Time to talk about another classic—and one far more momentous than its seemingly humble scope and size would suggest. We’re talking the legendary Akira Kurosawa himself—titan of Japanese cinema both within the home isles and without, whose reach becomes an indecipherably vast web of influences. He after all was a very direct inspiration on none other than George Lucas, who safe to say is the singular biggest impactor on western pop culture in the last half-century or so, just to start. But for this one, we’re going to where all of that began—with Rashomon.
Adapted from a short story, the film begins with a woodcutter, priest, and a peasant sheltering from the rain in the ruins of the titular Rashomon temple, beautifully shot in all its dilapidation here. This was but a few short years after the end of the Second World War—and so, seeing this once symbol of Japanese faith reduced to a husk, hearing the very cynical outlooks to the institutions of the land from the characters…it’s not easy to see this all tapping into the bitter zeitgeist of a nation battered under bombings of all varieties. This of course is but the framing for what our trio here come to discuss—the case of an attack on a woman and her husband in the woods, and the trial that ensued. Whose story is true, and is there even a truth to decipher? That’s what the film’s all about.
Things start off simple, but what makes the film still so interesting are the permutations that come from starting with even a simple setup. It’s apt in making you consider just how easily then we can have so many versions of stories and histories across human cultures and societies with that in mind. Here, the assorted flashbacks to the meeting in the woods feature just three people—the woman, played by Machiko Kyo; the husband, played by Masayuki Mori; and the bandit himself, played by the other legend of Japanese cinema, Toshiro Mifune himself.
With his piercing gaze that could shatter concrete, with the style of perfectly controlled bushido focus he bought to his future roles like Yojimbo, it’s safe to say that if you need a samurai on film, accept no substitutes. Of course, those thinking of Mifune as a disciplined ronin will see him differently here, as a wild, disrespectful brigand who in all the versions of the story is unafraid to speak his mind.
Depending on who’s telling it, the brigand is barely above a wild animal. Or maybe he’s seeking redemption, and begs the wife to make him a better man. Perhaps the husband is a coward, or the woman conniving. Everyone’s trying to paint themselves the best before a tribunal, who probably isn’t so much interested in the truth itself, so much as simply the story that makes the most sense—and we all know that sense isn’t necessarily the most common attribute when it comes to people.
There’s even one memorable moment where a spirit medium is bought forward to speak for the dead husband—it’s not clear if this real or more fakery, and that just ties further into the theme. Though I must admit, the poor lip syncing in that scene just adds to its slightly disturbing feel for me.
It’s that open-endedness that makes Rashmonon either very simple to discuss, or very complex, however you like it. In this day and age, seventy years on, it’s easier than ever to pick and choose your truth. But, as this film discusses very firmly, that isn’t even a new phenomenon—for centuries immemorial, people ignore that which does not suit them, and go for that which seems simplest or sweetest. Watching it now, with all that in mind, brings up new pertinence even after all the decades of discussion and dissection over this one.
But, as the ending goes on, perhaps it’s not really what truth we pick that ultimately matters, so much as the actions we choose that affect the lives of others. And it’s on that perfect bittersweet note, with little resolved but a new future for one of our players, that Rashomon chooses to end perfectly.
So yeah—it’s a classic for good reason, and one still worth watching. It’s a relatively short, perfectly digestible film, and there’s shares of drama and katana duels for those that want them between the discussions and pontifications. It’s this film that broke Japanese cinema into the west—scoring itself awards in film festivals in the early 1950s, and not long after, another flick about a certain giant atomic lizard also helped into motion the cross-pollination that continues to this day. And, as we’ve discussed, so it drew the attention of western filmmakers, thus eventually leading to more cultural bounties that anyone can conceive. Give it a watch for sure—however you’ll choose to remember it…
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