Kurosawa Akira’s The Idiot: Where the East meets the West Olga V. Solovieva
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- Kurosawa Akira’s The Idiot: Where the East meets the West Olga V. Solovieva New Haven Abstract
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| JJKC 1 (2) pp. 129–142 © Intellect Ltd 2009 129
Journal of Japanese and Korean Cinema Volume 1 Number 2 © 2009 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/jjkc.1.2.129/1 Kurosawa Akira’s The Idiot: Where the East meets the West Olga V. Solovieva New Haven Abstract Hakuchi, Kurosawa Akira’s 1951 film adaptation of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s novel The Idiot, finds its proper historical context in post-World War II cultural criti-
Kurosawa Akira’s ambiguous position between the East and the West has triggered a lot of discussion over the years. Until well into the 1990s the English-language scholarship about this ‘most Western’ (Glaubitz 2005: 9) of Japanese directors was informed by a tendency to construe the relationship between western and Japanese sensibilities as a chasm and to discuss Kurosawa’s work in terms of his attempts to bridge this chasm. This portrayal of Kurosawa’s international or inter- cultural film-making, however, always looked like a forced construc- tion which, in the end, only reinforced a profound sense of fundamental incompatibility between the East and the West. For example, Bert Cardullo’s article ‘The Circumstance of the East, the Fate of the West’ establishes a radical polarity between the cultures in its very title. Cardullo argues that Kurosawa bridges the chasm between West and East in that he renders western tragic situations and individualistically self-absorbed characters in terms of Japanese subordination to circum- stance, that is, in terms of the Japanese interest in how the human being reacts to his environment (Goodwin 1994a: 115). Stephen Prince similarly sees a binary at work in Kurosawa’s oeuvre. He observes in his classic article ‘Zen and Selfhood: Patterns of Eastern Thought in Kurosawa’s Films’ that the strong individual presence of Kurosawa’s heroes coexists paradoxically with their propensity for radical social altruism. He traces these features back to the same chasm between
cinematic adaptation Kurosawa Akira Fyodor Dostoevsky global cinema post-World War II Japanese cinema JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 129 JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 129 5/25/10 1:36:57 PM 5/25/10 1:36:57 PM
130 Olga V. Solovieva East (Zen) and West (selfhood), as Cardullo did, in order to advance an argument about Kurosawa’s ‘bushido model’ – his updating of the way of the samurai. This ‘bushido model’, according to Prince, dialectically rec- onciles the features of western individualism and eastern Buddhism. In this model the traditional ethics of the samurai’s duty to his lord is likened to western individualism and enriched by the spiritual dimension of Zen, interpreted as an attempt to get ‘in touch with the oneness in the midst of multiplicity and the many within one’ (Goodwin 1994a: 227). Zen helps translate ‘the samurai’s obligation to serve his lord into the hero’s obliga- tion to serve humanity’ (Goodwin 1994a: 227) and thus becomes aufge- hoben in the westernized, secularized social altruism of Kurosawa’s characters. Approaches that have framed Kurosawa’s work in terms of a chasm between East and West have been criticized in the last decade (Yoshimoto 2000: 71–80, Glaubitz 2005: 8–16, Martinez 2009: 19–29), in the course of which a new, more complex and flexible perspective on Kurosawa has finally made its way. For example, in Kurosawa: Film Studies and Japanese
the critical meaning and social function of which are constantly negoti- ated by Kurosawa, critics, and audiences’ (Yoshimoto 2000: 61). Glaubitz’s edited volume Kurosawa und seine Zeit/Kurosawa and His Time (2005) focuses on the director’s cinema as a field of negotiation for inter-cultural media aesthetics in which both cultural overlaps and cultural contrasts tend to transcend simple East-West dichotomies (Glaubitz 2005: 16). And in the recent study Remaking Kurosawa (2009), Martinez shows Kurosawa as a global film-maker, whose work stands not in contrast or opposition to the West but as an integral part of world culture and art, participating in complex and fluid forms of cross-fertilization. Martinez places Kurosawa within the context of global, cosmopolitan film-making, noting ‘that we cannot write about his career without tak- ing into account his position in a postwar, postindustrial, late capitalist setting – a setting that presumes the existence of global processes and networks’ (Martinez 2009: 6). These global processes and networks are relevant, however, not only to the aesthetic, medial and industrial aspects of Kurosawa’s film-making (and to the international life of Kurosawa’s films), but to their reception and distribution in Japan and the world. The status of Kurosawa as a film director of post-industrial, post-war Japan equally accounts for the international or global philosophical agenda of his cinema, his much-discussed humanism and focus on social ethics, which have been so bewildering to many critics. A closer look at Kurosawa’s work within the post-war international setting reveals that the Japanese director shares his ethical concerns with many artists and intellectuals of the industrial nations that participated in World War II. In fact, the context of post-war cultural criticism is the com- mon ground on which Kurosawa’s Japan meets the West as an equal par- ticipant in the guilt of western-style industrialization and militarization. In his Something Like an Autobiography, Kurosawa confesses: I offered no resistance to Japan’s militarism. Unfortunately, I have to admit that I did not have the courage to resist in any positive way and I only got JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 130 JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 130 5/25/10 1:36:57 PM 5/25/10 1:36:57 PM 131 Kurosawa Akira’s The Idiot by, ingratiating myself when necessary and otherwise evading censure. I am ashamed of this, but I must be honest about it. (Kurosawa 1982: 145) This display of guilt is not just an individual sentiment. It is the attitude of a whole generation of intellectuals worldwide who lived through World War II and sought, in post-war time, to compensate for their personal fail- ures or the failure of their intellectual contemporaries through rethinking and re-evaluating the whole cultural tradition they represented. Such guilt informs Kurosawa’s film-making as much as it informs the ethical discourse and artistic production of post-war Europe. One of its most vivid cultural expressions is the renewed interest in Dostoevsky, who, as early as the second half of the nineteenth century, foresaw the advent of totali- tarianism, scrutinized its nature and radically rejected its displacement of ethics and responsibility from singular human beings to the abstract notion of mankind– a notion for the sake of which individuals could be sacrificed. Kurosawa’s post-war interest in Dostoevsky is thus no coincidence. When, in 1951, he decides to make a cinematic adaptation of Dostoevsky’s novel The Idiot, he joins his efforts to those of his European contemporaries such as Thomas Mann, Pier Paolo Pasolini, and Mikhail Bakhtin, all of whom represented the conscience of their respective nations in dealing with the aftermath of totalitarian experience, who searched for the deeper cultural causes of a catastrophe that involved virtually the entire indus- trial world, and experimented with possibilities of rehabilitation and renewal through an alternative form of discourse (the potential for which they sensed in Dostoevsky). In his 1946 essay ‘Dostoevsky – Within Limits’/‘Dostoevsky – Mit Maßen’ Thomas Mann confessed his increased interest in Dostoevsky’s poetics during World War II. His post-war novel Doktor Faustus (1948) dealing with German culture’s involvement with fascism was indeed strongly influenced by Dostoevsky’s dialogism and carnivalesque sensibil- ity (Solovieva 2005). Pasolini modelled his social and political activism and provocation, intended to alarm and shake the post-war establish- ment, upon Dostoevsky’s model of scandal (Solovieva 2007: 223). Bakhtin, through analysis of Dostoevsky’s works, developed his theory of dialogism, which was critically aimed at totalitarian forms of discourse (Bakhtin [1929, 1963] 1973). In disappointed opposition to the now-discredited father of modernism, Friedrich Nietzsche, all these thinkers searched for an alternative form of modernity, one that could be less indifferent to social concerns, less solip- sistic and more open to the presence of the Other, and above all, ethically differentiated so as to be able to resist the monolithic usurpation of public space and intellectual discourse through a single ideology. In ‘Dostoevsky–Within Limits’, Thomas Mann stresses one substantial difference between Dostoevsky and Nietzsche’s otherwise similar concepts of the ‘ecstatic, time-transcending moment’ and ‘eternal return’ – two notions that laid the aesthetic foundation for the modernist representa- tions of the circularity of time and consciousness. Mann elucidates this difference by pointing out the different structures of the diseases from JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 131 JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 131 5/29/10 1:32:49 PM 5/29/10 1:32:49 PM
132 Olga V. Solovieva which both thinkers suffered: whereas Nietzsche’s ‘ecstatic moment’ is a climactic point in a linear, wave-like progression of the vital sensation of force and happiness, which precedes an ultimate collapse from syphilitic paralysis, Dostoevsky’s ‘ecstatic moment’ after an epileptic fit is always accompanied by a return of consciousness and of a sense of guilt. Dostoevsky’s disease-structure implies a moment of self-reflection, that is to say, a historically retrospective dimension. It is thus a model of con- science. A similar differentiation applies to Nietzsche and Dostoevsky’s concep- tions of the ‘eternal return’: what Nietzsche sets as absolute, Dostoevsky makes ironic by having the devil himself voice this understanding of time, describing it as a ‘most unbearable boredom’. The irony and presentation of this concept in a dialogue, which leaves other options open, frees it from its oppressive solipsist dimension. Thus Dostoevsky offers to post-war thinkers a discursive model for the alternative constructions of ethically differentiated and historically enriched collective consciousness, that is, conscience and a structure of communicative social space in which it can be carried out (Solovieva 2005; 2007). Kurosawa’s interest in Dostoevsky equally springs from his under- standing and experience of war. In Akira Kurosawa and Intertextual Cinema, James Goodwin writes: In explanation of his enduring interest in Dostoevsky, Kurosawa has said that the novelist’s era, with social oppression and the destruction of truth under the tsars, is a direct analogy to the epoch of Japan’s imperial expan- sion in Asia and the Pacific, during which he matured as an individual and an artist. He finds in Dostoevsky a sensibility that is at once empathic in response to a great range of human experiences and objective in its methods of representing those experiences. (Goodwin 1994b: 71) Adapting Dostoevsky’s novel The Idiot to the circumstances of post-war Japan, Kurosawa participates, in his own way, in a series of ethical revi- sions of modernism also attempted in Europe. But what makes Kurosawa’s position in this context especially interesting is the fact that he joins the West on the premise of its attempts at a distanciation from its own compro- mised past. He does so through the precedent of Dostoevsky, who strove to differentiate his Russianness from the West. Kurosawa recaptures this feature of Dostoevsky’s critical project by reflecting a sense of Japan’s distanciation from its own traditional self in the choice of the snowy Hokkaido island as the setting for the film. Hokkaido’s peripheral position as a virtual border zone to Russia, its idi- osyncratic culture of living with western-style tables and chairs, and its ritual winter carnival create a sense of estrangement from traditional Japan (Richie 1996: 81). It is from this peripheral position that the traditional culture at the centre can be questioned and reconfigured in the course of an ethical experiment that Kurosawa borrows from Dostoevsky. In its traumatized post-war condition, Europe turned to Dostoevsky because the structure of his discourse had a strong potential for rebirth: a JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 132 JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 132 5/29/10 1:32:49 PM 5/29/10 1:32:49 PM 133 Kurosawa Akira’s The Idiot new beginning, derived from the structure of Christian resurrection, or the carnivalesque sensibility that informs his novels. That Japan had shared in the trauma of the industrialized nations suggests a shared remedy. Kurosawa joins the West in that he sets out to address a similar mental and cultural void in post-war Japan. Further I would like to show (through the example of several crucial scenes from the film) how Kurosawa uses the structure of a void in order to explore the potentiality of emptiness and develop an aesthetic of its redemptive overcoming. In Kurosawa’s rendition, Dostoevsky’s novel The Idiot becomes an allegory of post-war Japan’s ambiguous sta- tus as victim and perpetrator. But Kurosawa also accomplishes another more global and international task by showing, even more explicitly than his European contemporaries had done, the modernity and rele- vance of Dostoevsky’s discourse as a possible solution to the uneasy question of social recovery and cultural restoration in the post-war period.
Awakening Kurosawa’s The Idiot/Hakuchi (1951) opens with the sound of a steam- boat’s foghorn penetrating a snowy, foggy image of a smokestack. There follows a close-up of a porthole with worn shoes stacked on the sill of the murky window. These details suggest the laborious and shoddy conditions of transportation. In an Eisensteinian shot composition, the camera mean- ders slowly downstairs, tracking the angled bars of a banister through which one glimpses a crowd of sleeping passengers spread on the floor. It Figure 1: The bodies on the lower deck of a steamboat evoke the memories of war. JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 133 JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 133 5/29/10 1:32:49 PM 5/29/10 1:32:49 PM
134 Olga V. Solovieva continues to track among the bodies, letting us forget that we are sup- posed to be on a boat and making us wonder about the disconcertingly ambiguous spectacle. The chaotic mass of prone and prostrate bodies evokes the memories of war. These could be dead bodies left on a battle- field, wounded bodies in a hospital at a military camp, or bodies numb with fear, cowering in bomb shelters. All of a sudden, a piercing, disembodied scream fills this cave-like or graveyard-like space and wakes all the passengers. They come to life, move, raise their heads and show their faces in a series of detailed close-ups. Theirs are the weathered faces of people who have been through hardship. Seemingly dead, they turn out to be alive. The last of the faces to be revealed is the protagonist of the novel, Kameda (who corresponds to Dostoevsky’s Prince Myshkin). It is his scream from a wartime nightmare that has just awakened the whole boat. He is, however, just one of a crowd of displaced people who are being transported from Okinawa, now an American military base and prisoner-of-war camp. The sound-image montage suggests that Kameda’s disembodied scream (and his nightmare) is shared collectively. This scream acquires a symbolic meaning in the perspective of Kurosawa’s own goal of alerting his viewers to the screams of the past. The post-war context of this scream brings to mind a scream therapy suggested much later by Hans-Jürgen Syberberg in his de-Nazifying film
as if a therapeutic scream must precede any verbalization: Kurosawa seems to share the same logic of working through the trauma of war and mass slaughter. The void, which the cave-like space of the scene at first seemed to represent, becomes the space of the dormant consciousness awakening to itself; the awakening scene on the bottom deck of a steam- boat stages Dostoevsky’s collective space, which, as Bakhtin has shown, was modelled upon the structure and vital sensibility of the carnival with its potential for new beginning. Upon waking Kameda faces his fellow passenger Akama (Dostoevsky’s Rogozhin), who will become his romantic rival, antagonist, and double, and tells him how he lost his mind – how he became an idiot. His idiocy in the film – unlike the novel – is directly connected to the trauma of the war. Ascribing to Kameda a detail from Dostoevsky’s own biography, Kurosawa puts his character on death row, about to be executed mistak- enly as a war criminal; at the last minute, he is pardoned. Akama, who has never been on a battlefield, listens with baffled curiosity but without real understanding. He is a down-to-earth, healthy man who has been spared the horrors of war. Kameda is represented throughout the film as a passive character like Prince Myshkin, void of desires and volition, responsive to the Other. His passivity is akin to the absolute spirituality and empathy of Zen or to Christian kenosis. However, this empathy was attained not through years of persistent monastic training but through a traumatic accident. His wis- dom was acquired as an instantaneous reaction and revelation in the face of a near-death experience. A cultural notion, one central to the Asian, Buddhist, Japanese version of culture, is here replaced by the (in 1945) global and existentially universal experience of near-death, a zero point from which a new culture may begin (Treat 1995). JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 134 JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 134 5/29/10 1:32:50 PM 5/29/10 1:32:50 PM
135 Kurosawa Akira’s The Idiot The problems which Kurosawa addresses through the characters of Kameda and Akama was classically articulated in Theodor W. Adorno’s famous essay of 1949, ‘Cultural Criticism and Society’, which dealt with the problem of the survival of the notion of culture after its degradation by the Holocaust and high capitalism. Adorno radically rejected the nine- teenth-century cultural criticism of Dostoevsky, Lautréamont, Nietzsche and others as irrevocably obsolete under the social conditions created after World War II (Adorno 1981: 19 –34). Conversely, Adorno questioned the possibility of cultural criticism itself, given the threatening disappearance of the very notion of culture. Adorno highlighted the necessity of a new beginning that should start, first of all, by refashioning the dialectical differentiation between culture and barbarism, tragically erased in the era of Auschwitz. If barbarism had come to be regarded as culture, then culture needed to be created anew, from the ground up, by a dialectical paradox, by the barbaric act of writing poetry (or, we can add, of making films). It is a radical, primordial act of creation, and not a relativist critical reflection upon the tradition’s rights and wrongs, that Adorno expects from the new generation of intellectuals. In his mind, the only real criticism is that which weaves its paths along and across the culture’s dialectical curves. Kurosawa consciously situated himself at the crossroads of the old tradition and the necessity for a new definition of culture. The question of a new definition of culture is the question set up in the opening scene and to which the rest of the film offers a response. Apart from its dramatic effectiveness, starting the film with an adapta- tion of Prince Myshkin’s epileptic scream implied the choice of a larger philosophical scope. In a responsive move to Adorno’s request, the open- ing scene does not just update Dostoevsky’s cultural criticism but refers directly to the novelist’s existential experience of a brush with death that has since become all too familiar to the populations of Europe and Japan alike. ‘That was quite a scream!’ Akama remarks, puzzled. ‘It sounded as if you were being killed’. – ‘I was being killed,’ Kameda answers. ‘It is a recurrent nightmare of mine’. Kurosawa’s decision to begin with this shocking, startling scene, thoroughly in the spirit of Dostoevsky, calls to mind Thomas Mann’s observation that Dostoevsky lacks some ‘civiliza- tional constraints’; but it was exactly his barbaric qualities that made the Russian author a catalyst for a new beginning: with a new definition of culture and new forms of empathy. Gilles Deleuze, alert to the philosophical nature of Kurosawa’s films, emphasized the importance of their sometimes extensive expositions, trac- ing this formal feature back to the influence of Dostoevsky: In the first place, the givens, of which there must be a complete exposi- tion, are not simply those of the situation. They are the givens of a question which is hidden in the situation, wrapped up in the situation, and which the hero must extract in order to be able to act, in order to be able to respond to the situation. The ‘response’ therefore is not merely that of the action to the situation, but, more profoundly, a response to the question, or to the problem that the situation was not sufficient to disclose. If there JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 135 JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 135 5/29/10 1:32:50 PM 5/29/10 1:32:50 PM 136 Olga V. Solovieva is a certain affinity between Kurosawa and Dostoevsky, it is precisely on this point. (Deleuze 1997: 189, emphasis original) The opening scene of the crowd’s awakening and the meeting between Kameda and Akama indeed expose the ‘givens’ of Kurosawa’s question about the fate of post-war culture. The exchange of charms A confrontation between the new, secular spirituality and the tradi- tional Buddhist one comes to the fore in a crucial scene between Kameda and Akama, in which they exchange charms. The scene stages an attempt at reconciliation at the height of their deadly rivalry over Nasu Taeko (Dostoevsky’s Nastasya Filippovna), a woman whom they both love. This exchange restages the scene from the novel where Prince Myshkin and Rogozhin exchange their Christian crosses. At first glance, Kurosawa seems to suggest that Buddhism and Christianity are smoothly translatable. However, the resemblance between two bodies of religious doctrine is not paramount here. What matters is rather Kurosawa’s translation of Dostoevsky’s own differentiation between the ossified forms of western Christianity and a new Russian Christianity (which the Russian author wanted to propose in secularized terms as a lived ethical discourse). It is Akama, driven by wild, blind passions and lacking in empathy and sensitivity, who asks Kameda if he prays and believes in God. Kameda denies it. Whereupon we learn to our surprise that Akama’s mother brought him up in the Buddhist tradition, made him pray and gave him an amulet which he is still carrying with him. His charm is supposed to be an authentic Buddhist amulet. In contrast, the charm of Kameda (who neither believes in God nor prays) is a stone, which he grabbed involuntarily during his traumatic collapse on death row. In this way the exchange of tokens is a direct continuation of the rivals’ dramatic encounter and existential misunderstanding in the opening scene of the film. Kameda’s charm acquired its value and its significance through a direct experience, not a transmitted tradition. Thus Kurosawa is not con- cerned with the nature of Buddhism or Christianity and their translatability, but with the status of tradition in the modern world. He is interested in an encounter between traditional culture (discredited for its lack of resistance to the crime of war, and to crime in general) and the new form of spiritual- ity and ethics, which emerges, or should naturally follow from, the lessons of war. Kurosawa interrogates the possibility of cross-fertilization between the past and the present, and the impact of their reconciliation on the new ethical premise of the post-war world. Characteristically, Kameda’s kindness, trustfulness, and empathy come across as natural, unselfconscious and immediate, whereas Akama clings to religion in a desperately rational and forced attempt to control his destructive drive. This attempt fails, and Akama succumbs to his hatred and tries to kill Kameda right after they visit with his mother and JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 136 JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 136 5/29/10 1:32:50 PM 5/29/10 1:32:50 PM
137 Kurosawa Akira’s The Idiot participate in a religious ceremony. The scene sends a clear message that ethical behaviour needs no religious sanction. It requires a new sensibil- ity and a new, unmediated understanding of the value of life and death. Akama’s failure to empathize appears as a failure of the Japanese reli- gious and spiritual tradition as a whole, insofar as its hollow rituals are unable to withstand the destructiveness of the world. The mise-en-scène uncannily echoes the hollowness, emptiness, and futile despair of this exchange, which happens on the very threshold of Akama’s mother quarters where she performs her religious worship. Through a melted opening in a huge bank of snow, we see Akama and Kameda entering the inner yard of the house. They fill the cold, hollowed- out space in which Akama, self-consciously looking away from Kameda, interrogates him about his religious feelings. They exchange charms in front of a door opening onto a long, empty corridor. The mother’s chapel is located at the vanishing point of that sterile geometrical perspective. The heroes are thus balanced on the threshold of what is supposed to be a spiritual refuge but looks much rather like a void, or an open- ing to an abyss. The next shot reverses the perspective on the rivals by a radical 180 degrees. We see them exchanging charms and turning their heads toward what is supposed to be the mother’s rooms at the end of the corridor; but this destination turns out to be the place of the audience, the non-diegetic space of the camera, where (in a very Dostoevsky-like fashion) the judging eyes of the involved community are located. It is to this community outside the film (the community looking back at Kameda and Akama from the place of imaginary void) that their symbolic gesture is addressed. Figure 2: Kameda and Akama looking at the film audience after their exchange of tokens. JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 137 JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 137 5/29/10 1:32:51 PM 5/29/10 1:32:51 PM
138 Olga V. Solovieva The doubles Kameda and Akama, who have been contrasted throughout the film as sickness versus health, sensitivity versus crudity, newly won secular spirituality versus Buddhist tradition, become doubles in the end of the film when they both collapse into a stupor of idiocy over Akama’s mur- der of Nasu Taeko. In the scene where they keep vigil by Taeko’s corpse in Akama’s house, they cower together under one blanket staring at the candlelight, their faces similarly elongated and petrified with hor- ror. The uncanny sound of the prayer bell harks back to the scene of their exchange of charms. The film’s allegory of Japan’s two faces as perpetrator and victim comes to its climax here. Their attempted recon- ciliation has succeeded by way of tragic irony and at the cost of their common victim. In Kurosawa’s rendition of the romance, Kameda’s love for Taeko is clearly articulated as a repetition of earlier trauma. His guilt about his inability to help a dying soldier (of whom Taeko reminds him) and his recognition of Taeko’s similar imminent destruction triggers his emotions and his attempt to prevent her tragic fate. However, his involvement does not help her but rather provokes her murder by the jealous Akama. Kameda’s renewed failure and his realization that war only continues under the guise of peace result in his final collapse. The vital Akama becomes a criminal. As Nasu Taeko’s murderer, he comes to occupy the same position in relation to the executed anony- mous soldier as those who drew him into the war and brought about his death. In the face of Taeko’s death, Akama goes mad and is plagued with
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139 Kurosawa Akira’s The Idiot apocalyptic visions of her riding on a rainbow- coloured cloud. In the context of the time, the shiny cloud appears as a reference to the atomic bombing, a horrible vengeance that Japan’s militarism brought upon itself. The differentiation between ‘good’ and ‘evil’ Japan, between its role as a perpetrator of war crimes and as a war victim (represented by Kameda and Akama respectively), is erased in this scene. The two men collapse upon each other, dead or comatose. Disappearing altogether in their common failure, they leave the task of judgment and differentiation up to the younger generations. The ending scene of the film features young Ayako (Dostoevsky’s Aglaya), in cathartic tears, delivering a didactically straightforward mes- sage about the values of love and compassion. Such unsubtle endings are a common feature of Kurosawa’s cinema. In The Idiot, it appears to have a compensatory value in relation to the structure of the whole film, as do the epilogues in Dostoevsky’s novels. The message compensates for the unsettling collapse of differentiation between good and evil, for the intri- cacy and complexity of their mutual attraction or complicity. The fusion of Akama and Kameda at the end of the film indeed conveys such a merci- less judgment about the Japanese tragedy in the twentieth century that we need Ayako to remind us, quite unambiguously, that Kameda was ‘a good man’. The concluding image of young Ayako, who is supposed to have learnt her lesson about human tragedy and is going to become a better person, comes to replace the haunting image of the suffering eyes and split person- ality of Nasu Taeko who, trapped in her destiny between Kameda and Akama, was doomed to vanish along with them. If Ayako is a response to Taeko as a question, the incongruity between them opens an ontological gap between the metaphysics of suffering, memory and conscience and the possibility of overcoming these socially. The clumsiness of the film’s response throws the complexity of the question into sharper relief. Nasu Taeko appears in both film and novel as an image or rather an index pointing to something else. In Dostoevsky’s novel, Prince Myshkin treats Nastasya’s portrait with the kiss of quasi-religious veneration given to a sacred Orthodox icon, which indexically points to the divine. In Kurosawa’s rendi- tion, the photograph of Nasu Taeko, another, more modern type of visual index, refers back to Kameda’s memory of his confrontation with death. Kameda is drawn to Taeko, he confesses, because she has the suffering eyes of a young soldier who was killed in front of him during war. Kameda’s love for Taeko is driven by empathy. When Akama and Kameda stare at Taeko’s photographic portrait in the street, the scene conveys unambiguously that what for Akama is a surface for the pro- jection of an erotic fantasy, for Kameda has the spiritual dimension of the only reality, the inner reality of his traumatized consciousness, of the memory of suffering. The camera zooms in on Taeko’s image behind the glass. The reflections of Akama and Kameda float to its right and left as mere shadows, whereas her portrait acquires the full reality of very clear, sharp contrasts, saturated black, white and grey, and comes to occupy the whole screen. It is his war experience that makes Kameda discern her deep unhappiness, her anticipation of death, to which Akama stays blind. JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 139 JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 139 5/29/10 4:43:02 PM 5/29/10 4:43:02 PM 140 Olga V. Solovieva Figure 4: Akama and Kameda reflected in the window of a photographer’s studio with Nasu Taeko’s portrait. The scene of Kameda and Akama in front of the photographic portrait of Nasu Taeko provides a paradigmatic model of an unsettling dissonance between the two types of visual organization of space which haunt the whole film. We are confronted here with two renditions of a relation between the foreground and background. One version is a flat, plane sur- face onto which all three faces are projected at once so that the foreground and background fuse into each other through a superimposition. The other version does exactly the opposite, sharply contrasting the foreground with the background: in the foreground the two characters are symmetri- cally placed in profile to the right and left facing each other, and in the background the plane of the shop window gives a sense of deep perspec- tive, corresponding to the corridor in the token-exchange scene. We are confronted here with a dissonance between the stereotypical mod- els of western and eastern visual regimes (Sullivan 1989). The much discussed frontality and flatness of the image favoured by many classical Japanese direc- tors (following in the footsteps of Japanese painters), and the perspective view that we associate with the western visual regime since the Renaissance, become the compositional elements of a single mise-en-scène. The montage of such radically different shot compositions reappears in this film again and again. Their clash emphasizes the impression of void (be it Japanese, or west- ern), of empty space – at the edge of which the characters are perched. JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 140 JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 140 5/25/10 1:37:03 PM 5/25/10 1:37:03 PM 141 Kurosawa Akira’s The Idiot In fact, the scene with the image of Taeko arrests for a moment the flow of narrative. As is common for a close-up of a face (a traditionally metaphysical type of shot (Balázs 1984: 57)), her image transcends time and space, connecting the past trauma of Kameda, who sees in her an executed soldier facing his death, to the future trauma of Akama, whose victim Nasu Taeko will become. This scene stages an imaginary space into which the victim and perpetrator project their traumatic memories, the space where the past and future, the West and East, collapse upon each other. It is here that we can be reminded of Deleuze’s words: Kurosawa is thus in his own way a metaphysician, inventing an expansion of the large form: he goes beyond the situation towards a question and raises the givens to the status of givens of the question, no longer of the situation. (Deleuze 1997: 189) The void that Kurosawa stages in this particular scene is a void among the representation, the observers, the camera itself that pulls the viewer into the space where victim and perpetrator are doomed to recurrently exchange places. The void of the post-World War II moment visually dramatized by Kurosawa’s The Idiot is the imaginary place which Ayako has to fill in with her concrete physical presence and moralizing, grounding
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142 Olga V. Solovieva message. But she is there just to remind us more strongly of what her presence is supposed to redeem, that is a void where the East and West meet in their common call for a good man.
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Martinez, Dolores P. (2009), Remaking Kurosawa: Translations and Permutations in Global Cinema, New York: Palgrave MacMillan. Richie, Donald (1996), The Films of Akira Kurosawa, Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press. Solovieva, Olga (2005), ‘Polyphonie und Karneval: Spuren Dostoevskijs in Thomas Manns Doktor Faustus’, Poetica, 3: 4, pp. 463–494. Solovieva, Olga (2007), ‘A Discourse Apart: The Body of Christ and the Practice of Cultural Subversion’, Ph.D. thesis, New Haven: Yale University. Sullivan, Michael (1989), The Meeting of Eastern and Western Art, Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press. Treat, John (1995), Writing Ground Zero: Japanese Literature and the Atomic Bomb, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Yoshimoto, Mitsuhiro (2000), Kurosawa: Film Studies and Japanese Cinema, Durham, NC: Duke University Press.
Solovieva, O. V. (2009), ‘Kurosawa Akira’s The Idiot: Where the East meets the West’, Journal of Japanese and Korean Cinema 1: 2, pp. 129–142, doi: 10.1386/ jjkc.1.2.129/1 Contributor details Olga Solovieva received her Ph.D. in Comparative Literature and Film Studies at Yale. She has taught at the film studies programmes at Smith College, Yale College, and Georgia Tech. Currently she is a research fellow at the Museum of Prints and Drawings of the Prussian Cultural Heritage Foundation in Berlin. E-mail: olenkaso@gmail.com JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 142 JJKC_1.2_Solovieva_129-142.indd 142 5/25/10 1:37:07 PM 5/25/10 1:37:07 PM Yüklə 0,64 Mb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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