The Mise en Scene of Conflict: Akira Kurosawa

Ikuru, released in 1952, is the story of Kanji Watanabe, a bureaucrat within city government who discovers he is dying of cancer. This realistic film reveals the conflicts relating to an ineffectual government agency, a man struggling with his own mortality and the way such a man can make a difference within that very agency. While waiting at the hospital for testing, Watanabe sits down in the waiting room, and another patient immediately engages him. In this scene, the movement in conjunction with the composition of the frame expresses Watanabe's fears. With a tightly framed, deep-focus, medium shot, Kurosawa composes a closed form in a manner that appears natural. With Watanabe’s movements, two doorways lined with patients are revealed—the patients’ faces hidden. The anonymous patients line either side of the frame suggesting “the unseen and the fearful...oblivion and even death.” (Giannetti, 56) Watanabe and the stranger sit tightly together initially, but as the stranger describes the symptoms of stomach cancer, Watanabe’s body language changes. With each new description, Watanabe shifts from an intersecting position with the stranger to one that is parallel, facing away from the stranger toward the camera in an attempt to flee from the truth. There are two doorways behind him, yet they do not provide an escape. Initially, he was gently resting his hands on his hat, and then he tightens his grasp. This scene, in its minimalist elegance, quickly establishes the emotional state of the main character and his physical response to an internal conflict. With this intimate final frame, we see the agony in his face as we along with him, realize the truth. Kurosawa engages the audience’s sense of empathy and thus establishes the journey to come.

In this initial scene, we have the stranger, Watanabe and Watanabe’s hat. As the story progresses, his hat becomes an emotional source of reflection. Kurosawa incorporates the triangle composition to illustrate conflict throughout his films regardless of its source.

The triangle is established between Watanabe, his son, Mitsuo, and his daughter-in-law, Kazue. Watanabe unsuccessfully tries to confess his secret. The scene, as before, is filmed with a deep-focus, medium shot. A traditional, modest Japanese home reflects wear and neglect, such as the large water stain at the doorway. The distance between each character, as well as their physical demeanors, play a vital role in this frame. Each are separated from one another and placed diagonally down the frame from left to right. Mitsuo, placed above his father, instills a sense of authority, while Kazue is placed in a subservient position. Watanabe is in the middle of the triangle. Once again, he has no escape. The sequence is short and simple. Mitsuo engages his father in idle banter without looking up from his paper. Watanabe attempts to speak to his son but pulls back and rests his tea cup in his lap. As he returns the cup to the table, his hand trembles, yet no one takes notice. They pay little attention to him. In the final frame, Watanabe has tried to express his situation to Mitsuo and is immediately met with false accusations. Kazue has removed herself from the room, yet the triangle still exists. The light has become harsh specifically on Watanabe as though he is being interrogated. This is a turning point in Watanabe's path. It is with this failed confrontation and “finding no solace there, he begins, for the first time, to doubt; and to doubt means to feel, to begin to live.” (Richie, 87) Not only does the physical conflict erupt from Mitsuo (false belief) over his father’s unusual behavior, Watanabe also becomes completely alienated from his family and thus his final journey begins.

It is not until after his death that his family learns of his illness. Mitsuo’s father bought himself a new hat. The police officer that found Watanabe in the park at the time of his death returns it. In some respect the hat itself becomes a character, accepting the memory of Watanabe at the end of his life. As Giannetti mentions, “his battered hat is a symbol pf his humility and dogged perseverance.” (321) Numerous times it hold our attention either as a point within a triangular composition or by taking visual dominance within the frame. Clutching the hat, Mitsuo contemplates the past several months. Now he experiences doubt. The characters are juxtaposed against the angular intersecting lines of the Japanese home. This proxemics pattern strengthens the internal conflict Mitsuo is now experiencing. Kurosawa carries this through the scene, placing further emphasis on Watanabe’s hat.

The camera pulls back and, with a deep-focus, long shot, we peer through the window of the door. The lines of the door, with it’s tiny window, becomes constricted and claustrophobic. Kurosawa keeps the hat in view as Mitsuo comes to the door. We see him carrying this solitary object and with a wipe transition, the door slides open to reveal a panning shot of his father on a swing. Just as we were viewing the intersecting lines of the door, Watanabe and his final moments are revealed. A quiet snow is falling. As if we are watching a bird in a cage, Watanabe swings, singing. The camera moves around the jungle gym and Watanabe emerges from the bars. In a full frontal, medium shot, his swinging slows, his song ends and he transitions to a formal portrait. Thus, Watanabe has passed. This illustration of death maintains the integrity and dignity of a man who, at the end of life, decided to do something right. Although this does not signify the end of the story, it is the beginning as his actions unfold through the recollections of his coworkers. Watanabe faces the camera in an intimate shot. For most of the film he is hunched over and has difficulty walking. On the swing he is upright with a facial expression of satisfaction. Throughout the previous scenes, there has been a source of strife; but here, it has finally lifted.This is illustrated through the edited cross dissolve in which Watanabe on the swing fades into his portrait. An eloquent manner in which to make a profound statement, Kurosawa films Watanabe through a jungle gym filled of intersecting bars that seem endless. However, in the end, Watanabe overcame every obstacle to make his dream a reality, and he lived to see it completed.

From this point the film reflects on Watanabe’s tireless devotion that led to the construction of the park. A debate erupts at the wake regarding the responsibility of the park. Each department attempts to take credit for the project. A sole employee, Sakai, speaks in defense and recognition of Watanabe as the builder of the park. In a deep-focus close-up, he tearfully defends his boss against the onslaught of accusations from the bureaucrats. Seated before the intersecting walls in a room full of people, Sakai, alienated, is confronted and dismissed. The other bureaucrats are placed before stark, bland backgrounds or the chaotic ornamentation of the funeral wall. Listening to their discussion, the bureaucrats are devoid of critical thought and reflection. While accusing Watanabe of grandstanding, they take credit for the project. Within the circle of men the debate makes its rounds, along with the saki. As they become increasingly intoxicated, their opinions change. Yet, the manner in which the scene is filmed does not. Throughout the sequence, a deep-focus is maintained and intermixed with wide and close-up shots. Watanabe’s portrait hangs on the wall as if it’s watching over the discussion. Kurosawa’s deliberate method of filming this sequence, provides the underlying meaning that nothing is changing. Despite the words being said, he continues to film the sequence in the same manner throughout. Unlike the previous scenes where characters change position, or the camera angle changes, the style here continues unaltered. This reflects the falsehood of the bureaucratic revelations.

One bureaucrat, who initially claims to be responsible for the park, begins retelling an experience he had with Watanabe. Watanabe meets with the section chief of the parks department to request his assistance. Once again in a deep-focus, medium shot, The entire frame is filled with stacks of papers. Around the windows and up to the ceiling are piles of folders. A large table, centered the room, also is covered with papers as men flank each side. In the foreground Watanabe takes the dominant position, yet he is seated in a profile to three-quarter position, which “is useful for conveying a character’s...antisocial feelings.” (Giannetti, 56) The space is constricted to the point of stifling. Hunched over, he asks the parks section chief for help and is quickly dismissed, but he doesn’t move. The triangle among himself the section chief and sub-section chief creates a quiet conflict. In the first shot, Watanabe is seated further to the left and low in the frame to emphasize his vulnerability. But as he patiently waits, his position rises in the frame and takes precedence over the parks section chief. The diagonals are strong and reveal themselves in Watanabe’s posture and the manner in which the section chief has positioned his arm. Your eye dances from Watanabe to the chief to the sub-chief and back again. And right their with him, we wait. Finally, with a simple turn of the head, we have reached our goal. “Watanabe has discovered what it means to exist, to be—and the pain is so exquisite that it drives, it inspires him.” (Richie, 94)

It is this film, above all others, in which Kurosawa strives to expose modern Japan (Richie, 87), with it’s overall lack of humility and an ineffective government that is meant to protect and serve. “At the end of the picture this useless cycle is started again when—despite all the vows made during the wake—the clerks, who have not changed, not reformed in the slightest, send a group of housewives off to the next department.” (Richie, 90) But Kurosawa’s central theme is simply that “Watanabe has discovered himself through doing. Perhaps without even grasping the profound truth he was acting out, he behaved as though he believed that it is action alone which matters; that a man is not his thoughts, nor his wishes, nor his intentions, but is simply what he does.” (Richie, 94) And even more poignantly in the “first half we see his body, what he does, in the second half, we see his soul.” (Richie, 94)

Having been raised as a samurai, Kurosawa learned the importance of loyalty and honor. As he witnessed the cultural changes of Japan following World War II, he questioned the motives and sincerity of his countrymen, yet maintained his loyalty to the traditions of his past. “Self-sacrifice and moral commitment are the central themes running through Kurosawa's films, and they resonate with his own samurai background... The origins of samurai were warriors who followed a strict futile code based on unquestioning loyalty to their lord. Over the centuries they lost most of their power but they retained their position as the elite of Japanese society.” (Lowe) Kurosawa strove to strengthen the bond of Japanese history and tradition. His loyalty was with Japanese culture and history and he aspired to remind others of its significance. Ikuru sought to inspire that in others in a profound manner. Although in his period films, he takes a softer approach.

 

Released in 1958, Hidden Fortress marked Kurosawa’s first widescreen format film as well as his last film for Toho Productions. It is widely considered to be one of his four samurai classics. The 16:9 aspect ratio becomes the “cinematic counterpart to the eye’s peripheral vision.” (Giannetti, 189) Kurosawa utilized the new format for its “greater fidelity to real time and space; its detail, complexity, and density; its more objective presentation; its more coherent continuity; its greater ambiguity; and its encouragement of creative audience participation.” These factors inspired Kurosawa to push its boundaries. Where Ikuru was closed and compact, Hidden Fortress breathes.

Kurosawa was known for his creative use of metaphor. In image 20, The frame is dominated by the ruins of a structure. It is filmed with the camera tilted up in a deep-focus wide shot. The stone road is flanked with debris. The slaves, in their attempt to escape, begin to trickle down the path. Kurosawa utilizes the wide screen to emphasize mass and scale. The anticipatory camera angle in this instance reflects determination the part of the slaves. A small group emerges against the black sky, and like a flood, they come crashing down the path, rumbling and collecting debris as they flow toward the camera. Shots are fired just as they reach the bottom, and the immediate damn of bodies holds back the flow of people. They can’t hold it for long and it breaks. The rumbling screams continue down, taking out their tormentors.

In this scene, two of the main characters, Tahei and Matashichi, are taken prisoner and forced into manual labor. They use the revolt to make their escape. The slaves are being forced to dig within the depths of the castle, where it is believed the previous owner buried gold. It is through this scene that we are first introduced to the legend of the hidden gold.

As the story progresses, our heroes—several servants and the samurai, General Rokurota Makabe—are protecting the only surviving member of the Akizuki clan, Princess Yuki. Yuki, a strong willed sixteen-year-old, rebels against her guardians. In image 23, Yuki has just learned that Kofuyu, Makabe’s own sister, also sixteen, was handed over to the enemy as a decoy. Makabe and Yuki’s lady-in-waiting, are positioned against Yuki, yet she sits above them. This reflects her social position. Makabe and the servant are there to serve the princess. Yuki’s position is stiff and defensive. Her anger, directed at Makabe for sending his own sister to her death on Yuki’s behalf is more than she can stand. Makabe responds, “It was her duty.” This sparse arrangement immediately conveys tension. As Yuki sits upright, the servant and Makabe lean forward. Yuki’s face is dominant in the scene. While expressing her disdain, Yuki stands between the two. In a medium, deep-focus shot, the waterfall behind Yuki, as we hear it trickling down the rock, becomes a metaphor for the loss they cannot express. Once again she looks down upon them, her pale figure standing in contrast to the dark background. Although Yuki is looking the the servant, both she and Makabe maintain dominance. Yuki is the rebellious, unruly teenager and Makabe is the father figure attempting to control her. In a close-up shot, Yuki is alone on the mountain overlooking what was once the land of her family. Using a lap dissolve, Kurosawa reveals her inner turmoil at the loss of her family and the sacrifices that lie ahead. She alone is left to rebuild her families empire.

Tahei and Matashichi have been recruited to assist in the collection and transportation of the legendary gold, but Matashichi decides to find wealth another way. Upon discovering the treachery, Makabe drags Tahei out of the fortress and into the valley. In the first frame, looking up in a deep-focus, medium shot, we are enveloped by the structure itself. The roof over hang obliterates the landscape. Makabe’s muscles are clearly visible as he clasps Tahei by the shirt. Emphasizing Makabe’s dominance over the situation, his posture and position are perpendicular to the visual frame and his body runs parallel to the door frame. The diagonal lines created by the structure itself further add to the tension. In the second frame the camera follows as Makabe pulls Tahei into the open and closer to the camera. In a close-up, Tahei and Makabe fill the screen. Their proxemic distance to one another, Makabe’s arm and the anger in his eyes clarify the moment. The background is shrouded so all of the attention is on these two men. Once Makabe releases him, Tahei climbs across a trench, and we see the triangle of the fortress to Tahei and Makabe. The roof line pointing directly at each character. Tahei’s posture is one of flight yet Makabe is ready to strike. This ongoing tension between the two peasants and Makabe adds an element of humor due to their unsophisticated and clumsy behavior.

In the most memorable sequence, Kurosowa used the widescreen format to its fullest. Moving from the left to the right of the frame, Makabe rides on horseback, samurai sword in hand, and chases down the enemy. His posture alone exemplifies power and strength. As the horse gallops and the background wisps past, he remains in position. While disappearing around a bend he takes down the fleeing solders. However, to his surprise he finds himself in the midst of the enemy’s camp. Makabe finds himself encircled by soldiers with spears. The diagonals created by the spears converge on Makabe. With the deep-focus wide shot, the entire camp closes in on the general. Although in the following frame, Makabe has been offered a duel. His name is legendary among the clans. As he walks within the circle, solders recoil when he draws near. Despite the threat of this situation, the tension has lessened as the camera angle as shifted to the opposite side and moved up. The surrounding soldiers have dissipated and raised their spears, minimizing the diagonal lines. In this frame the diagonals are created by the shadows at the lower-right corner which further de-emphasize the threat.

Although Kurosawa always maintained tight control over the composition of each frame, Hidden Fortress marks a significant change in his mise en scène. The breadth of his work is taken to new heights. He considers the entire frame and uses it accordingly, carefully choreographing movements and the editing of those sequences. The horse chase alone is beautifully filmed and pieced together. He captures the tension of the fleeing solders as well as the general’s tenacity.

Ran was released in 1985, and Kurosawa considered it his best work. Based on shakespeare’s King Lear, Kurosawa focused on the the “giri, the most quintessential aspect in Japanese society, is the obligation to act according to reciprocal relations with particular persons with whom the individual has certain social relations. This is a social and moral code that compels the society’s members to respond to this obligation even when their natural inclination (ninjo) is to act differently.” (Serper, 149) Ran's literal meaning is chaos, but as a suffix it can also mean rebellion. (Richie, 214) Kurosawa blurs those definitions and raises both of those aspects throughout the film.

The head of the clan, Hidetora, wears white, which is the embodiment of all colors; while his three sons are each dressed in a primary color. “In Ran, color is used for identification, the various armies are color coordinated.” (Richie, 234) Kurosawa uses color among a bleak landscape that exude strife and causes confusion. “Color conveys the director's sense that human beings no longer deserve to enjoy the fruitfulness of nature because they have been so profligate with her gifts.” (Richie, 234) Saburô, the youngest, wears blue, a cool calm color. Yet Tarô and Jirô wear warm colors which can be used to illustrate strife. In the initial sequence, Hidetora is handing over his power to his eldest son, Tarô. In the first frame using a deep-focus wide angle, Kurosawa captures the beauty of the Japanese landscape. The sons sit across from their father in their proper place and position, but Saburô’s posture differs. His hands are displaced and he leans forward, thus beginning the turmoil. In the second frame Hidetora has risen and stands above the children, looking down upon them. His posture is stern and defensive. Both of the elder brothers’ eyes, as well as those of Hidetora, are fixed on Saburô. The dreadful argument that transpires is juxtaposed against a beautiful spring afternoon.

In frame 34, Hidetora is seated with his eldest son Tarô and his wife, Lady Kaede. “When Hidetora is called to relinquish his leadership of the family and submit himself to Tarô's authority, he is instructed by Kaede to sit in front of her on the floor, which is absolutely ‘low’ compared to Tarô and Kaede, who site higher than him on two parallel small daises, and with their backs to the tokonoma (alcove)—an additional directional position which expresses their superiority to any other person in the room. He replies: ‘Do I have to sit lower than you?... Who do you think I am?’ but he nonetheless obeys and sits in this humiliating position.” (Serper, 152) Seated symmetrically on the screen, the couple retain the dominant and therefore superior portion of the frame. Hidetora sits in the middle surrounded on all sides not yet realizing the gravity of the situation. (Richie, 216)

In an attempt to find solace for his wives and his men, Hidetora moves to the second castle, home to his middle son, Jirô. Hidetora’s men are denied access. In image 35, Hidetora, angered and insulted, turns his back on his son. At this moment their bodies overlap. There is still a physical connection between the two. The arrangement in the frame allows Hidetora to dominate and Jirô to recede into the background. In the next frame, the gate has been shut. The relationship is severed and Hidetora stands alone and alienated. The third frame pulls back into a wide shot and captures his men, bowing to their master. Only his samurai warriors remain loyal. Once Hidetora moves to the third castle abandoned by his youngest son, he is ambushed by his two eldest children. “He moves to the third castle but is ambushed there by Tarô and Jirô’s army. His own soldiers are slaughtered and his wives commit suicide.” (Serper, 149) In image 38, two wives lie dead and one is about to commit suicide. The fabrics are elaborate and colorful, yet there is no visible blood. In the next frame, sitting below his samurai armor, Hidetora’s vulnerability is equal to his despair. Drawing from the Noh tradition, as the battle rages, Hidetora’s face becomes more formalistic as his grasp on reality fades. Arrows fly past and strike the wall to the right of the frame. The glorious armor shines brilliant behind him, yet he reaches for a sword to commit suicide only to find that it is gone along with himself. At this point he rises and, amidst the warfare, “he leaves the surrounded castle, wanders about in the plains completely mad.” (Serper, 149) The frame of the castle burning pushes the use of color. On either side of the castle steps are the two armies as the flames above emerge from the windows, yellow and red. The color of the two armies converge to destroy Hidetora. White smoke billows from the corridor, he staggers out in his white robe. The wide-angle shot captures the physical conflict that has taken place, while the previous frames emphasized his inner turmoil. “Kurosawa keeps Hidetora fixed within the worldly strife of the masculine sphere. He de-emphasizes the story, and effectively replaces it with the soundless, five-minute long battle sequence between the forces of Tarô and Jirô. It is this earthly battle that signals Hidetora's madness, that unswords his scabbard in the films imagery, revealing him as powerless and driving him from shelter.” (Hoile, 32)

When asked about Ran, Kurosawa said prior to filming, that it “would round out my life's work in film.” (Richie, 214) Kurosawa used “the camera in Ran is an impassive and literally distant observer.” (Hoile, 29) We watch as this man loses everything to his own children and, in turn, they lose as well. “Although the spineless Tarô received most of his father's property and authority, his wife Kaede manipulates him in order to completely dispossess his father of his authority, property, and even his life, thereby betraying his deepest giri to his father. In contrast, Saburô, despite having been dispossessed and banished, is the embodiment of integrity and confidence and displays deep concern for his father's position and safety.” (Serper, 151) Unlike the two previous films, Ran embodies a use of color that illustrates Kurosawa’s attention to detail. As the castle burns, the colors stand out against the gray, muddy background.

Kurosawa was born into a samurai family and raised as a samurai. Although the profession of a painter and filmmaker were considered scandalous to a samurai family, Kurosawa maintained an unremitting devotion to the “moral commitment and self sacrifice” (Lowe) of his people. Regardless of the story, that element radiated off the screen. “Throughout history, human beings have been making the same mistakes. Why do we keep repeating ourselves? Mankind is in a desperate situation. How can we break out of it?” (Lowe) Each film had an underlying subtext reflecting Kurosawa’s feelings toward the moral and economic changes of Japan. His characters struggle with their sense of loyalty and their place in society. With a minimalistic style, he reveals a simplified narrative, stripped of unnecessary dialogue and action that can clutter the story. His strong use of diagonals—and especially that of the triangle—is prominent throughout his life’s work. In many cases it is not a single conflict that a character endures, but multiple, simultaneously. As Makabe is confronted with Yuki’s hostility and will, he also struggles with the inner turmoil of his sister’s death. Watanabe has a confrontation with his son while anguishing over his own mortality. Hidetora’s own sons, whom he trusted, have turned on him. The one son that tried to warn him of this has been banished. While falling into madness, two armies wage war at his doorstep and his wives commit suicide. Kurosawa uses placement within the frame to convey strong emotions in a subtle yet highly effective manner.

Two statements were made about Kurosawa in an obituary in Sight and Sound magazine. In the first statement the author says that “his brilliance ...lay in his ability to express himself in purely cinematic terms. Few directors were better at visualizing meanings through their mise en scène of actors and settings, an no director was ever a better or more innovative editor.” (3) But the author then continues to make another statement that “throughout the long career there are tendencies to sentimentality, nanny-like social commentary and, above all, moralistic lecturing. Kurosawa will certainly be remembered, and may well continue to influence new generations of filmmakers, but not for his ’philosophies’.” (3)

Kurosawa developed characters and made films as commentary in an effort to inspire. They reflected his perspective on his own country, with its rich history and culture. He witnessed the birth of capitalism and the hedonism that followed. Bureaucracies emerged providing false hope and security. Even now, fifty five years later, we still see that same ineffective managing as we were shown in Ikuru. The themes are timeless and significant regardless of culture and time. Kurosawa certainly felt strongly about these things and did not attempt to hide them. But his genius was that he did not sermonize; his genius was that he strove to inspire.

 

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