Red Beard [Akahige] (1965)

Goodness, Truth & Beauty

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

Films about medicine do hold a particular interest to me as they often make for great vehicles which to explore the human condition. Akira Kurosawa’s Red Beard, although set towards the end of Japan’s Edo period in the mid-19th century, presents no historical or geographical disconnect as the themes present are so universal. Red Beard is the final film of what I call the Kurosawa medical trilogy after Drunken Angel and The Quiet Duel but more significantly would be the final picture in the 16-film collaboration between Toshiro Mifune and Kurosawa, bringing to end Kurosawa’s greatest period.

The ambitious production shows Kurosawa at the height of his powers, and if the behind the scenes stories are to be believed, it would appear the great filmmaker was bordering on megalomania. For one it would appear Kurosawa employed the Erich Von Stroheim method of having things on set which never actually appear on camera. According to IMDB, drawers on set were filled with medical supplies from the time period even though they are never seen in the film as do whole alleyways and side streets of the picture’s main set. However, the results of this can’t be argued with as the film which came out on the other end has sets and attention to detail which are a marvel to behold, while the 3 hour run time never drags with the episodic nature of the picture working a treat and never comes off as disjointed. More infamously the production of Red Beard caused a rift between Kurosawa and Mifune and while one can only wonder about what future films the duo could have gone on to make, Red Beard is as fine as swan song as one can go out on.

Toshiro Mifune was never better in the role of Dr. Kyojō Niide, aka Red Beard (although with the movie being black & white we never see the red in this glorious beard of his). There is a weight and a larger than life dominance that Mifune brings that is key to the role. He looks so impressive, imposing, dominant, rigid, and wild that it forces the viewer to confront his combination of humanitarianism and toughness. The nature of the material in Red Beard puts the movie at risk of falling into the cheesy, but Mifune in part prevents this from being the case. I find Red Beard’s personality doesn’t match the negative terms he is described by from an intern at the beginning of the film with phrases including stubborn, inconsiderate, drastic, proud as-well-as a dictator. Especially considering the manner in which his new intern Dr. Noboru Yasumoto doesn’t play ball at first, the world-weary mentor remains remarkably calm and patient. Red Beard is a character who shows how being tough, hardheaded and willful (even deceitful) is sometimes necessary to get humanitarian work done. The film even provides Mifune with a slice of action which would normally be reserved for Kurosawa’s samurai films as Red Beard takes on a group of men at a brothel in order to rescue a sick girl. With ease (albeit believably) he takes out each man one by one, breaking many an arm and leg in the process. Being a doctor however, he immediately disowns his actions. Still, badass Toshiro is badass.

Red Beard runs (or rules some might say) a non-profit, government-funded health facility run known as the Koshikawa Clinic. On a technical note, why is the facility classified as a clinic as opposed to a hospital since it is a rather large venue, running round-the-clock complete with wards full of patients staying overnight? – But I digress. One fascinating aspect of the clinic is the lack of consistency when it comes to sanitary standards as viewed from a modern perspective. In by far the most graphic scene in the film (or any Kurosawa film for that matter), a woman is being operated on while conscious, being tied to the operating table and blindfolded, yet the men operating on her wear no gloves or face coverings. However, conversely earlier in the film it is clearly pointed out that the clinic does not allow tatami mats as they gather dirt and moisture. Furthermore, in one scene Red Beard speaks of the issue of poverty stating “But for poverty, half these people wouldn’t be ill”, however his comments on the situation in relation to politics are rather simplistic (“If poverty’s a political problem, what has politics ever done for the poor?”, “Has a law been passed to abolish poverty and ignorance?”). Granted Red Beard is set in the mid-19th century, so one can forgive his naivety in thinking governments can solve such problems as the 20th century would show.

Dr. Noboru Yasumoto (Yūzō Kayama) is a post-graduate medical student who has been assigned to the Koshikawa Clinic against his will. The prima donna has studied to become the Shogun’s personal doctor rather than working in some down-and-out clinic, thus during his initial stay, he lounges and refuses to do any work in hopes Red Beard will just tell him to leave. However, he comes to learn just how much of a doctor he really is by a series of incidents. In one scene he is left shaken after being instructed to stay by a dying man’s side and right afterwards faints after witnessing the sight of intestines being shoved back into a woman during a surgery. Its clear Dr. Yasumoto is book smart but not street smart, however more significantly, he has become a doctor for the prestige rather than out of humanitarianism, displaying selfishness in a job that is supposed to be as selfless as possible. His eventual choice of staying with the clinic rather than becoming the Shogun’s doctor is one of many aspects which would have made Red Beard a corny film in lesser hands.

If there’s one cinematic image from Red Beard to be burned into your memory it’s that of the mentally ill girl known as The Mantis (Kyōko Kagawa) and her haunting encounter with Dr. Yasumoto after she escapes from her quarters. In another display of Dr. Yasumoto’s naivety and inexperience, she delivers a harrowing monologue in which she claims she is not mentally ill and having been sexually abused by various men in the past. Dr. Yasumoto gets suckered in by this projected innocence and vulnerability despite him previously being told that she has killed 3 clerks with a hairpin. Perhaps one could cut Dr. Yasumoto some slack for falling under the spell of The Mantis as she doesn’t meet the stereotype of a mentally ill person – she is young, beautiful, seductive and still manages to dress like a maiko. However, this perception is undone as the look on her face turns to that of pure menace and she tries to stab Dr. Yasumoto with a hairpin while being sexually aroused at the same time (“The female eats the male after mating”).What’s so visually striking about the scene is the lighting and shadows created by a single candle while the sequence contains within it an unbroken shot that lasts 6 minutes and 10 seconds. The other great subplot within Red Beard is a 17-minute detour in which a dying man named Sahachi (Tsutomu Yamazaki) tells the story of how his wife’s remains came to be buried outside his house. The romantic and haunting tragedy is very much a Japanese one, with love being interrupted by an earthquake and concluding with the wife committing harakiri. This detour has no real impact on the rest of the film but to remove it would be such a loss to the film.

Red Beard represents the triumph of the human spirit as we watch the stress and the strain put under the workers of the clinic. Above all, Red Beard is one of the best cinematic representations of the golden rule – “treat others as you want to be treated”, which is best exemplified through the character of Otoyo (Terumi Niki). After the 12-year-old girl is rescued from a brothel after years of abuse, Dr. Yasumoto treats her with kindness and dignity which she has never experience before. After Dr. Yasumoto himself falls ill, she returns the favour and nurtures him back to health. Likewise, in one scene the Madame of the brothel (played by the always fabulous Haruko Sugimura) comes to the clinic to take Otoyo back to the brothel, the other women employed at the clinic prevent the Madame from doing so in a heartwarming moment of defiance in which they show how Otoyo has become one of the group. However, more significantly is the relationship Otoyo shares with the young boy Chôji (Yoshitaka Zushi), a thief who has been stealing gruel from the clinic. Rather than just chastising him for his thievery, through mutual understanding Otoyo manages to convince Chôji to stop stealing food in one of the film’s most wholesome and moving lengthy exchanges of dialogue.

I re-watched Red Beard on a windy day in which it was bucketing rain, and honestly, it just matched the atmosphere of the film perfectly. Red Beard is a very meditative, calm and tranquil film to watch (let me ask has snow ever looked more beautiful on celluloid?). Within all the human suffering, poverty, abuse and death, there still comes a film in which the three transcendental shine through – Goodness, Truth & Beauty.

The Flavor Of Green Tea Over Rice [Ochazuke no aji] (1952)

He Supports You, He Provides For You And Darling You Can’t Support Yourself

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

The practice of arranged marriage was bizarre to the west come the 20th century however according to the website FactsAndDetails.com; “[Japan] In the 1950s, about 70 percent of all marriages were arranged. In 1973, the figure was only 37 percent. Today only around 10 percent are”. The Flavour Of Green Tea Over Rice (or “Flavor” as you yanks spell it) is one of several domestic sagas by director Yasujirō Ozu which focuses on arranged marriages, and it’s fascinating to see how such an arcane practice was still commonplace in a world which is otherwise very westernised. However, like Late Spring and Early Summer, the focus on arranged marriage doesn’t detract from the universality of these films nor do I get any impression Ozu is attacking the practice in any of his pictures. In The Flavour Of Green Tea Over Rice, the young girl Setsuko (Keiko Tsushima) outright refuses to partake in an arranged marriage however come the film’s conclusion, the story’s main couple Taeko & Mokichi Satake (Michiyo Kogure and Shin Saburi) do find happiness within their arranged marriage. The Flavour Of Green Tea Over Rice holds similar plot threads to Ozu’s earlier comedy What Did The Lady Forget? – both of which feature a childless, married couple and a rebellious niece named Setsuko.

Taeko Satake very much fits the mould of a wine aunt – a woman of privilege who is unemployed, childless and is able to live a rather luxurious life (symbolized from her preferred attire of kimono) from living off her husband as well as receiving money from her upper-middle-class parents. The film doesn’t indicate if the relationship between Taeko and her husband Mokichi was ever strong. She is only seen acting like a loving wife in the lead up to lying to her husband in order to go to the hot springs with her friends for the night, nor does he make any effort to confront these obvious lies. Upon first watching the film I wasn’t quite sure if Mokichi just accepted these lies and did nothing about it or was just thick. Taeko even calls her husband Mr. Bonehead when he’s not around and compares him to a big, sluggish carp on one occasion. Likewise, there is the hypocrisy of her refusing to speak to her husband for days on end after he lied to her even though she has previously lied to him on many occasions – ah women, amirite? I know I’m going quite hard on this character, but I by no means dislike her. Prior to the film’s conclusion, her character does receive some redemption in being a doting and caring aunt to Setsuko (of whom it’s somewhat odd that the young girl spends the entire movie hanging out with older women), plus I couldn’t bring myself to dislike the ever-gorgeous Michiyo Kogure. Despite collaborating with many actors on multiple occasions, The Falvour Of Green Tea Over Rice would be Michiyo Kogure’s only film with Ozu.

The other point of contention amidst Mr. & Mrs. Satake is the class difference between the two, with Mokchi coming from a more working-class background. This conflict becomes most pronounced when Taeko chastises her husband over his primitive manner of eating, “wolfing his food down like a dog” as she describes it. This class difference ties into the meaning behind the film’s title. Mokchi is a man who derives simple pleasures from life much to his wife’s displeasure. In a monologue, he speaks of how he likes things “cosy and down-to-earth” and “without ceremony or affectation” (which in itself is a perfect description of Ozu as a filmmaker). The pharse “flavour of green tea over rice” is a capitulation to the simple life with green tea over rice itself being a simple delicacy. What would be the western equivalent – the flavour of bread over butter? The other husband featured in The Flavour Of Green Tea Over Rice is that of Toichiro (Hisao Toake), the husband of Aya (Chikage Awashima). The awkward and cucked little man is spotted having an affair with another woman at a baseball game (despite the claim that he doesn’t like baseball very much) and even comes to his wife’s place of work in order to ask her for money (it’s not indicated if he actually works himself). Aya herself has a job of some prestige, appearing to be a clothes designer and it’s clear who wears the pants in this couple. Men, be more like Mokichi and don’t in any way emulate the pathetic Toichiro. Mokchi may not be the most exciting man in the world but he is a reliable husband ala green tea over rice. As Taeko states at the film’s conclusion – “What’s most important is whether he’s reliable or not”.

Taeko and Mokichi’s marriage is ultimately saved by what else, the making a late-night snack. After Taeko had to leave the country for Uruguay and was unable to say goodbye to his wife as she had unexpectedly left for a few days, the two then find themselves reunited at home when Taeko’s plane has to return due to mechanical troubles. In one of the most beautiful scenes in an Ozu film, the pair must find their way around the kitchen as their servant Fumi (Yôko Kosono) has gone to bed and they have never prepared food for themselves. The couple display a look of pure joy on their faces while they prepare a snack of (you guessed it) green tea over rice as the two fall-in-love with each other and Mokichi’s comes to understand Taeko’s philosophy of “cosy and down-to-earth”. The scene is not in any way unbelievable or contrived and demonstrates there still lies hope for damaged marriages and relationships. Their kitchen itself is pure interior decorating goals with its slight Bauhaus vibe and one which is illuminated with a beautiful, dark and hazy light. The final shot of the kitchen lingers as the couple leaves the room and turns off the lights, letting the viewer absorb the pure cinematic magic which just unfolded. Previously, I would have ranked the best ever scene in a movie centered around a kitchen to have been the comical climax in Woman Of The Year (1942), which can now hold the number 2 position of such an honour. 

Another interesting point of note is Aya’s question to Setsuko as to whether she prefers the upper or lower part of actor Jean Marais’ face after Setsuko speaks of going to see one of his pictures. The same reference was made in Late Spring to a Japanese man having the same facial features as Gary Cooper on the lower part of his face, with the significance being the upper part of the face being what most significantly distinguishes asians from caucasians. Conversely, in a slightly odd change of pace for an Ozu film, the camera moves with a total of 7 pans throughout the film – rare for Ozu considering his aversion to camera movement. This however does not include camera shots stationed on moving vehicles unless that in itself can be classified as a moving shot? Correspondingly, like other Ozu films, the film provides some documentary-like moments of post-war Japan such as shots of a baseball game as-well-as a cycling race in a purpose-built stadium. Also featured is a pachinko parlour, a coin-operated game and a predecessor to the modern-day coin-operated arcade game. The owner of the parlour known as the Bittersweet School Of Life, Sadao Hirayama (Chishū Ryū) thinks the addictive game is a bad trend that will die out, only history would go on to prove him very wrong. – Ah the nostalgia one can experience for a world never lived in.

Floating Weeds [Ukikusa] (1959)

Seaside Rendezvous

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

There is no other director who can make films quite as relaxing or serene than those of Yasujirō Ozu, emanating from a combination of factors, notably the absence of camera movement to his trademark use of pillow shots (two or three quiet compositions usually showing an architectural detail, a banner in the wind, a tree or the sky). Ozu is known for violating the traditional rules of visual composition such as disregarding both the 360-degree rule and matching eye-line shots while having props leap from one side of a set to another – certainly making me question that which I was taught at film school. Any scene in Floating Weeds (a remake of his own A Story of Floating Weeds from 1934) could be paused just to observe the background décor – I hate to use a cliché phrase, but every frame is a painting. Just look at the scene in the rainy street and the strategic placement of a red umbrella, incorporating the dimensions of the golden ratio. Completing the relaxing flavour of Floating Weeds is the washed-out colour cinematography, the sound of cicadas, the Nino Rota-like music score (which gives the film a European feel) as well as the fact that much of the film involves people lounging wearing kimono in a picture-postcard seaside town (likewise, take a sip of sake every time someone in a Japanese film asks for sake) – you won’t find any other films which are as cosy viewing than the works of Ozu.

At its heart, the premise of Floating Weeds is a lovely romantic, vaudevillian notion of a travelling acting troupe going from town to town. “Floating Weeds” is a Japanese term for itinerant actors and the film plays into the age-old perspective that actors are in the dregs of society and partake in an un-respectful profession (with much of the film’s comedy comes from the hornier actors of the troupe and their wed-locked female prospects). The opening scene establishes that the troupe have come via Okazaki, Kariya and Cape Chita and once played in the Big Kado Theatre in Osaka. It would appear they have been Spinal Tap-ed and fallen on hard times, now they are playing at a theatre in a small seaside town which the previous month had hosted a strip show (you can feel the loss of moral as they are forced to play to an increasingly empty house). The troupe’s stage productions themselves are intriguing to watch even if they’re devoid of full context.

There is no clear time period as to when Floating Weeds takes place. The town itself still uses telegrams from the local post office, there are no other technological references nor is there any mention of movies or TV being a competing force for the acting troupe. Conversely, I do notice one TV aerial appears in a single pillow shot (although the appearance of such could have been an incidental anachronism) and the character of Kiyoshi talks about going to study electronics at college. Regardless, this lack of a clear time period does give Floating Weeds a real timeless quality to it. Which ties into the question, where was Floating Weeds filmed? Where is this beautiful little Japanese seaside town (unlike the original which is set in an inland town)? Sources state the picture was filmed in Japan’s Kii peninsula, yet upon scouring the internet, I can’t find an exact location nor any information about this seaside town.

Komajuro Arashi (Ganjirô Nakamura) is the leader of the acting troupe, an actor from Osaka and a towering, world-weary, alpha figure of a man. Another notable difference from the original is the age difference between Komajuro and his love interest Sumiko (Machiko Kyō). The full nature of their relationship is not made clear but she is involved enough to be upset over the discovery that he is seeing his old flame Oyoshi (Haruko Sugimura) of whom he had a son named Kiyoshi (Hiroshi Kawaguchi). As an act of revenge, she sends her friend and fellow actress Kayo (Ayako Wakao) to seduce Kiyoshi in an effortlessly sexy manner with that unforgettable flick of a pencil. The ending of Floating Weeds is just about perfect as Komajuro and Sumiko meet again after their spilt, where else, but that classic cinematic convention of a train station – one late at night to the sounds of birds in the classic will they/won’t they? scenario. It’s by no means a conventionally happy ending as these two are clearly a flawed couple in a flawed relationship. It’s too late in their lives for happiness and the best they can do is compromise and endure (is it just me or does the film imply Sumiko does sexual favours to others for the couple’s career advancement during the aforementioned scene on the rainy street?). Yet the scene leaves one with a warm feeling, albeit a bittersweet one as the two share a bottle of sake in a railcar as the train disappears into the night to a romantic musical cue.