Washizu runs back and forth across the parapet of the castle as arrows rain in. Kurosawa's battle scenes are always amazingly authentic in addition to being kinetically precise -- those arrows really look like they're screaming in at full speed, even thunking into Washizu's armor.

Compare this movie with the battle scenes from "Ivanhoe," a Hollywood movie that is a contemporary of "Throne," which featured arrows that looked like they'd been dumped out of a canister.

There's an astonishing amount of smoke and fog throughout the movie. Clearly, Kurosawa is saying something about people's perceptions being obscured by hate, ambition, lust, etc.

I liked "Throne of Blood," but while there are many scenes that just crackle with Kurosawa's distinct energy, there are many more that just ramble on and on. In particular, his obsession with ranks of soldiers maneuvering on the battlefield gets to be very old, very fast.

Fortunately, the film ends with a scene of such power and electricity, it overpowers the movie's tendency to amble.

3 stars

Reeling Backward: "Kagemusha"

In addition to being one of the greatest filmmakers of all time, Akira Kurosawa was also an accomplished painter.

While he was trying to get financing for his 1980 film "Kagemusha" -- one of only a handful he made in color -- he painted a number of landscapes and portraits to help convince studios what the final product would look like. Kurosawa eventually got half the dough from an American studio at the urging of George Lucas and Francis Ford Coppola, who were admirers of the great Japanese director of "Rashomon," "The Seven Samurai" and many other iconic films.

It may be blasphemous to say, but I believe the influence of Kurosawa the painter had a deleterious effect on Kurosawa the filmmaker. His films had been noted for their immediacy and focus on the actors' faces -- whether it was a samurai tale or a modern one, Kurosawa put you in the middle of the human interaction.

With "Kagemusha" -- which means "shadow warrior" -- I think Kurosawa fell in love with painting with film, filling his frame with colors and images that could be frozen and hung on a wall. The centerpiece of "Kagemusha" is a dream sequence in which a thief who has been chosen to impersonate a great warlord, even after his death, is chased by the warrior after he rises from his grave. It takes place on an imaginary beach of rainbows hues with candy-colored clouds in the background.

You can also see this effect in the film's many languid battle scenes. Kurosawa shows very little actual fighting, being more concerned with the images of soldiers and horses moving about in rigid patterns of color and pageantry. Some of these scenes will go on for 10 minutes or more. Kurosawa continued this self-indulgence with "Ran" in 1985, which many consider his masterpiece.

The warlord, Shingen, and the thief are both played by Tatsuya Nakadai, who replaced the original actor chosen after he and Kurosawa didn't see eye-to-eye. Shingen is 53 years old and the greatest of the warring clan heads, but dreams of taking Kyoto and becoming emperor. For years he has used his brother Nobukado as his double, to confuse his enemies and protect him from harm. But then his sibling finds the thief, who has been condemned to die, and realizes that he could truly pass for Shingen, even up close and with people who have known him for years.

While attempting to take an enemy castle, Shingen decides to listen in to the flute performance one of the soldiers inside the keep puts on every night, beguiling the men both inside and without. A sniper's bullet mortally wounds him, and before his death Shingen instructs his chief vassals to conceal his death for three years by using the double in his place. He is convinced that his many enemies will join forces to destroy his clan if they suspect he is dead.

The thief is haunted by the spirit of the warlord, even as he makes his best effort to impersonate him -- eventually even winning over his grandson and heir and his mistresses, all of whom had expressed some initial doubt. Over time the thief becomes overconfident, and comes to believe that he really can carry on the mantle of Shingen. He also becomes enamored with the young grandson. So when the ruse is invariably found out, the thief is cast out like a vagabond.

I do like "Kagemusha," as I have enjoyed all of Kurosawa's films -- "High and Low" remains one of my favorites -- but I do feel that at three hours or so, it is simply too long. The battle scenes, while glorious in their beauty and commentary about the follies of men, just go on and on. The worst thing that can happen to a great director is that they come to believe their own legend.

3 stars