As a group of travelers settles down for the night, a man suffering the unimaginable terrors of the black plague appears just beyond their encampment and begs for something to quench his undying thirst. He, in intense agony, expresses his fear of death, a fear so human, we all sympathize with his troubles. But the more harrowing image presented to us in this scene is not this man on the verge of death, but rather the squire Jons as he comments on the futility of helping him. He refuses to give him water claiming, in effect, that the die is already cast. He has contracted the plague and is beyond help. This is a scene from one of the greatest foreign films of all time, The Seventh Seal. The films deals largely in metaphysical questions, the big questions of philosophy, but more importantly, the questions of dying men. Because when it comes down to it, we are all this dying man, we are all, in a manner of speaking, on the verge of death. It is, as they say, simply a matter of time before we check out, which in turn begs the question: Of what use is offering anyone help? We all stand with one foot out the door.
The film begins with a crusader, Antonius Block, and his squire, the aforementioned Jons, as they are on their journey home. The return to Sweden to find their homeland ravaged by the black plague, a constant reminder of the proximity of death. But Block is not reminded of death by the mottled corpses, it is the presence of Death itself. Death, a man in a black cloak without a sense of humor, approaches Block to tell him that his time is up, the die is cast. In a futile attempt to stall Death, to earn a few precious hours on earth, the knight challenges the reaper to a chess match. Block, riddled with doubt doesn't want to die until he can be sure of God's existence. As is the knightly norm, he embarks on a quest.
At first, this quest is a quest for knowledge. But he discovers soon that he will never be sure of God's existence. He will have to take the Kierkegaardian leap of faith. Reason and “knowledge” will just take him to the edge of the cliff. To truly understand he must jump. So he abandons this quest for knowledge and instead searches for some meaning. During one of their chess bouts (Death frequently leaves to go kill some people) Death asks about the knight's new traveling companions, suggesting that because he has brought them along, they too will expire.
To backtrack a little, this group that is traveling with Block is a portion of a troupe of actors. They make their living by going from town to town making people laugh. But when the masks come off, they somehow manage to stay above the grim cloud of despair that permeates everyone else's existence. Jof and his wife, Mia, and their son, Mikhail, brim with radiance at the world. They are joyous, despite every reason not to be. When one of their number leaves the troupe to pursue a woman, they are left alone. The knight stumbles upon their makeshift encampment and Mia offers him wild strawberries and fresh milk.
Jof somehow realizes that Block is playing chess with Death after a fateful glance from the knight, and realizes that if they wish to survive, they must leave at once. Block seizes the moment, knowing that Death will not notice their departure as he has checkmate in two moves. He knocks over the pieces. As Death places them back where they were, Jof and his family escape Death's clutches. Death, in his elitist drawl asks whether the knight gained anything by the delay. And he did. Meaning.
We are all playing chess with Death. We may not realize it, but we know that one day we will die. That is the nature of life. It enriches life, it empowers life. In fact, death is the only thing that makes life worth living. Yet somehow, when faced in the eye with our own mortality, we cower in fear, hoping it will pass. Death doesn't pass. Man never wins the game. Why then do we play? Because playing the game is winning. Playing the game circumvents Death. We live in troubled times: times of war, drought, AIDS, distrust, and an increasing state of alienation. It feels like the end of times, just as it did during the black plague. But to lay down and let Death take your queen is to let Death win. The outcome of the game does not determine the winners in this world or the next. It all comes down to the way you play the game.
Marcus Aurelius once said, “It is not death that a man should fear, he should fear never beginning to live.” He wants us to pick up the pieces and start a game that we will lose, for we are all mortal, just for the sake of the game. He wants us to look at Jof and his family, a group of people that represent a light in this world. To put out that light, or be responsible for its dousing, would be a nearly unforgivable sin. They give hope, they make people laugh, they offer a reprieve from this world of suffering.
Sullivan's Travels, one of my all-time favorite films, is a meditation on the need for comedy. At the end, Sullivan says “There's a lot to be said for making people laugh. Did you know that that's all some people have? It isn't much, but it's better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan.” This is what Jof does: he makes people laugh. He gives them a raison d'être. He understands why you play the game. For him it's family, for others it is friends. But perhaps the link between all of these is the creation of something beautiful. We must proactively let Beauty into this world. If we don't, we have a Pandora's box full of despair without the grain of Hope. In the end, it is the game of life that we are involved in; as long as we pick up the pieces and play with dignity, we can never truly lose.
3.26.2009
Death in Venice-The Art of Adaptation
Surrounding the adaptation of any successful novel is an implacable shroud of controversy. Ardent fans disappointed with even the most minute of changes riot and it is accepted as fact that the book is better than the film. What these fans fail to confront, though they must certainly realize it, is the necessity of change during the adaptation process. The filmmakers must include their own voice in the adaptation for it to be of any value as a film. Otherwise, the film lacks soul, lacks heart, lacks motivation, and is little more than banal. It must exist as a work on its own, capturing the director's and screenwriter's vision, while simultaneously remaining true to the original work.
Luchino Visconti illustrates his mastery of the cinema in maintaining this balance in one of his most well respected works, Death in Venice. Based on a German novella of the same name by Thomas Mann, they both revolve around the story of Gustav von Aschenbach, an artist who retreats to Venice and begins obsessing over true Beauty, as it is reflected in a young Polish boy. In the novella, Aschenbach, a famous writer, searches out new experiences and so travels to Venice confronting vicariously through passers-by his own insecurities about art and love, life and death. Much of the novella is spent in a narrated soliloquy, meditating on the aforementioned concepts. In Venice he discovers Tadzio, a boy whose androgynous beauty might be compared to the Mona Lisa. Gustav begins to obsess over the boy, telling himself it is all aesthetic appreciation, but it quickly develops into an increasingly intense infatuation. Gustav discovers that Venice is being plagued by cholera, something the officials are trying to hide, due to the booming tourist trade. In spite of this discovery, he decides to remain in Venice, so as to never be forced to leave the side of his beloved Tadzio. In the end, he deteriorates ferociously until his death, his body ravaged by the cholera, a disease not nearly as dangerous as his unconsummated love.
The changes made between the novella and the film are limited. In the film Aschenbach's retreat is for health reasons, not for a renewed zeal for travel. He is a musician instead of a writer, and specifically addresses this as an example during his heated conversations with a friend. These discussions replace the inner monologues by communicating the same ideas. Tadzio also behaves differently. In the novella, he is simply present, and may not even realize the feelings that Gustav has for him. In the film, there are times where it seems like he is almost posing for Gustav. The feelings of homosexuality are portrayed more in the film than the novella, which, in a way, debases the emotions evoked by a man proud of his intellectualism. Aschenbach can be frequently found pontificating on the virtues of reason, but his attachment to this boy is something that extends beyond any sort of rationale. The suggestion that it is a purely sexual attraction moves it from an aesthetic appreciation to something much more banal.
But these are all symptoms of the curse of adaptation. The major changes between the book and movie were not things of plot. Those changes matter little in the long run. The changes that result in any adaptation are changes in meaning. In this film, Visconti succeeded in translating the mood of the novella, a brooding work that seems to take place outside of the world of dialogue. This is a testament to his ability as a director, that he transfered this feeling of inconsolably intense need through the restrained actions of both Dirk Bogande and the camera. It takes its time, it hesitates, it pauses for reflection; all of this makes it a very patient film, one not rushed by typical conventions. The novella is written in much the same fashion. It is what we would now call a character study, relatively plotless, but diving into the soul of a man to discover the way in which he perceives the world.
However, there was one significant thing that Visconti left out during his translation: ambiguity. It is very difficult in film to be as ambiguous as a work of literature. When images accompany words, the images make concrete what might otherwise have been hallucinated or imagined. In the film Tadzio recognizes Aschenbach because Aschenbach wants him to. But if one has not read the book, it seems like a much more intentional tryst every time their eyes meet. It appears homosexual.
Another effect of the loss of ambiguity is the reduced array of possible interpretations. In the novella, a whole slough of things might have occurred within Aschenbach's head. As the film gives no indication that he might be imagining things, this leads to only one way in which to see the work. There is much more freedom within the novella to explore his particular psyche. The book hints, though never confirms, a possibility that many of the people he meets are simply extensions of himself and, as I said before, his insecurities. In the film, one might get that impression from his arguments with his friend from back home, but they still seem like simple disputes. In the end, Visconti has picked an interpretation of the book and moved forward based on that.
But there, as the bard says, there's the rub. The whole point of adaptation and the older art of retelling told tales, lies in their relevance to today, or altered meanings. When Shakespeare wrote Henry V, it was a retelling of an historical event that was relevant to the British defeating the Spanish Armada. And when Lawrence Olivier performed it in 1940's London, the British had just survived the Nazi's Blitz. When Kenneth Branaugh adapted it into film in the 80's it was about Vietnam. They each changed the story a bit to make it about something new. Not only is this alteration important, it is necessary for an adaptation to be worth anything. It must be recognizable as the old, and yet, at the same time be nakedly apparent as something new, something relevant. In the words of Gustav's filmic profession, it must be a variation on a theme. The theme exists in order for us to become intimate with the work. We recognize the story and allow ourselves to be submerged in this comforting realm of familiarity. But then the artist takes us deeper into something that shatters the veil between the illusion and the reality.
In fact, this moment is not unlike the moment that Nietzsche speaks of in the 21st chapter of The Birth of Tragedy. “The Apollonian illusion reveals its identity as the veil thrown over the Dionysiac meanings for the duration of the play, and yet the illusion is so potent that at its close the Apollonian drama is projected into a sphere where it begins to speak with Dionysiac wisdom, thereby denying itself and its Apollonian concreteness.” The Apollonian is the Mann novella, something we have come to see as a standard of great literature. But when Visconti changes some of the key moments in the book, he changes them intentionally, to make a statement about all of us today, and becomes the Dionysian. Perhaps he is commenting on our collective voyeurism, or the way in which we hold artists above everyone else. He may be saying any number of things.
But such is the nature of adaptation. We are lured into a story we know, only to see it changed ever so slightly. Sometimes this change is out of necessity, due to the book's inability to be translated into film. It could be like Ulysses or On the Road. Both of these have been said to be impossible to adapt. But every so often a great artist comes across a great work and makes it his own.
Luchino Visconti illustrates his mastery of the cinema in maintaining this balance in one of his most well respected works, Death in Venice. Based on a German novella of the same name by Thomas Mann, they both revolve around the story of Gustav von Aschenbach, an artist who retreats to Venice and begins obsessing over true Beauty, as it is reflected in a young Polish boy. In the novella, Aschenbach, a famous writer, searches out new experiences and so travels to Venice confronting vicariously through passers-by his own insecurities about art and love, life and death. Much of the novella is spent in a narrated soliloquy, meditating on the aforementioned concepts. In Venice he discovers Tadzio, a boy whose androgynous beauty might be compared to the Mona Lisa. Gustav begins to obsess over the boy, telling himself it is all aesthetic appreciation, but it quickly develops into an increasingly intense infatuation. Gustav discovers that Venice is being plagued by cholera, something the officials are trying to hide, due to the booming tourist trade. In spite of this discovery, he decides to remain in Venice, so as to never be forced to leave the side of his beloved Tadzio. In the end, he deteriorates ferociously until his death, his body ravaged by the cholera, a disease not nearly as dangerous as his unconsummated love.
The changes made between the novella and the film are limited. In the film Aschenbach's retreat is for health reasons, not for a renewed zeal for travel. He is a musician instead of a writer, and specifically addresses this as an example during his heated conversations with a friend. These discussions replace the inner monologues by communicating the same ideas. Tadzio also behaves differently. In the novella, he is simply present, and may not even realize the feelings that Gustav has for him. In the film, there are times where it seems like he is almost posing for Gustav. The feelings of homosexuality are portrayed more in the film than the novella, which, in a way, debases the emotions evoked by a man proud of his intellectualism. Aschenbach can be frequently found pontificating on the virtues of reason, but his attachment to this boy is something that extends beyond any sort of rationale. The suggestion that it is a purely sexual attraction moves it from an aesthetic appreciation to something much more banal.
But these are all symptoms of the curse of adaptation. The major changes between the book and movie were not things of plot. Those changes matter little in the long run. The changes that result in any adaptation are changes in meaning. In this film, Visconti succeeded in translating the mood of the novella, a brooding work that seems to take place outside of the world of dialogue. This is a testament to his ability as a director, that he transfered this feeling of inconsolably intense need through the restrained actions of both Dirk Bogande and the camera. It takes its time, it hesitates, it pauses for reflection; all of this makes it a very patient film, one not rushed by typical conventions. The novella is written in much the same fashion. It is what we would now call a character study, relatively plotless, but diving into the soul of a man to discover the way in which he perceives the world.
However, there was one significant thing that Visconti left out during his translation: ambiguity. It is very difficult in film to be as ambiguous as a work of literature. When images accompany words, the images make concrete what might otherwise have been hallucinated or imagined. In the film Tadzio recognizes Aschenbach because Aschenbach wants him to. But if one has not read the book, it seems like a much more intentional tryst every time their eyes meet. It appears homosexual.
Another effect of the loss of ambiguity is the reduced array of possible interpretations. In the novella, a whole slough of things might have occurred within Aschenbach's head. As the film gives no indication that he might be imagining things, this leads to only one way in which to see the work. There is much more freedom within the novella to explore his particular psyche. The book hints, though never confirms, a possibility that many of the people he meets are simply extensions of himself and, as I said before, his insecurities. In the film, one might get that impression from his arguments with his friend from back home, but they still seem like simple disputes. In the end, Visconti has picked an interpretation of the book and moved forward based on that.
But there, as the bard says, there's the rub. The whole point of adaptation and the older art of retelling told tales, lies in their relevance to today, or altered meanings. When Shakespeare wrote Henry V, it was a retelling of an historical event that was relevant to the British defeating the Spanish Armada. And when Lawrence Olivier performed it in 1940's London, the British had just survived the Nazi's Blitz. When Kenneth Branaugh adapted it into film in the 80's it was about Vietnam. They each changed the story a bit to make it about something new. Not only is this alteration important, it is necessary for an adaptation to be worth anything. It must be recognizable as the old, and yet, at the same time be nakedly apparent as something new, something relevant. In the words of Gustav's filmic profession, it must be a variation on a theme. The theme exists in order for us to become intimate with the work. We recognize the story and allow ourselves to be submerged in this comforting realm of familiarity. But then the artist takes us deeper into something that shatters the veil between the illusion and the reality.
In fact, this moment is not unlike the moment that Nietzsche speaks of in the 21st chapter of The Birth of Tragedy. “The Apollonian illusion reveals its identity as the veil thrown over the Dionysiac meanings for the duration of the play, and yet the illusion is so potent that at its close the Apollonian drama is projected into a sphere where it begins to speak with Dionysiac wisdom, thereby denying itself and its Apollonian concreteness.” The Apollonian is the Mann novella, something we have come to see as a standard of great literature. But when Visconti changes some of the key moments in the book, he changes them intentionally, to make a statement about all of us today, and becomes the Dionysian. Perhaps he is commenting on our collective voyeurism, or the way in which we hold artists above everyone else. He may be saying any number of things.
But such is the nature of adaptation. We are lured into a story we know, only to see it changed ever so slightly. Sometimes this change is out of necessity, due to the book's inability to be translated into film. It could be like Ulysses or On the Road. Both of these have been said to be impossible to adapt. But every so often a great artist comes across a great work and makes it his own.
3.24.2009
Nosferatu, Fantasy, and the Death of Horror
In the last 20 years, the horror films genre has gone out the window. Perhaps, to be more specific, I should say that it has changed immensely for the worse. Horror films were one time stylistically astounding, filled with utterly believable special effects, that endowed the audience with a series of particularly haunting images. Now, the horror genre is just an indication that at some point there will be buckets of gore and a strange creature that jumps at you from the darkness. Gone are the twisted angles of Wise’s The Haunting, the twisting head of Friedkin’s The Exorcist, or even the rotting Mrs. Bates in Hitchcock’s Psycho. The actual schism between what is good horror and bad, though, is not age, as many believe; rather, it has more to do with a sort of realism. The reason Psycho is more frightening than Saw, is because the amount of disbelief in need of suspension is greatly reduced. Even when it comes to the films of seemingly supernatural events, such as Nosferatu, the unauthorized adaptation of Dracula, the characters are portrayed so realistically to force the viewer to actually think about whether vampires could exist, and what this would entail. These great horror films are imbued with this realism that carries them past the guards at our brains so that they can secure a place in the depths of our souls.
When discussing these films and their relationship to the horror genre, it is first important to consider its macrocosmic genre, fantasy. In reality, all of these excellent films exist in the fantasy realm. In his book The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, Tzvetan Todorov defines fantasy as the “hesitation experienced by a person who knows only the laws of nature, confronting an apparently supernatural event.” He goes on to describe the uncanny and the marvelous as the two rational outcomes of a fantasy. Either we view the material as something that is surprising but not unheard of, or as supernatural, something we cannot understand with these laws of nature. The reason these great horror films, especially Nosferatu, are so great lies in their ability to prolong the fantastic hesitation.
In Nosferatu, we are presented with a story that is seemingly supernatural. The problem with viewing this film now, in the 21st century, is that we have seen everything that followed it. Count Dracula (or Orlok) has become a character that is exaggerated, devoid of moral capability, and lacking any ability to be believable. It is immediately discarded as a simple story, something “marvelous” that has ceased to marvel us. But in Nosferatu, we are presented with a physically, mentally, even sexually tormented creature, just to the left of human. There are times in the film where we can see his pain, though we never sympathize with him. He is utterly believable as a Count Dracula, and he more than any other, makes you question the possibility of vampires. It gives the audience a window through which we could imagine this world existing, we can’t tell yet if a vampire is uncanny or supernatural. With its relatively sober set design (compared to The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, its contemporary) it suggests that even this place could exist.
Todorov also suggests in his work that two other conditions are necessary for a work to qualify as fantasy. The first is that a character in the work also must experience the same hesitation that the audience does. This requirement is fulfilled in the character of Thomas Hutter. Hutter rejects the possibility of Orlok at the onset of the film, but as it progresses he begins to believe that such a thing might, in fact be possible. His doubt propels our own doubt as we begin to accept the possibility. This very doubt is the making of the haunting resonance that great horror films possess. Nosferatu leaves you contemplating the presence of vampires outside, whereas Saw is completely unbelievable. You finish that movie and set it aside, knowing that such a thing would never actually happen. The last condition is that the audience must reject all sort of allegorical or metaphorical meaning in the work. It must be approached with a certain attitude. This attitude is the only attitude to take when watching any of the aforementioned great horror films, let alone Nosferatu. One is enveloped in the story of Hutter and Orlok, unable to even think if this film is about something else.
In effect, all of the great horror films fall into the category of fantasy, as they prolong the hesitation of the audience. In The Haunting we are utterly convinced that the house itself was built incorrectly and is partly evil. In Psycho, the twist boggles our mind, but we don’t make something special out of it. In The Shining, Nicholson’s performance as he slowly becomes more and more insane pushes us to care little about the issues we typically hear about this film. The reason modern horror is a defunct and broken genre is that it no longer chills us to the bone. In order for it o be frightening, we must respond to it in a fantastical way. We must be able to believe that it could be true. Otherwise, the film is simply a series of cheap gimmicks meant to catch us off guard.
When discussing these films and their relationship to the horror genre, it is first important to consider its macrocosmic genre, fantasy. In reality, all of these excellent films exist in the fantasy realm. In his book The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, Tzvetan Todorov defines fantasy as the “hesitation experienced by a person who knows only the laws of nature, confronting an apparently supernatural event.” He goes on to describe the uncanny and the marvelous as the two rational outcomes of a fantasy. Either we view the material as something that is surprising but not unheard of, or as supernatural, something we cannot understand with these laws of nature. The reason these great horror films, especially Nosferatu, are so great lies in their ability to prolong the fantastic hesitation.
In Nosferatu, we are presented with a story that is seemingly supernatural. The problem with viewing this film now, in the 21st century, is that we have seen everything that followed it. Count Dracula (or Orlok) has become a character that is exaggerated, devoid of moral capability, and lacking any ability to be believable. It is immediately discarded as a simple story, something “marvelous” that has ceased to marvel us. But in Nosferatu, we are presented with a physically, mentally, even sexually tormented creature, just to the left of human. There are times in the film where we can see his pain, though we never sympathize with him. He is utterly believable as a Count Dracula, and he more than any other, makes you question the possibility of vampires. It gives the audience a window through which we could imagine this world existing, we can’t tell yet if a vampire is uncanny or supernatural. With its relatively sober set design (compared to The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, its contemporary) it suggests that even this place could exist.
Todorov also suggests in his work that two other conditions are necessary for a work to qualify as fantasy. The first is that a character in the work also must experience the same hesitation that the audience does. This requirement is fulfilled in the character of Thomas Hutter. Hutter rejects the possibility of Orlok at the onset of the film, but as it progresses he begins to believe that such a thing might, in fact be possible. His doubt propels our own doubt as we begin to accept the possibility. This very doubt is the making of the haunting resonance that great horror films possess. Nosferatu leaves you contemplating the presence of vampires outside, whereas Saw is completely unbelievable. You finish that movie and set it aside, knowing that such a thing would never actually happen. The last condition is that the audience must reject all sort of allegorical or metaphorical meaning in the work. It must be approached with a certain attitude. This attitude is the only attitude to take when watching any of the aforementioned great horror films, let alone Nosferatu. One is enveloped in the story of Hutter and Orlok, unable to even think if this film is about something else.
In effect, all of the great horror films fall into the category of fantasy, as they prolong the hesitation of the audience. In The Haunting we are utterly convinced that the house itself was built incorrectly and is partly evil. In Psycho, the twist boggles our mind, but we don’t make something special out of it. In The Shining, Nicholson’s performance as he slowly becomes more and more insane pushes us to care little about the issues we typically hear about this film. The reason modern horror is a defunct and broken genre is that it no longer chills us to the bone. In order for it o be frightening, we must respond to it in a fantastical way. We must be able to believe that it could be true. Otherwise, the film is simply a series of cheap gimmicks meant to catch us off guard.
3.06.2009
Rashomon and the Postwar Burden
In recent times we have found it increasingly easy to assign blame to whomever we choose. We need not even know their level of responsibility in the situation to determine that they are, in fact, responsible. One particular example of note is the OJ Simpson trial. Many of us have somehow come to the conclusion that he is guilty, without actual basis for thinking so. This is part of a larger phenomenon that Akira Kurosawa was tapping into when he wrote and directed Rashomon. It is a film caught up in the nature of justice and truth, but also about blame. Following WW2, there began an onslaught of demonization by the American people, reducing the value of Germans, Communists and the Japanese. We blamed the German people for the actions of an elite minority, the Japanese for the actions of even less, and the Communists for the actions of Stalin. This, says Kurosawa, is not permissible.
Rashomon is about trying to determine actual events based on individual accounts. A samurai is dead, and we are trying to figure out exactly where everyone fits in. At the trial, the famous bandit Tajomaru (Toshiro Mifune) confesses to killing the samurai after having a heroic swordfight. Then his story is contradicted by the wife’s testimony who says that she accidentally did it, and Tajomaru ran away after raping her. Then we hear from the dead samurai, through a medium, and he tells us that it was he who killed himself out of a sense of samurai dignity. His wife had been raped and Hara Kiri was the only way to maintain his sense of honor. Then the woodcutter, who is relating the trial to us while keeping dry under the Rasho Gate, tells us that the samurai was anything but dignified, the bandit lacked any sword fighting ability, and the wife was a bit crazy. So we have all of these contradicting stories, and somehow we are supposed to assign blame to someone. One of them is responsible for the samurai’s death. But true justice is unattainable, and the ability of the court to decide is rather limited, so no one takes the rap.
After the woodcutter is done with his story, he and his audience hear a baby crying nearby. The commoner tries to take the things of value from its makeshift cradle, when the woodcutter stops him. After revealing a flaw in his story and showing the woodcutter is not as innocent as he would like to be seen, the commoner leaves Rashomon, taking his treasure with him. After the rain stops, the woodcutter tells the priest that he wan take care of the child, it wont make a lot of difference.
The commoner says about halfway through “But is there anyone who's really good? Maybe goodness is just make-believe. Man just wants to forget the bad stuff, and believe in the made-up good stuff. It's easier that way.” This is really a symptom of postwar America. We laid blame at the feet of the Japanese, whose sole crime was to be part of a nation that attacked Pearl Harbor and, as we later found out, executed the “Rape of Nanking.” The letter of these two is perhaps deserving of the repulsion in engenders, but the former is something that can be forgiven, at least in light of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. One would think we would be able to bury the hatchet, but the entire western world was against the Japanese. Moreover, we were punishing the sons for the crimes of the fathers. These wartime decisions were made by generals, not the populace, and to force the burden on them is even more repugnant than we made them out to be. In the film, they say that the demon of Rashomon flew in fear of the ferocity of man. This ferocity was not only the fact that we could commit 6 million murders, but that we could blame this horrendous crime on those who had no hand in it.
The truth is that you cannot place blame without fully understanding the circumstances. And when you understand the circumstances, typically there exists some rational explanation. With a rational explanation comes some form of redemption. The Japanese needed some form of redemption to avoid international persecution. They were like the child found at the gate: in need of a friendly hand from someone, a warm bed, a home. Those in charge of Japan during WW2 took away everything they had, and left them to die in the cold. We, the western world, were like the commoner. What little the Japanese had left we took from them. We robbed them of their innocence, stole their humanity, and turned our backs. We left them to die. As the film itself states, “In the end, you cannot understand the things men do.”
Rashomon is about trying to determine actual events based on individual accounts. A samurai is dead, and we are trying to figure out exactly where everyone fits in. At the trial, the famous bandit Tajomaru (Toshiro Mifune) confesses to killing the samurai after having a heroic swordfight. Then his story is contradicted by the wife’s testimony who says that she accidentally did it, and Tajomaru ran away after raping her. Then we hear from the dead samurai, through a medium, and he tells us that it was he who killed himself out of a sense of samurai dignity. His wife had been raped and Hara Kiri was the only way to maintain his sense of honor. Then the woodcutter, who is relating the trial to us while keeping dry under the Rasho Gate, tells us that the samurai was anything but dignified, the bandit lacked any sword fighting ability, and the wife was a bit crazy. So we have all of these contradicting stories, and somehow we are supposed to assign blame to someone. One of them is responsible for the samurai’s death. But true justice is unattainable, and the ability of the court to decide is rather limited, so no one takes the rap.
After the woodcutter is done with his story, he and his audience hear a baby crying nearby. The commoner tries to take the things of value from its makeshift cradle, when the woodcutter stops him. After revealing a flaw in his story and showing the woodcutter is not as innocent as he would like to be seen, the commoner leaves Rashomon, taking his treasure with him. After the rain stops, the woodcutter tells the priest that he wan take care of the child, it wont make a lot of difference.
The commoner says about halfway through “But is there anyone who's really good? Maybe goodness is just make-believe. Man just wants to forget the bad stuff, and believe in the made-up good stuff. It's easier that way.” This is really a symptom of postwar America. We laid blame at the feet of the Japanese, whose sole crime was to be part of a nation that attacked Pearl Harbor and, as we later found out, executed the “Rape of Nanking.” The letter of these two is perhaps deserving of the repulsion in engenders, but the former is something that can be forgiven, at least in light of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. One would think we would be able to bury the hatchet, but the entire western world was against the Japanese. Moreover, we were punishing the sons for the crimes of the fathers. These wartime decisions were made by generals, not the populace, and to force the burden on them is even more repugnant than we made them out to be. In the film, they say that the demon of Rashomon flew in fear of the ferocity of man. This ferocity was not only the fact that we could commit 6 million murders, but that we could blame this horrendous crime on those who had no hand in it.
The truth is that you cannot place blame without fully understanding the circumstances. And when you understand the circumstances, typically there exists some rational explanation. With a rational explanation comes some form of redemption. The Japanese needed some form of redemption to avoid international persecution. They were like the child found at the gate: in need of a friendly hand from someone, a warm bed, a home. Those in charge of Japan during WW2 took away everything they had, and left them to die in the cold. We, the western world, were like the commoner. What little the Japanese had left we took from them. We robbed them of their innocence, stole their humanity, and turned our backs. We left them to die. As the film itself states, “In the end, you cannot understand the things men do.”
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