Ran (1985)

Ran was directed by the influential Akira Kurosawa. It was made late in his career, a career which spanned 6 decades. Ran is a film which shows a master director displaying his skills and experience to the utmost. It could be seen as the culmination of over 50 years of making films. It is a spectacle of a film. A harrowing, poignant story. Majestic shot compositions. The most beautiful, rich colour palette. Perhaps the best costume designs of any film. Simple yet skilful cinematography. On a purely aesthetic and visual level, it is sumptuous and a delight to watch. But throw in the deeply profound story and its portrayal of the follies of humanity, a story which is relevant on a fundamental level, and you get a masterpiece.

 

The film covers many themes, some of which I’ll try to delineate. It is set in medieval Japan and focuses on a warlord and his 3 sons. It is partially inspired by King Lear and partially by a tale about Mōri Motonari. Though ultimately, Kurosawa has crafted his own story. The warlord in question, Lord Hidetora Ichimonji, is played in a theatrical manner by the legendary Tatsuya Nakadai. Nakadai has starred in many outstanding Japanese films, such as Harakiri (1962), The Human Condition trilogy (1959-1961) and Samurai Rebellion (1967). 

 

Hidetora, the warlord, decides late in his life to give control of his kingdom to his eldest son, Taro. After 50 years of war making, he states he wants to “give free rein to peace”. His youngest son, Saburo, vehemently counsels against this and chastises his brothers for using “honeyed words” towards their father. Saburo talks bluntly and offends his father, to the extent that he is banished and disowned. But it is clear from the beginning that, while being blunt, Saburo was also the only son who was honest and had his father’s interests at heart. We even see this when his father falls asleep in the beginning of the film and Saburo shades him with branches from a nearby bush, a minor display of thoughtfulness and care.

 

After giving control of his kingdom to his eldest son, Taro, what ensues the warlord didn’t predict. Taro pushes the boundaries of his power, trying to wrest more control from his father. Taro is counselled in this regard by his wife, Lady Kaede. We learn that Lady Kaede was wronged by Hidetora. Her family was killed and her home taken over. Clearly, she intends to exact revenge by whatever means are at her disposal. She is very skilful in this regard. Orchestrated by his wife, Taro’s actions set in motion a cycle of conflict and violence whereby each of the elder brothers fight for control of the kingdom and betray their father.

 

Incredibly deceitful and manipulative, Lady Kaede is a very well-drawn character and is played brilliantly. Full of vitriol and seething hatred, she pulls the strings throughout the film. Taro and Jiro (Jiro is the middle son and next in line after Taro) are pathetic and ignorant by comparison. This sheds interesting light on power dynamics in these imperial situations, suggesting that those with most control might often be those who are behind the scenes.

 

The film is largely about Hidetora and how he deals with this grave betrayal of his sons. He is sent on a psychological journey where the peace he wanted to instil at the beginning of the film is thrown back in his face. The lesson I conjecture is that if you have inflicted violence throughout your life, this violence will usually come back to you in one way or another. You will not escape those wrong deeds. However, it might not be as simple as this.

 

A significant aspect of the story regards Lady Sué and her brother, Tsurumaru. Lady Sué is the wife of Jiro. As with Lady Kaede, we learn that Lady Sué’s family had been killed by Hidetora. We also learn that Tsurumaru, Lady Sué’s brother, had his eyes gouged out by Hidetora. Lady Sué, however, has turned to Buddhism and seems to practice love and forgiveness. She does not hate Hidetora. In this regard, she is sharply contrasted with Lady Kaede. They are like opposites. They have both been through very similar suffering, inflicted by Hidetora, but have reacted in antithetical ways. This shows the diversity of human behaviour.

 

There is a significant scene when Hidetora encounters Lady Sué at Jiro’s castle, before Jiro has betrayed him. Encountering Lady Sué, Hidetora states “When I see you it breaks my heart” Lady Sué then smiles and Hidetora backs off with horror in his eyes and continues “It’s worse when you smile. I burned down your castle, your father and mother perished. And you look at me like that. Look upon me with hatred. It would be easier to bear. Go on, hate me!” I find this scene very powerful. It suggests that Hidetora feels some kind of remorse for what he has done. He wants to be hated for it. This hate, he feels, would at least make him feel better. But seeing someone who has arguably overcome hatred makes him feel worse about himself. Lady Sué is a reminder of what he could be. She is a reminder of a better person.

 

There is another significant scene when Hidetora, Kyoami and Tango come upon a cabin during a storm, after the epic battle scene at the third castle. They are in dire need of shelter and barge into the cabin. Here we find Tsurumaru, the brother of Lady Sué, whose eyes had been gouged out. He announces who he is and at one point begins playing a haunting song on a flute. This sends the already distressed Hidetora into a frenzy.  Hidetora is beginning to taste a glimpse of the suffering he has spent his life subjecting others to. This encounter with Tsurumaru and his flute song is allowing all of that suffering to manifest and reach his consciousness. Hidetora is being reminded of how he has treated others and is overcome by these feelings.

 

With its panoramic longshots and majestic scenery, Ran is suggesting that humans are aspects of a large, encompassing process. With its largely static camerawork, filmgoers are encouraged to take a detached view on the grand, unfolding story. We are watching the human characters from a godlike, spectatorial view as we see them dwarfed by mountainous landscapes. This formal approach is worth noting. Maybe we are being reminded that, though some humans have inflated egos and may conquer much land throughout their lives, we are all small aspects of an infinite, unknowable system. Ultimately, the egotistical desires for fame, power and immortality are misguided, as everything in life is transient and fleeting.

 

At the end of the film, Hidetora is reunited with Saburo and has begun to come back to sanity. He is utterly overjoyed to see his only loyal son and their reunion is an emotional moment. But just as Hidetora has begun to awaken to his follies and wrongdoings, Saburo is shot down by enemy soldiers. This immediately sends Hidetora back into frenzied madness, and out of sheer exhaustion and suffering he dies atop Saburo’s corpse. This last scene suggests that perhaps there is a cosmic indifference to the lives played out by us humans. Even if we realise our wrongdoings, maybe we just can’t predict how our lives will unfold. We also see this point  being made when we sadly learn that Lady Sué, who practiced love and forgiveness, was slaughtered by Jiro's men. However, for some reason I don’t find this approach pessimistic. This aspect of the story is only pessimistic if you are looking at it from an egotistical perspective which sees physical survival as the ultimate goal of life. There are far deeper processes going on in the world and it is only when we come to terms with the perceived indifference of the universe, and overcome our petty, personal concerns, that we will find some kind of peace. This, I feel, is where the Buddhist element comes into the story, because Buddhism as I understand it teaches us to overcome egotistical, myopic concerns.

 

Just following Hidetora’s death we hear Kyoami and Tango lamenting. 

 

Kyoami: “Are there no gods, no buddha. If you exist, hear me! You are mischievous and cruel. Are you so bored up there, you must crush us like ants!? Is it such fun to see men weep?!”

 

Tango: “Enough! Do not blaspheme! It is the gods who weep. They see us killing each other over and over since time began. They can’t save us from ourselves. Don't cry. It's how the world is made. Men prefer sorrow over joy. Suffering over peace”
 

Ran is a magnificent illustration of the nightmare of history, of the relentless, cyclical mistakes of humanity. It is about desirous egos striving for power. It shows how people deal with suffering in different ways and it highlights the blindness and ignorance of our species. It could be argued that Buddhism is one of our main attempts to overcome this blindness and ignorance, which is why it features strongly in the film.

Harakiri 1962

Harakiri (1962) was directed by the legendary Masaki Kobayashi. It's difficult to overstate the power and quality of this film. Harakiri is an immersive, austere experience. The action and plot unfolds slowly, carefully, delicately. Like a bow string, this is a taut film. The suspense builds gradually and masterfully. Even though the film is arguably "slow", it's also compelling and captivating, perhaps due to the geometrical beauty of the imagery and the excellent use of cinematography. Each shot is beautifully composed and you really get a feel for the minimalism yet simultaneous power of Japanese art. What is left out is just as important as what is put in. If one were to judge this film on the cinematography alone, one could tell it is Japanese.

However, it's not just the imagery which makes this film one of the highlights of cinema. In a broad sense, Harakiri is about individual morality in conflict with rigid societal codes, and in that sense it's still relevant today and perhaps always will be. The film is set in Japan in 1630 and is largely about the rigidity of the samurai ethic or bushido code. Without spelling it out and spoonfeeding us this message, Harakiri  is a harsh indictment of the samurai ethic. More broadly, the film is an indictment of all unjust, authoritarian institutions. This is indicated at the beginning and end of the film, when the camera lingers on the suit of samurai armour. These shots are significant, indeed essential, to the message of the film. Without these seemingly minor shots, the film would lose much of it's narrative power. These shots emphasise the emptiness and inhumanity of the samurai ethic, an ethic which in this film contributed to the suffering of poor, downtrodden individuals who were just trying to get by in a difficult world.

  

In Harakiri, Kobayashi invites us to reflect on poverty and the extreme, unfortunate situations some people find themselves in. At the same time, he invites us to reflect on the fragility of life and how precarious it can be. The protagonist states "Our lives are like houses built on foundations of sand". Kobayashi, clearly, was sensitive to those members of society who struggle and live in poverty. He wanted, in many of his films, to give these people a voice. This raises him to the status of a great director, for not only was he a skilled storyteller who could make visually stunning pieces, but within his films he instilled almost a personal philosophy based on empathy with the downtrodden.

Kobayashi himself was a pacifist and must have had an acute sense of morality. The protagonist of Harakiri, Tsugumo, is an exemplary figure in this regard, embodying decent values and unwavering in his sense of goodness. Tsugumo could have arranged for his daughter to marry a member of a local clan, which would have meant she'd have riches which the protagonist and his daughter could have benefited from. But he did not wish his daughter to become a concubine and he saw that his daughter already loved someone. The protagonist therefore prioritises genuine love and meaning over riches and comforts, even if this means hardship in other ways. Sadly, the world this man lived in wasn't ready for such a decent person. It arguably still isn't ready. The man's friend even says at one point  "You can't fight against the world you live in".

Kobayashi isn't the only Japanese director making powerful films with a message like this. One of my favourite films of all time is Sansho the Bailiff (1954) by Kenji Mizoguchi. The message is very similar. These films are about individuals upholding morality and decency in the face of unfair societal instiutions. They're about holding on to that glimmer of kindness and love in a dark, hateful world. These messages carry such force because they're still relevant today, and when executed well they always hit me in a profound way.

Island (1962)

(spoilers ahead)

Aldous Huxley’s last novel, Island, could be viewed as a counter novel to Brave New World. Whereas BNW is a dystopia, Island is arguably a utopia. Whereas BNW shows a society where people numb themselves from reality, Island shows a society where people live in the most mindful way possible.

Later in his life, Huxley became extremely interested in eastern philosophy, mysticism and explorations with psychedelic drugs. Island represents the culmination of years of immersion into these fields of knowledge. In the novel, Huxley envisions an island society, named Pala, which is structured on the most profound and beneficial aspects of Mahayana Buddhism and Tantrik Philosophy, while still embracing the positive aspects of modern science. Huxley’s understanding of these traditions is deep, nuanced and accurate. He seems to have apprehended those aspects of these traditions which are, as far as I’m concerned, the most beneficial to humanity. From what I’ve gathered, he was deeply influenced by Jiddu Krishnamurti in this regard. Krishnamurti was a long-time friend of Huxley’s.

On the island of Pala, a society has been devised which produces people who are able to live in the most healthy, positive accordance with reality itself. Now this doesn’t mean that they live in some idealised world where no grief or sadness exists. This is partly why the word utopian might be misleading in describing Island, as I feel this word has connotations which suggest some kind of unrealistic, perfect place. But the novel isn’t unrealistic at all. Take one of the main characters for example, Susila. Even though she is an inhabitant of the island who is incredibly intelligent, mindful and one could say awakened, she still feels deep sorrow for her husband Dugald, who died. During the profound ending passages of the novel, in an intimate exchange between Susila and the protagonist, Will, it is written:

“She broke off, and suddenly Will found himself looking at Incarnate Bereavement with seven swords in her heart. Reading the signs of pain in the dark eyes, about the corners of the full-lipped mouth, he knew that the wound had been very nearly mortal and, with a pang in his own heart, that it was still open, still bleeding”

The book covers the most important aspects of the human experience in a poignant way. In this regard, Island puts an emphasis on death, which at certain points is called the “Essential Horror”. I think this description is largely true. Whether people are consciously aware of it or not, death lingers in our minds. We know on some level that we are finite (as are all our loved ones), and we numb and distract ourselves from this knowledge throughout our lives. Our egos, presumably, don’t want to admit that they’re fallible. But the novel tries to show that through a knowledgeless experience of Suchness (Tathātā), we can consciously arrive at an awakened state, and the underlying dread and anxiety that we carry around with us will fade away. We won’t be emotionless, we’ll still feel grief for example, but it won’t be as painful or unhealthy, we won’t amplify that grief by resisting it, but will accept it for what it is.

One of the main teachings in Pala is to pay attention, no matter what you may be doing, and that this is the essential form of Yoga. Just sit with what is present now, no matter what negative and/or positive feelings you’re experiencing. Thus, this explains the comical Mynah birds throughout the novel, who have been taught to squawk “attention” and “here and now”. Connected with this, the society of Pala is not remotely dogmatic. It does not enforce rules or ideas upon people. In fact, it actively guards against this happening. Pala encourages what Terence McKenna would call “the primacy of direct experience”. It encourages its inhabitants to value their own experiences and to think critically about everything. It encourages people to see the world for themselves, and not through the lens of some political movement or religious institution.

Even though the end of the novel is sad on a surface level, on a deeper level it is life-affirming. It is also realistic, one could say. The main character, Will, goes through a significant transformation. He starts off as a repressed, neurotic man who has a negative past. He has a “hyena-like laugh” which belies his repressed state. He is also haunted by aspects of his past throughout the novel, including some of his selfish, hurtful actions. Will, one could argue, symbolises a fairly average man of our consumerist, emotionally unintelligent, Western society. By the end of the novel, with the help of some of Pala’s inhabitants and the moksha-medicine they use, he comes to understand what reality is about, and he learns to see things as they are. This shows that there is hope for us, that the capacity for change is within all of us, even if we’ve done things that we’re ashamed of.

The novel ends in a profound way. Will, the protagonist, has a psychedelic trip aided by one of Pala’s inhabitants, Susila. During this trip he has a direct experience of the ideas he has intellectually learned throughout his time at Pala. During the course of the novel, Will is gradually exposed to Pala and its philosophy. It is one thing to understand such philosophy intellectually, for it to be explained to you, but another to directly experience it with the aid of a psychedelic drug. Even though Will has an experience of bliss, evil and wholeness during his psychedelic trip, the novel ends violently whereby the island is encroached on by people who want its oil reserves, and therefore presumably the island of Pala as we knew it is to be destroyed. But ultimately, we learn that this doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, as the capacity for wholeness is always present (no matter how bad our external conditions might be), and the ideas that permeated this society will always exist on some level. This gives me hope on a personal level, as sometimes when I look around at my society and the present world, I see a lot of evil and suffering.

One could spend a lot of time analysing the various methods that the fictional society of Pala uses to produce such healthy human-beings, but this isn’t the aim of my writing here. Huxley goes into a lot of detail in this regard, and demonstrates his broad knowledge not only of eastern philosophy but also of societal organisation. Huxley, it is clear, was extremely knowledgeable in a plethora of subjects.

Persona (1966)

Persona is a Swedish film directed by Ingmar Bergman, who lots of people regard as one of the greatest filmmakers of all time. Persona reflects the time it was made and fits perfectly with the experimental, new-wave cinema movement, that was occurring around the world.

I feel most films, most creative acts in general, fall short of something. Most creative acts aren’t challenging. They don’t make you think about the relationship between form and content. They don’t make you think about what it means to be human. They don’t make you think about what it means to create meaning and express transcendent insights. Persona, however, makes you think about all these things.

Another thing that I feel makes art powerful is when it can’t be pinned down or explained away. It’s that suggestibility of certain works of art, that mystery, which seems to most accurately mirror reality itself.

I find it interesting that Persona was released during the same year as two other films which share very similar plot themes. They are all also experimental and challenging. One of those films is The Face of Another (1966) by Hiroshi Teshigahara and the other is Seconds (1966) by John Frankenheimer. I won’t go into detail with these other films, but like Persona they all focus heavily on the nature of identity. They all explore the masks, or personas, that people adopt in daily life. Ultimately, they all suggest that these masks don’t express the truth of what’s behind them.

Persona is self-aware. The experimental prologue shows extreme close-up shots of a film reel, as though we’re inside the film-viewing process. We also see a young boy touching a screen/wall, with a woman’s blurred face on it. This signifies the idea of spectatorship. We’re immediately being invited to think about what it means to make and watch films. We’re being reminded that we’re spectators in the process of watching a work of art. We’re not being asked to suspend disbelief. In the prologue we also see rapid flashes of scenes from silent movies, again asking us to reflect on the art of cinema, the vehicle of expression that we’re currently experiencing. These flashes open the film up, like James Joyce does with literary references in Ulysses and Finnegans Wake, showing us how the film is connected to, and owes a debt to, previous films.

The discordant, experimental score in the prologue, by Lars Johan Werle, is fitting, further showing us that we’re inhabiting a different level of reality at this point. The inharmonious score suggests that we’re experiencing a world that bypasses our rational, Newtonian one, suggesting a deeper, more pure form of reality, one where opposites visibly co-exist and apparent discord reigns.

Daisies (1966)

Daisies is a particularly unique czech new-wave film and is wonderful for its experimentation, humour and visual madness. As with most great films, you can't really pin down the meaning of this one. It features two young women who make a decision that if the world is spoiled, then they will be spoiled. They thus embark on an unhinged, madcap odyssey in which they dine and tease older men, cause havoc in a nightclub, get into food fights, and cut each other up with scissors in one of my favourite, bonkers scenes.

What I love about this film is the sense of liberation and freedom it gives. The film is an uninhbited, humorous exploration of cinematic form which never ceases to entertain. It reminds me, to some extent, of the Japanese film Hausu (1977), in that Hausu is equally uninhibited and formally experimental. 

If one wanted to get all political, one could read Daisies, through the unfettered adventures of its female characters, as an anarchist and feminist film. I say this as you have two women defying social conventions, toying with men and freely expressing themselves (albeit in an absurd, silly way). 

Daisies was made a female director, Věra Chytilová. I feel this is worth pointing out as there weren't a huge amount of female directors at the time, especially making films like this. Ultimately, Daisies perfectly encapsulates the experimental, subversive mood of 60s new-wave cinema.