Film Review
Whilst the middle period of Japanese film director Kenji Mizoguchi is
massively overshadowed by his later achievements - notably the
universally acclaimed
Ugetsu monogatari (1953) and
Sanshô
dayû (1954) - it does contain one or two cinematic
marvels that are well-worth discovering. Of these the finest is
almost certainly
The Story of the
Last Chrysanthemum (a.k.a.
Zangiku
Monogatari), an exquisitely poignant period melodrama which is
generally regarded as the best film that Mizoguchi made before
WWII. Exemplifying the director's growing interest in
contemporary social themes, the film is based on a popular novel by
Shôfû Muramatsu and was co-scripted by the director's
long-term collaborator Yoshikata Yoda.
Set in Japan in the Meiji period of late 19th century, like many of
Mizoguchi's films,
The Story of the
Last Chrysanthemum embraces themes that are central to the
director's work - the oppression of women by social conventions in a
male-orientated society; the impossibility of transcending one's class
in society; and the inherent nobility of women in relation to the
selfishness and vanity of men. The story is a familiar one, of
love thwarted by a tragic conspiracy of circumstances, but Mizoguchi
handles it with such delicacy that no one who watches the film can fail
to be moved by it. Artistically, the film develops the techniques that
had become Mizoguchi's signature by the mid-1930s - primarily his use
of extremely long takes, camera motion and deep focus, wide-angle lens
photography - and achieves a noticeably greater degree of harmony and
expression than earlier films, such as
Osaka Elegy (1936) and
Sisters of the Gion (1936).
The Story of the Last Chrysanthemum
may be set in the past, but it serves as a pretty uncompromising
commentary on the class divisions and social attitudes that existed in
Japan at the time the film was made. Even as late as the 1930s,
Japan was a highly stratified society and the behaviour of individuals
within each class was governed by a strict code of etiquette.
When we first meet them, the two main characters in this film - the
celebrity actor Kikunosuke and wet-nurse Otoku - clearly belong to
different social spheres. And yet Kikunosuke derives his status
not from being an actor - at the time, most actors were generally
ranked as lowly as servants - but because he is famous, the equivalent
of today's A-lister. The central irony of the film is that if
Kikunosuke had been an ordinary jobbing actor, there would be nothing
to prevent his happy union with Otoku. Once Kikunosuke has turned
his back on the adopted father to whom he owes his fame, once he has
taken a few knocks and has become an anonymous travelling player, he is
finally a suitable husband for Otoku.
Yet neither Kikunosuke nor Otoku is satisfied with this outcome.
Otoku's one desire is that Kikunosuke should fulfil his potential and
become a famous actor, but this will inevitably result in their being
divided by class once again. So intense is her love for her
'young master' that Otoku willingly sacrifices herself so that he may
succeed in his profession. Once Kikunosuke is a success, she
knows she can never belong to his world and their separation will
become absolute and irreversible. None of this would have come as
a surprise to a Japanese audience: it was understood that the role of
the woman was to be subservient to the needs of the dominant
male. The injustice of this central tenet of Japanese life can be
felt in much of Mizoguchi's work, but rarely with such blistering
intensity as in this understated humanist masterpiece.
The most striking aspect of Mizoguchi's filmmaking technique,
particularly for western audiences, is his reluctance to use the
close-up.
The Story of the
Last Chrysanthemum is shot almost entirely in mid-shot with a
near-fixed perspective (as a spectator would have whilst watching a
play performed in the theatre). Occasionally, the camera is
pulled back or the rear of the set opened up for some dramatic long
shots - for example in the spectacular sequences depicting the Kabuki
theatrical performances in all their visual splendour. There is
not a single close-up in the entire film, and nor does there need to
be. Mizoguchi regarded the close-up as a phoney cinematic device,
a short-cut to the result which he felt he could achieve far more
effectively through long takes and careful composition of the
shots. There is a restrained, Brechtian quality to Mizoguchi's
mise-en-scène, and the director never lets us forget that we are
watching a play. The lighting adds to the theatricality and
poetry of Mizoguchi's films, reflecting the changing moods of the
protagonists so eloquently, and yet so subtly, that we have no need of
close-ups to know what the characters are thinking and feeling.
Mizoguchi's frequent use of long takes (typically four or five minutes
in length) is another conscious breach of conventional filmmaking
technique, but in Mizoguchi's films the long take works very
effectively, allowing emotions to develop naturally out of a situation
without the need for cutting and cropping. The long tracking
sequence in which Kikunosuke and Otoku first meet is a good example of
this: as the two characters make contact and get to know one another,
we can sense the social barrier that separates them gradually
dissolving, so that in their next long scene (where they happily slice
up a water melon together) we are in no doubt where their relationship
is heading. The long sequence near the end of the film, in which
Kikunosuke runs back and forth along a railway platform, frantically
searching railway carriages for Otoku, powerfully conveys the
hopelessness that is starting to overtake the actor, a slow realisation
of the price he is about to pay for his latest stroke of good
fortune.
Mizoguchi is a master at guiding our senses and manipulating our
emotions, so much so that he has no need of the more familiar cinematic
trickery. The emotional impact that his films deliver is far from
superficial - it is intensely visceral, but at the same time as gentle
as a lover's caress.
The Story
of the Last Chrysanthemum may just fall short of the stylistic
and technical brilliance of Mizoguchi 's late masterpieces but this
does not prevent it from being a major achievement, easily one of the
director's most compelling and poignant films.
© James Travers 2012
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Next Kenji Mizoguchi film:
Oyû-sama (1951)
Film Synopsis
Tokyo in the mid-1880s. Kikunosuke Onoue intends to follow in the
footsteps of his adopted father, the great Kabuki actor Kikugoro Onoue. Whilst
he enjoys fame, on account of his name, Kikunosuke has little talent as
an actor and he is derided by the rest of his troupe. One
evening, he strikes up a conversation with Otoku, the young wet-nurse
to his adopted father's baby son. Although Otoku admires
Kikunosuke, she frankly admits that he is a poor actor, but assures him
he could be a great actor if only he tried harder. Kikunosuke
warms to Otoku's candour and an intimacy develops between the
two. This is seen by Kikunosuke's family, who, fearing a scandal,
dismiss Otoku. Incensed by this, Kikunosuke leaves home and
heads off to Osaka, where he joins another theatre company. In
time, he meets up with Otoku and the two live together as man and
wife. When the manager of the company dies, Kikunosuke has no
choice but to join a travelling theatre company. The couple's
resources dwindle and they become dependent on Otoku's meagre earnings
as a seamstress. Just when everything appears hopeless,
Kikunosuke is given an opportunity to make his name with a reputable
troupe. His success reaches the ears of his adopted father, who
offers to accept him back in his company. Otoku persuades
Kikunosuke to return to Tokyo, but she knows she cannot follow
him. As expected, Kikunosuke becomes a great actor, a credit to
his adopted father. But, whilst performing in Osaka, Kikunosuke
receives some terrible news: Otoku is gravely ill...
© James Travers
The above content is owned by filmsdefrance.com and must not be copied.