Remembering: “Rashomon (1950)”
Kurosawa might just be my favorite international director, or in the very least, in my top five (similarly, I appreciate his method/style of screenwriting). Of all his films, Rashomon feels as though it might’ve been the most transcendent and influential upon American filmgoers (save for his magnum opus, Seven Samurai), with its plot structure having been borrowed – aka rehashed – time on end. While I found connections with his other samurai epics, Yojimbo, The Hidden Fortress, and Throne of Blood, Rashomon impressed in me a lingering feeling, something of a strange, mindful benediction, part introspective, part emotional; rather than an action period piece, Rashomon felt like a philosophical tour of the human soul, a quiet (though profound) genuflection about humanity’s inherent nature.
The legendary Toshirô Mifune plays somewhat against typecast, portraying the dastardly bandit Tajômaru, instead of his routine protagonist and/or anti-hero. Comparatively young with regard to what-would-be a prolific filmography after, Toshirô nevertheless emanates a masculine and brash moxie here (his presence in of-itself, a sort of trademark to his performances). Along for the ride are fellow castmates Machiko Kyô (playing the cunning, Masako), and the equally-talented Masayuki Mori (playing the swordsman, Takehiro), who fulfill the emotional complexity needed for such roles. The trio’s debauchery unfolds via second-hand testimony, where we are accompanied amid four distinct and separate recounts of a bizarre, frightful encounter between Takehiro, a swordsman, his bride-to-be, Masako, and a lustful plunderer, Tajômaru. Recounting their much-differing (and contradicting) iterations of the event, we listen to a woodcutter, a commoner, and a priest share their versions of the tale amidst a heavy rainstorm, each account treated like a flashback (and likened to an act of a play).
Toshirô Mifune as the bandit “Tajômaru,” and Masayuki Mori as the swordsman, “Takehiro”
While our story-within-a-story’s details aren’t negligible nor unimportant, the differing specifics aren’t the focal point. We aren’t supposed to reflect as to who of the three men prolonged in rainstorm might be telling the truth; Rashomon is a film that wants us to think about how humanity’s inherent-ness gleans towards self-interest, how we lie amongst another, the profound effect of how our stories can influence/shape/manipulate the truth, and how each of us sees the world. Ultimately, I believe Kurosawa wanted us to reflect about a certain kind of existential question: what kind of good is there to be found – if any can be found, at all – when we aren’t sure where lies end, and truth begins? Each man’s account dramatically (and fundamentally) differentiates what moral lesson there is to be drawn from such a parable, even to the point of altering who’s evil between the trio of the traveling swordsman, wife and bandit.
Kurosawa’s direction shines here; the takes he gets from every actor resolutely spells out emotional receptivity to the subject matter, overall-palpably copacetic, sober, lucid. The cinematography feels natural yet captivating, providing a sense of understated, ambient wistfulness throughout. Although Rashomon’s feudal-era depictions work and lend to a credence about its message, some of the (sparse) swordplay we’re treated to feels a bit theatre-like, stage action-y (but, I’d say the action we see was meant to feel goofy, as to convey contradiction within narratives). As for pacing, though only clocking in at a modest 88 minutes, certain sequences feel a tad lingering, however, the film never sits so long to overstay its welcome. Fumio Hayasaka provides a powerful score to accompany the silver screen, with arrangements to further our willfully suspended disbelief. Everything regarding Rashomon’s production feels top-notch, even if the film’s budget was (ostensibly, adjusted for inflation) relatively lower (~$250,000, speculated) compared with other international features, of which I feel can be attributed to Kurosawa’s artistic vision, exceeding monetary limitations.
The rainstorm of which we’re treated to each story in Rashomon.
There’s something about this movie that left an imprint in me, far after the credits began to roll; perhaps it was the contradicting depictions of each man’s story paralleling modernity, i.e. the power of digital misinformation narratives taking precedence over truth. I believe that Kurosawa was indirectly commenting on propaganda abroad, specifically post-World War II and the justifications of atom bombs, highlighting – for what feels with broad brushstrokes – that people will say anything to have their needs met, even if it includes altering the truth to extremes. Rashomon can also be inferred about general human nature, how the power of storytelling can fundamentally manipulate our relation to reality, for heroes to villains are bore from the lips of narration. In-addition to the film’s philosophical quandaries, its stories-for-acts structure holds up, given that I’ve seen it influence many films over time. I was compelled to engage with the subject matter (sordid as some of the details were), and still, now, there remains a sense of profundity left in me, something poetic as it is simple. The rain of which we entered then exited Rashomon’s world still ruminates in my mind, in the way something does when it’s haunting, yet, strangely beautiful.
