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Identity, honour and duty all combine in Kurosawa's samurai epic |
Director: Akira Kurosawa
Cast: Tatsuya Nakadai (Takeda Shingen/The Kagemusha),
Tsutomu Yamazaki (Takeda Nobukado), Kenichi Hagiwara (Takeda Katsuyori),
Jinpachi Nezu (Tsuchiya Sohachiro), Hideji Ōtaki (Yamagata Masakage), Daisuke
Ryu (Oda Nobunaga), Masayuki Yui (Tokugawa Ieyasu)
In his late career, Kurosawa made two epic “samurai” films,
both sweeping broad canvas stories, crammed with epic visuals and tackling big
themes. Kagemusha was the first of
these – and Kurosawa himself claimed that the film was a dry run for his real
aim: to make an epic Japan-set version of King
Lear, which would become Ran. How
does it hold up as film in itself?
Kagemusha means
Shadow Warrior, and the film follows the life of a convicted criminal (Nakada)
saved from crucifixion because of his uncanny resemblance to warlord Shingen
(also Nadada). When Shingen is mortally wounded on campaign, the Kagemusha is
recruited to pretend to be the warlord, to guarantee the peace and security of
the Takeda tribe – whose enemies are kept in check by their fear of Shingen’s
reputation. The Kagemusha struggles at first to fill the role, but gradually becomes
more and more consumed by the identity of the warlord.
Kagemusha is a
beautiful film to look at. It’s totally visually stunning. Kurosawa had spent
years planning the film, struggling to raise the cash, he had even attempted
suicide when it looked like he would never make another film again. Kurosawa
had painted many of the scenes in advance, and his film captures this effect brilliantly
in a swirling, breathtaking display of colour and imagery.
Battle scenes take place against blood red or pitch black
skies. Armies march in silhouette past a burning sun. The colours of the sects
of the Takeda army contrast and dance together. Foliage and bodies intermingle
on deserted battlefields, with the camera taking in the destruction of battles
with a cool, imposing stillness. A marvellous tracking shot early in the film
follows a soldier running through a sleeping army in a castle, each group of
soldiers waking and rising behind him as he proceed. Even the still (one shot
held for seven minutes) opening shot is brilliantly framed and strangely
compelling.
The final battle sequences have a strange, dream-like
quality. Kurosawa films charging horses and men, gunshots, but no coming
together of these things – we see waves of men going forward, see the guns
firing, cut to the shocked reactions of the Takeda generals – we never see men
mown down. The imagination alone presents what the generals are seeing – and
makes us share their helpless horror. The final image of a body floating past
Shingen’s personal banner, abandoned in a blood-stained lake, as the camera
pans up and away is brilliant – hammering home the tragic loss of lives for the
hubris and pride of a clan leader.
Of course, the most extraordinary use of colour is the
Kagemusha’s dream, where he sees himself chased by the embalmed corpse of
Shingen. The dream takes place in an explosion of painterly colours, a huge
backdrop completely unrelated to anything real. This really ties into your
unworldly memory of dreams – while Shingen’s relentless movement forward and
his meaningless, unclear emotions (is he angry? Is he looking to take
possession of the Kagemusha?) have the terror of a nightmare. The scene ends
with the Kagemusha trapped in a pool of water, the motions of the waves
breaking his reflection, a neat commentary on his own lack of identity. You’ve
not really seen anything like it before.
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The Kagemusha's dream - the colours are beyond striking |
In terms of storytelling, Kurosawa also uses some
interesting techniques. I was surprised how many key events happen off-screen.
Along with the two major battles (the one described above and the one fought
under the Kagemusha’s “leadership”, which occurs mostly at night in confusion a
distance away) we never see the Kagemusha’s training, Shingen being wounded
(instead we see a sniper tell his master how he did it), never see the
Kagemusha’s ill-fated attempt to ride a horse. Time seems to slide unclearly
throughout the film – years seem to go by in minutes. The whole structure of
the film flows in slight fits and starts – it feels rather like (guess what!) a
dream, where the logic of events and time never quite holds together. Perhaps
fitting in with Kurosawa’s love of visual language, it’s like looking at a
series of canvasses by a master-painter – a series of snapshots or moments, or
comments on moments, with the viewer left to fill in the gaps.
The film’s visuals are its real strength, but it touches on questions
of identity and of leadership. As the Kagemusha, Nakada’s acting style has much
of the expressionistic wildness of many of Kurosawa’s leading men, but married
with a subtler quietness, making the Kagemusha a lost, gentler soul struggling
to define himself within the role of Shingen. Nakada’s Kagemusha is a
conflicted contrast to the ramrod certainty of his Shingen – a humanist, who
grows to love his position – who perhaps even grows to believe he is Shingen –
but has an ease with Shingen’s grandson the warlord never had (“He’s not so
scary now!” the boy exclaims – and he is the only character who suspects a change).
Is he a better man than the warlord but a worse leader? When unmasked, does he
haunt the court because he has grown to care or because he can’t let go of the
illusion of being Shingen?
Kurosawa also explores the Kagemusha’s success as Shingen – expressly
linked to his ability to voice key slogans with commitment (“The mountain does
not move!”) and sit calmly during battle. Kurosawa seems to be criticising
implicitly the deference inherent in much of Japan’s past. These soldiers are
devoted to the Kagemusha, but he says and does nothing. When revealed, they
reject the same man totally and instead follow with the same dedication the
orders of Shingen’s inadequate son (many even while believing it will doom them).
Identity is a theme we cling to in the West, but I think for Kurosawa it’s the
blankness of our leaders that interests him – the idea that we follow people because
of what they represent, rather than what they necessarily are. It’s an idea
that feels subservient to the mood of the film, but it’s there.
Kagemusha is a
film of wonderful visual style and accomplished cinematic grace. However, the
main blockage to calling it a masterpiece (as opposed to just a very, very good
movie) is the slight sense of intellectual emptiness at its core. Despite touching
some of the monumental themes I’ve mentioned, I’m not sure the film really has that much to say about any of them in.
Questions of personal identity and the function of leaders in our society are skirted
around but never truly tackled. Considering the epic runtime of the film, its
story and ideas are surprisingly simple and transparent, its focus split
between those and the inspired visuals. To be fair, Kurosawa never lectures us,
which is a comforting change from many mundane filmmakers, but he also doesn’t
strike me as having much original to say on his themes – or that he aspires to
do so.
That’s always the clash of priorities with Kurosawa: he is
at heart a painter and a visualist rather than an analyst, a director telling
large stories in broad, beautiful brushstrokes. The Kagemusha always remains a
cipher: of course this is part of the point, but the character’s internal
struggle and clash still seem rather glossed over, as if mentioning them was
the same as actually exploring them. Some of this is intentional, and I suppose
could say the film is inviting us to reach our own conclusions without prompting,
but it’s hard to shake the feeling that this is a film that hangs out with
ideas rather than really getting to grips with them.
Kagemusha, like Rashomon, is a film I’ve have been hard
on – and Kurosawa is a director I expect so much from, because he is so
overwhelmingly talented. Visually he is up there with Lean, but I feel Lean
gets a better balance of depth and images. Kurosawa’s visual language is
sublime, but this film is also strangely empty in places, a mighty epic and
beautiful piece of cinema that says
things but isn’t really about things.
I don’t feel it truly explores its points, or gives us anything to really think
about after.
Saying that, this is a vital and impressive piece of cinema
and one of the most beautiful films you are going to see. Kurosawa is not the
most profound film maker, but he is more than thoughtful enough compared to
most and while he doesn’t claim the potential of some of his ideas, what he
offers us is a true artist’s vision, a graceful mastery of the camera and
enough feeling to immerse you in the story. He also – and I feel sorry for not
dwelling on this earlier – brings out some wonderful performances from his
actors: Nakada is superb and there is wonderful work from Yamazaki, Hagiwara,
and in particular Ōtaki who is marvellously genial but imposing as Shingen’s
closest general. Kagemusha isn’t his
masterpiece, but for the vast majority of film-makers it would be.
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