Ballad of Orin (1977) Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer

This is a modified review from JB from when the film played the Film Forum a few years ago but is now being presented because of the Miyagawa series.

Opportunities were limited for blind women in early Twentieth Century Japan. Able-bodied men on the other hand, were in high demand for military service in Siberia. Despite their hardships, a beautiful gozé (a blind troubadour) and an army deserter forge a deep but unconventional bond of love, perfectly reflected by Toru Takemitsu’s strange love songs in Masahiro Shinoda’s The Ballad of Orin, which screens this weekend as part of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer at the Japan Society.

Abandoned as a young girl by her mother, Orin was taken in by a gozé house for musical training. In no way should gozé be confused with geisha. The women lived a monastic existence as brides of the Buddha. Of course, they were often called to entertain at worldly parties, bringing them into contact with men and temptation. Those who succumb are banished to a life on road as wandering minstrels, which indeed happens to Orin.

Senzo Tsurukawa is not like most men Orin meets in her travels. Rather than moving in for the conquest, he offers himself as her platonic protector. He even insists they call each other brother and sister, much to her frustration. Yet, even though they want different things from each other, the love they share is genuine. They even seem to have a semi-respectable future together running a clog stall, until Tsurukawa’s past starts to catch up with him. By the time they reach the appropriately ominous sounding village of Obama in the Wakasa province, tragedy seems inevitable.

Ballad is a perfect choice for the Miyagawa restrspective, given the role music plays in the story. Yet, despite the prominence of Orin’s songs, the music never overwhelms the on-screen drama. Though traditional in form, Takemitsu gives his score a postmodern-minimalist twist that sets a delicate but unsettling tone throughout the film.

Though worlds away from his New Wave noir films like Pale Flower, Ballad is one of Shinoda’s masterworks. There are unshakable images throughout the film, even during the opening titles. Also aptly known as Melody in Gray, Shinoda and cinematographer Kazuo Miyagawa use a color palette dominated by grays and greens, making coastal Japan look like Seattle. It perfectly suits Takemitsu’s melancholy score and Shinoda’s naturalistic approach.

Shima Iwashita is fantastic as Orin, powerfully projecting vulnerability and passion, without the benefit of her eyes. Yoshio Harada plays Tsurukawa like a young Toshirō Mifune, full of gruff bluster, but with a soft heart concealed inside. Their chaste love is arguably one of the most touching movie romances of all time.

The Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer screening will be one of the rare chances to see BALLAD on the big screen. A truly haunting film, Shinoda’s BALLAD is highly recommended.

BALLAD OF ORIN is screening as part of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer which is being co-presented by The Japan Society and The Museum of Modern Art. Click on the links in names of each location for show times, tickets and more information

Silence (1971) Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer

With SILENCE playing at the Museum of Modern Art as part of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer I am reposting the review I ran when Martin Scorsese's film was released to theaters.

With Martin Scorsese's adaptation of Shusaku Endo's novel SILENCE now in theaters I chased down a copy of the first film version of the film made by Masahiro Shinoda. Shinoda wrote the screenplay with Endo, so you would think that what resulted was author approved, but Endo didn't and he disavowed the finished film. Having seen read the book, I can understand why, but at the same time, on it's own terms it is a very good film.

For those unaware of the plot, the plot of SILENCE concerns two Jesuit priests in order to find out what exactly happened to an earlier missionary. It is a difficult time in Japan and Catholicism is band and it's practitioners are hunted down. The priests have to hide from the authorities who would love nothing more than have them publicly renounce their faith. Eventually they are captured and the resulting battle of wits/faith/philosophy is the film.

It should be stated that this film has several radical changes from the novel. I will be discussing some of them. I will not be discussing the Scorsese film because as of this writing I haven't seen it.

Seeing SILENCE and taking it on it's own terms, I found it to be a very good film about faith and people trying to remain true to what they believe in, or think they believe in. The drama and the story structure are largely lifted from Endo's novel so things move along as the author intended and it's all given the weight he invested in the situations which helps carry things along.

If you've read the original novel the film is going to play differently than it would just walking in off the street. Shinoda and Endo have changed things around which changes some of what the story is now about. The first thing you'll notice is two changes, first the film begins with the priests arriving in Japan. the second, and this completely alters the story, we don't know why they are in Japan other than to find Father Ferreira. In the original tale they have come to Japan to see if their teacher truly had renounced his faith. Here they are simply looking for a lost friend/priest. Not giving the men the additional reason for what they are doing changes what the story as its no longer a long mediation of the depth of faith but something else. I think the fact that we aren't given the reason until some point into the film is one of the reasons the ending of the film wobbles.

Actually not having the reason alters how we see the Kichijiro character. In the novel the fact that he is himself a Catholic who renounced his faith and yet still believes sets up an interesting dynamic with the priests who are trying to find out if their teacher did something similar. By not giving us that motivation we are kind of left hanging- who is he really. While his actions move the plot we don't have the resonances we need to understand what Endo was trying to tell us trying to tell us in his novel.

On the other hand this is a film and the man in charge is Shinoda so we are forced to have to try and divine what he is trying to tell us. I think its something similar to Endo but not the same thing. This is most clear in the final part of the film where a certain element of spirituality is removed from the tale. Shinoda's silence is much more deafening than Endo's.

This is a very mannered production with everything seeming set up for the director's purpose. You can feel the hand of Shinoda moving things around. You can see him lining up all of his ducks. Granted it's how it had to go but at times it's a tad too obvious. Even allowing that I finished the novel a short time before seeing the film didn't account for some of the sense of foregone conclusions I felt at times.

Worse both priests, especially Father Rodrigo, come off as incredibly arrogant and immovable through most of the film and so when it comes time for the big climax don't feel it emotionally. I never got a sense of him wavering or questioning his faith in his heart. Intellectually I knew he was but emotionally he remained distant. Its a problem that haunts the film through much of the second half. I don't know if it's the performance or the direction but what should have been a crushing moment isn't. I suspect that the problem is the difference between what you can do with words in a book and get inside a character through narration where in film sometimes the inner struggle is lost. Even the films final shot which gives us an emotional reaction from the priest doesn't connect emotionally.

I should also mention that the film's biggest flaw is a bit of serious miscasting of Tetsuro Tanba as Father Ferreira, the object of the search. While there is nothing wrong with him as such the fact that he doesn't look like a man from Europe and he speaks English with a thick Japanese accent (English is substituted for Portuguese) works against the film.

This isn't to say it's a bad film. Its absolutely not- I absolutely think that the IMDB rating of 7 is right on. I really like the film, especially as a meditation on faith and belief in a new world. I think it's a great look about the clash of ideas as societies come into contact and conflict. While I think it doesn't nail it in the conclusion because there is a little too much head over the heart, everything in the proceeding two hours is deeply thought provoking - in some ways that enhance the novel and in others that are completely new.

Having seen the film and having spent many hours pondering it and the novel I completely understand why Endo disavowed the film. The alteration of motivation changes what the story is. Where Endo's tale is a spiritual journey about our own faith, Shinoda's film is a story of belief in an alien world and a clash of cultures. Its a version of the story of the novel but it is not completely the heart of it. I can completely understand why Endo would eventually walk away from something he had worked on. However I don't think the changes invalidate the film either as a version of Endo's story, it is after all extremely enigmatic, or as a film on it's own terms.

What is really cool is that despite differences from the novel the film stands on it's own. I really do think that had I seen the film blind, without reading the novel or being aware of the Scorsese film I would have liked this film just as much (though I don't think more). Yes it is flawed on it's own terms, but it also a wonderful meditation of thoughts and ideas. Its a film that is absolutely worth seeing for itself and not for any connection to any other version of the story because it will confront you with a whole new set of questions about what you believe.

Kazuo Miyagawa at Japan Society: The Devil’s Temple

If it were so easy to “sever the bondage of earthly desires,” than everyone would be doing it, right? Thanks to the Buddha’s teachings, a high priest from Kyoto managed to do exactly that—at least for a while. However, a disgraced noble turned outlaw was easy pickings for a demonic temptress. If she can also corrupt the priest, it would represent the metaphysical victory of evil over good. Although essentially a four-character chamber play, the stakes are unusually high throughout Kenji Misumi’s The Devil’s Temple, which screens during the Japan Society’s retrospective, Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer.

After the loss of his fortune and the dissolution of his clan, Mumyo no Taro became rather wayward. His long-suffering wife Kaede has tracked him down to the ruined temple, where he has been living in sin with his shameless mistress, Aizen. Kaede expected he would obediently return to her out of shame, but instead, the illicit lovers brazenly carry on in the main chamber, while she camps out in an anteroom.

Kaede hopes salvation arrives when a traveling high priest stops to rest at the temple. He hopes to talk Mumyo back onto the straight and narrow. However, he also gently calls out Kaede for the perverse pride she takes in her martyrdom. Unfortunately, Aizen is more dangerous than he initially assumes, but he will start to get the picture when he realizes she is his destructive former lover. Of course, she is determined to drag him back down into the carnal depths, whereas he hopes to lead Kaede and Mumyo toward righteousness through his example of resistance.

Even though there are no genre elements per se in Temple, the suggestively demonic nature of Aizen is profoundly unsettling. Frankly, Hawthorne could have easily related to both its vibe and marquee conflict, yet the character and flavor of the film are distinctly Buddhist. It is also a dramatic example of how evocative sets and general mise-en-scene can help foster a mood of foreboding. Plus, Miyagawa’s lensing is surprisingly dynamic for a more-or-less one-set four-hander. When the action strays the temple, he gives it a disorienting, nightmarish look.

Showing tremendous range, Michiyo Aratama is scorchingly seductive and flamboyantly evil as Aizen, the femme fatale to beat all femme fatales. This is light years away from her heart-rending performances in The Human Condition and Kwaidan, but it might leave an even deeper impression. The legendary Hideko Takamine (looking rather ghostly herself here) is also extraordinarily nuanced and rather ambiguous as the wronged Kaede. Shintaro Katsu (Ichi-san) is a bit of a blowhard stock character as Mumyo, but Kei Sato makes the humble priest quite a distinctively cerebral hero.

This is a terrific work of Buddhist cinema that treats big-picture spiritual concepts with scrupulous seriousness. There are not a lot of films structured around temptations of the flesh, so that makes Temple quite memorable, especially since it is Aratama providing the temptation. Very highly recommended, The Devil’s Temple screens this Saturday (4/21) at Japan Society, as part of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer.

Spider Tattoo (1966) Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer

Yes, Otsuya is a geisha, but if you expect her to be passive and meek, you would assume incorrectly. One can tell just by looking at her that Otsuya is serious trouble, yet it is equally clear why men keep falling for her in Yasuzo Masumura’s Tattoo which is playing at the Japan Society’s retrospective Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer. It is a film that subverts and contradicts the prevailing screen stereotypes of Japanese women. Think of it as an anti-geisha film.

Her father’s apprentice does not seem like much, but Otsuya convinces Shinsuke to run away with her anyway. Unfortunately, they seek shelter from the wrong person. While Otsuya is sold into servitude as a geisha, Shinsuke finds himself a murderer on the run, having killed his own would-be assassin.

Not surprisingly, Otsuya demonstrates a remarkable aptitude for the seductive geisha business. She does not have much choice though. Having been branded with a man-eating geisha-spider tattoo by her purchaser, Otsuya carries the permanent mark of her new life. Though she claims her tattoo has an eerie power over her, it is hard to tell just how different the new Otsuya truly is from the old. Perhaps only her social context has changed. It hardly matters for the men in orbit around her though. Slowly but surely, her fugitive lover, the man who betrayed them, her former master, and the artist who tattooed her, all become enmeshed in her web.

Much like the celebrated collaborations between Setsuko Hara and Yasujiro Ozu, Wakao was a frequent muse-like presence in Masumura’s films, including all four of her selections in the Mad, Bad series. Clearly not intimidated by edgy subject matter, Masumura was considered the forerunner of the so-called Japanese “New Wave.” Yet he apprenticed under master filmmakers Kenji Mizoguchi and Kon Ichikawa. Just as Masumura defies easy classification, so does Tattoo, a film distinguished by the richly elegant look and feel of Japanese art cinema, despite its often sensational storyline.

Characters frequently make decisions in Tattoo that are both morally and logically indefensible, but as melodrama, it is all great fun. Sultry and severe, Wakao’s performance as Otsuya ranks with Gene Tierney in Leave Her to Heaven as one of the all-time great screen femme fatales. With an emasculating gaze, she reduces the rest of the cast to sniveling children. She is indeed dangerous to know.

Tattoo is one of those films in which the audience never develops a true rooting interest per se. Instead, most viewers will watch in rapt fascination to see what amoral depths the characters will sink to. Yet, Masumura’s visual sense and Wakao’s riveting performance are so compelling it is ultimately a thoroughly entertaining, highly recommended cinematic experience. Not currently available on DVD in America, the Japan Society’s screening will be a rare opportunity to see it. A perfect choice to be part of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer Tattoo plays Saturday.

Zatoichi and The Chest of Gold (1964) Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer

With ZATOICHI AND THE CHEST OF GOLD running as part of the Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer at both The Japan Society and MOMA I'm reposting the review from when we did a month of Zatoichi films

Against a black background the sixth film in the series opens with a kick ass title sequence that has the blind Ichi taking on a series of rogues who attack him. It sets the mood and draws us into the story.

This time out Zatoichi has returned to a town for the first time in two years. He's returned to the village in order to pay respects at the grave of a man he killed on his last visit. Arriving during a celebration to mark the end of a drought he is at first welcomed and then is severely beaten by the people in the town who think he's stolen their tax payment. Deciding to do the right thing he sets off to try and track down the real culprits.

A twisty turny film that plays closer to some of the earlier films in the series with good guys and bad guys not so clearly defined. The film is also much darker and somber than the last few titles with the treachery and mechaniations of the bad guys taking a heavy cost. The film has a kind of noirish feel but with Zatoichi and sword play in the mix.

While the plot keeps things interesting it's the series of wonderful set pieces that really hold our attention. As I said at the top the film begins with a great title sequence, this is followed by a an extended night time battle in the middle of the film, one that has Zatoichi fighting with a man on his back,; the gambling sequences where Ichi wagers whether he can cut a coin in half, and there is the final confrontation that actually has the normally invincible Zatoichi ending up bloodied. Perhaps he's mortal after all.

A very solid entry in the series

ZATOICHI AND THE CHEST OF GOLD is screening as part of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer which is being co-presented by The Japan Society and The Museum of Modern Art. Click on the links in names of each location for show times, tickets and more information

Tokyo Olympiad (1965) Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer

It is fitting that Tokyo Olympiad is screening as part of the Japan Society and Museum of Modern Art’s series Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer because Miyagawa’s images are the whole film.

Directed by Kon Ichikawa, this record of the 1964 Summer Games is considered one of the best sports films ever made. It’s a you are there sort of film that is full of mood and sense of place that most other films are lacking. Its’s due entirely to Miyagawa’s photography which put us into the action in an up close and personal manner.

My personal reaction to the film is mixed. While I love the images, I find the pacing a bit too slow for my tastes. While I’ve seen the film numerous times, and being able to own it on Blu-ray was one of the reason I bought the Criterion Olympic film box, I find that I end up watching the film in pieces more than straight through. I’ll watch it until my interest flags and stop for a bit and then come back. This is not a knock on the film more a statement of my own viewing preferences.

Frankly if you’ve never seen the film you need to go to MOMA and see the film on a big screen. This is a film that needs to be seen as big as possible. It’s such a requirement that despite the screening at Japan Society and MOMA conflicting with the Tribeca film festival I’m seriously considering going uptown to see it on a big screen under optimal conditions.

And the optimal conditions should be a big reason to go since it hasn’t always been easy to see complete. Originally it had to be cut to 93 minutes when the Japanese government balked at its artistic 170 minute run time. Even after the full version was released in 1984, the Olympic committee put the film out on You Tube in a truncated 125 minute version. Lately the DVD release from Criterion has gone in and out of print with it now being available in a pricey, but wonderful, collection of Olympic films.

If you love gloriously shot films you must go.

Kazuo Miyagawa at Japan Society: A Certain Killer

Shiozawa is a sushi chef, so it makes sense he is good with a blade. That also helps in his other line of work. Most civilians think he is the proprietor of a neighborhood sushi and sake restaurant, but he also fulfills contracts for Yakuza families. He is cautious and exacting. When he takes an assignment, he is like money in the bank. However, this job might be different, because it involves accomplices. There is a chance he could get killed, but nothing can possible blow his cool in Kazuo Mori’s A Certain Killer, which screens during the Japan Society’s latest film series, Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer.

No luxury hotels for Shiozawa. Instead, he rents a grubby room in a flop house next to a cemetery (talk about appropriate). Eventually, a pretty party girl named Keiko joins him and a dour looking Yakuza named Maeda soon follows. How did he meet them and what are they doing in this de-populated post-industrial neighborhood? The flashbacks will explain all.

Essentially, Keiko was a good deed Shiozawa is still being punished for. He paid for her diner tab, sparing her the indignity of trading sex for a bowl of soup and then saved her from her abusive pimp. However, she followed him home and started worming her way into his life. Maeda also has complicated history with the hitman. Initially, he tries to hire Shiozawa’s services for a hit sanctioned by his boss, but he soon starts getting ideas of his own.

A Certain Killer is one of those films that leaves you baffled that it doesn’t have more of an international reputation. Seriously, how is it not a staple of best noir lists? This is a lithe and deadly little film that swaggers through the urban jungle like a shark swimming in the ocean. Raizo Ichikawa was known for historicals, but Shiozawa could very well be the role of his career. He has the world-weary look of nothingness, but he conveys steely grit beneath his bland, disinterested surface. There is a bit of Le Samouraï Alain Delon in him, but he is very much a disillusioned middle-aged cat.

On the other side of the spectrum, Yumiko Nogawa is all kinds of trouble as Keiko. She projects a flirty, candy-colored coquetry, but oh my, is she ever a femme fatale. Mikio Narita also holds up his end as the tightly wound Maeda. Put them all together and there is bound to be trouble.

Certain Killer has all the elements in place, including the twists and narrative flashbacks of Yasuzo Masumura’s screenplay that predates so many Tarantino clones in the 1990s. However, the X-factor is Miyagawa’s distinctive cinematography, which includes a number of striking wide God’s-eye shots, reducing the characters to tiny scale (like the rats that they often are).

Seriously, why aren’t Scorsese and Tarantino constantly yammering about how we have to see A Certain Killer. Apparently, its up to us, so consider yourself duly lectured. Honestly, this is a terrific hitman thriller so take advantage of the opportunity to see it when A Certain Killer screens this Tuesday (4/17) at Japan Society, as part of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer.

Yojimbo (1961) Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer

With Yojimbo running April 18th at MOMA as part of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer I've asked JB if I could repost his review from when the film played at a Kurosawa retrospective at Film Forum several years ago.

As he did in Rashomon, Akira Kurosawa created an influential cinematic template with the first film appearance of Toshirō Mifune’s nameless ronin, which has since been copied in dozens of films around the globe. Yojimbo’s story of a mysterious drifter who cleans up a corrupt small town by playing two rival gangs against each other clearly inspired Sergio Leone’s A Fistful of Dollars, Walter Hill’s Last Man Standing, and Takashi Miike’s Sukiyaki Western Django, as well as a host of lesser known imitators. Yojimbo’s influence even extended to jazz when Jason Moran covered its theme on his first trio CD, Facing Left. Indeed, Mifune’s slacker samurai would prove so popular, he would soon return in Kurosawa’s follow-up, Sanjuro, which screens together with Yojimbo (trailer here) as a double feature during Film Forum’s retrospective celebration of the Kurosawa centennial.

A master-less samurai walks into the crummiest town in Edo Japan. How bad is it? Stray dogs walk down the street with severed hands clenched in their jaws. Rival crime lords have waged a prolonged war that has depressed all local commercial activity, except the casket-maker’s business, where orders are booming. Getting the lay of the land from the local tavern-keeper, the crafty swordsman decides to clean-up the town by manipulating the two gangs into killing wiping each other out. Fortunately, sake helps him think.

When pressed for his name, the nameless one replies, “Kuwabatake Sanjuro,” which roughly translates as “Mulberry field, thirty years old.” Being one big, bad customer, both gang leaders want to hire him, ostensibly as a “yojimbo” or bodyguard. Of course, neither side deserves much sympathy, but Ushi-Tora’s faction backed by the local sake merchant is arguably much worse, having kidnapped the wife of an unlucky gambler to settle his debts. They also turn out to be more dangerous, thanks to the return of Unosake, Ushi-Tora’s pistol packing younger brother, (played by Tatsuya Nakadai, who would return as a different foil for the ronin in the sequel, Sanjuro).

If Mifune’s cynical mercenary who still lives by his bushido code sounds like a familiar character type, it is because Yojimbo set the standard for all the mysterious drifter films that followed. Of his many collaborations Kurosawa, “Sanjuro” might be Mifune’s most enduring, quintessential screen role. Often humorous, sometimes deadly furious, but always larger than life, it is a true movie star performance.

Though considered a jidaigeki or Edo period drama, Yojimbo also shares a certain kinship with some of Kurosawa’s film noirs. Inspired by American westerns and perhaps the novels of Dashiell Hammett, it would in turn inspire the spaghetti westerns of Leone and Corbucci, which Takashi Miike would eventually re-import back into Edo Japan with Sukiyaki. Yet, no subsequent film has approached the mastery of Yojimbo. Though acknowledged as one of Kurosawa’s masterworks, it should not be considered stuffy, pretentious art-house cinema. Yojimbo is too much fun to be missed due to reverse cinematic snobbery.

YOJIMBO is screening as part of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer which is being co-presented by The Japan Society and The Museum of Modern Art. Click on the links in names of each location for show times, tickets and more information

The Ricksaw Man (1958) Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer

They call Matsugoro an outlaw, but he sure puts in an honest day’s work. The reformed rickshaw driver (or puller) has a dodgy past, but that is understandable given the meanness of his formative years. He is now a productive citizen, aside from some occasional drunken brawling and general rowdiness. He will even file off some those rough edges when he becomes a surrogate father to a grieving young boy in Hiroshi Inagaki’s The Rickshaw Man, which was shot by accomplished cinematographer Kazuo Miyagawa and therefore logically screens during the Japan Society’s new retrospective, Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer.

As the film opens, Matsugoro (Matsu-san) still likes his drink, but the community tolerates a bit of trouble-making from him, because he is a decent chap and he always tries to make things right afterward. However, his life changes drastically when he shuttles the injured Toshio Yoshioka and his alarmed mother Yoshiko to the doctor. Of course, Matsu-san refuses all compensation, so Toshio’s father, a junior government official, invites the good-hearted rogue for dinner and drinks. Everyone is charmed by Matsugoro, so when Yoshioka-san dies from a freak illness, he starts looking out for Toshio and Yoshiko. The widowed mother is particularly hopeful Matsugoro can toughen up Toshio and guide him into manhood.

Despite Matsugoro’s colorful background, Rickshaw is essentially a domestic drama, which has always been one of Japanese cinema’s competitive advantages. In this case, Matsu-san’s story is particularly poignant, because no matter how much he sacrifices for mother and son, class and social distinctions dictate he can never be a full member of their family or even considered an equal. That conspicuous fact might be one reason why Rickshaw, a consistently chaste and apolitical film, was censored by the wartime Imperial government.

If you need to layer more poignancy atop Rickshaw, take note Mother Yoshiko was played by stage thesp Keiko Sonoi, who perished in Hiroshima while performing there in a touring production. She is exquisitely delicate and haunting, while Tsumasaburo Bando is terrific as the gruff and gregarious Matsu-san. Rough and crude on the outside, but secretly sentimental and sensitive, he kind of hints at what it would have been like if Ken Takakura ever played Tora-san.

It is also easy to see why Rickshaw was selected for the Miyagawa series, even though Inagaki’s 1958 color remake with Toshiro Mifune and Hideko Takamine is better known. He frames and superimposes some surprisingly expressionist images, at times even approaching the surreal. Perhaps most memorably, Miyagawa makes hay out of the spokes in Matsu-san’s rickshaw wheels and dazzles with some nifty transition shots. Clearly, it is a film that is ripe for rediscovery. Highly recommended, The Rickshaw Man screens tonight (4/14) at the Japan Society, as part of their Miyagawa tribute.

Ugetsu (1953) Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer

With UGETSU playing at the Japan Society and MOMA as part of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer I am reposting the review I ran to tie into a screening at the New York Film Festival

Having haunted those outside of Japan for the last 63 years UGETSU MONOGATARI was part of the double whammy, alone with RASHOMON that made people sit up and take notice of Japanese film. Its a film that has been admired by and influenced filmmakers such as Martin Scorsese and Roger Ebert.

It's impossible to simply explain the plot but it concerns two couples and their fate during time of war. One, a potter and his wife, is warned not to profit from the conflict. The other man foolishly wants to join the battle and become a samurai. Tragedy and ghosts follow

If you've never seen the film you should. Partly because it is considered a classic of world cinema (though apparently in Japan public domain copies are traded like so many 1940's horror films here in the US) . Mostly you want to see it because the film is a kick in the butt. Sure its mannered and bit formal, but it still packs a wallop even if you've seen it multiple times.

I've seen the film several times over the years and I've always loved the moody black and white photography. I'm not sure how much the love comes from the film itself , or how much is from some very worn prints I've had to see over the years. (say what you will there is something about dark black and white prints of horror films that adds to them.) Of course when you see the film at the New York Film Festival (and you should) you'll be seeing a pristine restoration. You'll also be seeing it on a big screen under optimal conditions which means your mind will be blown.

UGETSU is screening as part of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer which is being co-presented by The Japan Society and The Museum of Modern Art. Click on the links in names of each location for show times, tickets and more information

Rashomon (1950) Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer

Beyond winning the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film and the Venice Film Festival’s Golden Lion, the influence of Akira Kurosawa’s 1950 masterpiece is constantly seen in dozens of televisions series looking to temporarily break format. Many diverse shows, including the likes of House, The X-Files, and Fame have all done Rashomon episodes, usually trying to exploit their characters wildly divergent accounts of the same event for comedic event. However, Kurosawa’s Rashomon was a darkly serious examination of human nature and the elusiveness of truth and justice. An indispensible classic from Kurosawa’s considerable filmography, Rashomon screens as part of the Japan Society and MOMA's retrospective celebration of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer, the gift to cineastes that keeps on giving.

It is impossible to say what happened that fateful day in the woods, but it whatever the truth might be, it was awful. A priest and a lowly woodcutter were called to testify and what they heard left them shaken. Seeking refuge under the battered city gate during a deluge, they relate the disturbing court testimony to an insensitive drifter. The two witnesses were the last people to see a samurai and his wife before they encountered the dreaded bandit Tajōmaru. The competing accounts of the captured bandit, the victimized woman, the dead man’s spirit (channeled by a medium), and the woodcutter, largely agree Tajōmaru either roughly “seduced” or outright raped the woman, but what happened next varies drastically depending on the narrative.

Much is made of how greatly each character’s version of the truth differs, but analysis of Rashomon often overlooks the commonalities. In each story, something truly terrible transpires between the samurai and his wife after her attack, causing the young priest to question his fundamental assumptions regarding human nature. Indeed, the framing device is the most important part of the film. Great effort and expense went into creating the hulking Rashomon Gate set and it is through the drama that plays out there between the three strangers that Kurosawa really makes his statement about the nature of man.

The woodcutter is the sort of role Takashi Shimura seemed born to play—timid, somewhat compromised, but ultimately redemptive. As the notorious brigand, Toshirō Mifune goes over the top and around the bend, but his craziness adds an undeniable edge that heightens Rashomon’s unsettling effect. Yet, it is the haunting performance of Machiko Kyō, simultaneously heartbreaking and baffling, that truly defines the film.

From the subjectivity of its competing narratives to cinematographer Kazuo Miyagawa’s use of sunlight and shadow, Rashomon has been enormously influential, inspiring a host of inferior imitators, like Jennifer Lynch’s absolutely dreadful Surveillance. Surprisingly subtle given its reputation and Mifune’s go-for-broke performance, it remains an intriguing puzzle of film. A masterful milestone of international cinema, no Kurosawa retrospective would be complete without it.

RASHOMON is screening as part of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer which is being co-presented by The Japan Society and The Museum of Modern Art. Click on the links in names of each location for show times, tickets and more information

Floating Weeds (1959) Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer

In post-war Japan, itinerant actors were rather closer to the bottom of the social ladder than the top. Considered little more than homeless tramps under the best of circumstances, this essentially becomes the reality for a traditional company stranded in a Japanese seaside village. Yet, for one veteran thespian, long neglected family matters become more pressing in Yasujiro Ozu’s Floating Weeds, which screens at The Japan Society and MOMA as part of their Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer series.

If anything, the economic prospects for a troupe like Komajuro Arashi’s have only gotten worse since 1934, when Ozu first told the story of the high and dry actors in his silent feature A Story of Floating Weeds. For a self-consciously modernizing society, Arashi’s productions seem distinctly old-fashioned. Patrons simply are not coming, except for a handful of old faithful, including Oyoshi, a single mother with whom he has a bit of history. Her son Kiyoshi knows Arashi as “Uncle,” but he is really the young man’s father.

When the company manager absconds with the meager receipts, at least it affords Arashi some time to spend with Oyoshi and his son. Unfortunately, this inflames the jealousy of his lover Sumiko. Out of spite, she bribes her sexpot colleague Kayo to lead on Kiyoshi and then cruelly dump him. Of course, unforeseen complications arise when the actress falls for her prey.

Like Kurosawa and Masumura, Ozu used a regular stable of actors in his films, in both lead and supporting roles. Frequently appearing as meddling aunts and gossipy family friends, Haruko Sugimura has one of her fullest, most sympathetic roles as a member unofficial Ozu repertory playing Oyoshi. Warm and nurturing, but all too conscious of the difficult nature of life, she is a quintessentially Ozu character. By contrast, the seductive Kayo is not exactly Ozu-ian, though Ayako Wakao  was no stranger to sexually charged roles. However, she brings a sort of innocence to Kayo that is ultimately endearing. In the nominal lead, Ganjiro Nakamura holds it all together effectively enough as the gruff but deeply flawed Arashi.

Clearly acclimating to color cinematography, Ozu’s transitional beach and seaside shots have a burnished glow befitting his trademark style. Bittersweet and forgiving, it is yet another classic example of his deeply humanistic filmmaking.

FLOATING WEEDS is screening as part of Kazuo Miyagawa: Japan’s Greatest Cinematographer which is being co-presented by The Japan Society and The Museum of Modern Art. Click on the links in names of each location for show times, tickets and more information