RASHOMON: A Tragic Victim Of Its Own Genius
BFIWithout a shadow of a doubt, Rashomon is by far one of the most remembered films Akira Kurosawa ever made. Sitting as an important milestone in his career which catapulted him to worldwide stardom, upon its domestic release Japanese critics were at best lukewarm on reception – some were much fonder of Scandal, his other 1950 film – Rashomon resonated much stronger with international audiences. It put Kurosawa on the map and, most importantly, alerted the world to the riches of Japanese cinema and storytelling.
The magnitude of success Rashomon enjoyed at the time of its release and the lasting legacy it left behind is difficult to quantify because it is, by definition, a game-changer. Although in the preceding five decades cinematic storytellers had successfully transposed the toolbox of narrative twists found in literature to suit the requirements of film, the use of unreliable narrators in movies was still rather scarce. A few seminal examples worth bringing up in this context would definitely include Robert Wiene’s The Cabinet Of Dr Caligari (1920), Edgar G. Ulmer’s Detour (1945), Curtis Berhardt’s Possessed (1947), or Alfred Hitchcock’s Stage Fright (released a few short months ahead of Rashomon in 1950). However, Kurosawa’s adaptation of a short story by Ryunosuke Akutagawa took this concept to a new level. It was a veritable labyrinth of manipulation, red herrings, and narrative falsehoods delivered with unmatched directorial confidence, sense of style and self-awareness. Consequently, Rashomon became an inspirational focal point for legions of filmmakers. Its DNA can be found in The Usual Suspects, Memento, Gone Girl and a multitude of other well-regarded films.
Thousands of essays and dissertations have been written about Rashomon by seasoned critics, students of cinema and mesmerised fans of Kurosawa’s landmark opus. Walls of text can be found deconstructing the intricacies of the film’s plot and breaking it down to reveal subatomic nuances hinting at or foreshadowing crucial character traits or reflecting upon the directionality of the narrative. One can also find a lot of discussions regarding Kurosawa’s stylistic decisions to draw heavily from silent cinema, perhaps inadvertently referencing the aforementioned The Cabinet Of Dr Caligari, or how the film’s characteristic high-contrast lighting is itself a manifestation of the central themes found in the story. These are all worthy pursuits and fascinating topics of conversation lending credence to the film’s stature as one of the greatest works of cinema. Surprisingly, although the Rashomon puzzle has been discussed ad nauseam over the years, the same cannot be said about its plausible raison d’etre.
Akira Kurosawa had directed ten features before he helmed Rashomon. Even a cursory glance over his filmography, eclectic as it might seem, would indicate that Kurosawa was driven artistically by a defined set of interests. This isn’t exactly a novel discovery, as many filmmakers – perhaps even all of them – tend to be drawn to particular themes and ideas, even if they direct from scripts penned by collaborators. Though he was particularly fond of experimenting with genres, many of Kurosawa’s films (One Wonderful Sunday, The Quiet Duel, Drunken Angel, Stray Dog, Scandal) repeatedly dealt with such notions as fundamental human kindness, doing the right thing, or standing defiantly against the cruel indifference of the world. Hence, would Rashomon buck this trend? Would Kurosawa spin on a dime and lose himself in this beautiful puzzle for its own sake?
The answer to both questions is: of course not. It is highly unlikely for people’s interests to suddenly change overnight, unless a traumatic incident is involved. Therefore, it is inherently logical to ask how exactly Rashomon fits within this bigger picture of Kurosawa’s body of work. These connections are found in the film’s memorable climax. As the layers of mystery are peeled away and it is revealed that every single perspective presented in the story is composed of utter falsehoods, the viewer’s attention is directed towards processing these revelations. Meanwhile, Kurosawa advances the central thesis of the film. Out of nowhere, he introduces an abandoned baby – itself a kind of deus ex machina – as a tool to unravel the story told up to that point. As the viewer realizes that the truth about what happened to the samurai and his wife may never be found, the film ends with one definite certainty. The baby will live. It will be taken in by the Woodcutter (Takashi Shimura) and raised alongside his six other children. This is the only thing that matters, and it seems that the priest (Minoru Chiaki) is the only one to realize that.
This is likely because audiences are conditioned to expect a resolution and find it difficult to deal with ambiguity. It is not entirely uncommon to find elaborate fan theories concerning elements of plot left unresolved in various movies, like what’s in the briefcase in Pulp Fiction or what happened to the girl in Burning, to name but a few. Rashomon was perhaps one of the seminal films leaving what looked like the central motif in the narrative completely unsettled. After all, nobody’s account could be trusted. This organically attracted audiences to try to find the truth between the lines of dialogue, in minute details left in the periphery of the frame and in the cinematic technique itself. Such was the genius of Rashomon that it compelled generations of movie fans to look for answers and obsess over the film’s narrative ingenuity without realizing that it may have not mattered at all who did what to whom, in what order and why.
In fact, it is reasonable to assume Kurosawa was openly satirizing this expectation for the narrative to have a conclusion of a defined pedigree. He was toying with these distinct vectors of inspiration knowing they led nowhere, because their purpose might have been to force the viewers to take a few steps back and realize this whole fantasy was meaningless. Neither the stakes of the duel between Toshiro Mifune and Masayuki Mori nor the unnerving horror of the rape on Machiko Kyo mattered in the grand scheme of things. These events could have been completely manufactured to enable Shimura’s character to do what he thought was the right thing at the time: ensure the baby’s survival.
Sadly, hardly anybody seems to care because the thrill of figuring out what happened in the fantasy is far more enticing than the life-affirming truth contained in the only part of the story whose validity cannot be contested. It may be the case that Kurosawa wanted to coerce the viewers to reflect upon their proclivities to seek comfort in escapism instead of celebrating selflessness, but the fundamental values encoded within the climax were no match for the intoxicating enigma the narrative left unresolved. Thus, Rashomon continues to be remembered as a perennial puzzle box and an inspirational smorgasbord of narrative ambiguity, which is certainly well deserved. However, the real power of this film – a continuation and recapitulation of Kurosawa’s longstanding drive to champion humanist morality – remains somewhat obscured. It’s all too easy to fail to see the forest for the trees.
This concludes the retrospective celebrating Akira Kurosawa’s legacy as one of the most important filmmakers of all time. Over the last few months the talented writers at CLAPPER have discussed eleven of his movies, from timeless classics to overlooked gems in dire need of reappraisal. Hopefully, these re-contextualized perspectives on Kurosawa’s work will inspire contemporary moviegoers to rediscover these classic works of cinema and keep the conversation about Akira Kurosawa’s stature going.
Comprehensive list of all articles published as part of the retrospective -
Jakub Flasz’ KUROSAWA CELEBRATION
Alexander Holmes’ THE BAD SLEEP WELL
Jakub Flasz’s DERSU UZALA
Carson Timar’s I LIVE IN FEAR
Alexander Holmes’ KAGEMUSHA
Jakub Flasz’s SCANDAL
Jakub Flasz’s RED BEARD
Carson Timar’s THE MEN WHO TREAD ON TIGER’S TAIL
Sumer Singh’s DREAMS
Owen Hiscock’s RAN
Sumer Singh’s DODES'KA-DEN
