Grunert-Image-Musashi-01

by Andrea Grunert

Miyamoto Musashi (1), played by Sakaguchi Tak, is the main character in Shimomura Yūji’s Crazy Samurai Musashi (Kyō samurai Muasahi, Japan, 2020). Based on an idea by filmmaker Sono Sion, the film centres on the famous duel at Ichijōji Temple (2) between Musashi and samurai from the Yoshioka School of swordsmanship. Musashi (c. 1584-1645), a celebrated swordsman in Japanese history, is a blend of fact and fiction, much like d’Artagnan. Yoshikawa Eiji’s novel Musashi (Miyamoto Musashi), serialised between 1935 and 1939 in the newspaper Asahi Shinbun (3), has played a significant role in Musashi’s enduring popularity. Musashi is the protagonist of numerous films, some of which were inspired by Yoshikawa’s novel, such as Inagaki Hiroshi’s Samurai Trilogy (1954-1956; 4) and Tomu Uchida’s five films about Musashi produced between 1961 and 1965 (5). Mizoguchi Kenji also made a film about the famous swordfighter in 1944: Miyamoto Musashi. Mikami Yazuo’s Musashi (2019) is a more recent film. Musashi was also the main protagonist of a taiga drama in 2003 (6).
The duel at the Ichijōji Temple is a crucial episode in Yoshikawa’s novel as well as in the novel’s adaptations by Inagaki and Uchida and in Mikami’s Musashi. In Uchida’s and Mikami’s films, the number of Musashi’s opponents is given as about 70 (7). In Crazy Samurai Musashi, the number is given as 400! As a result, the film focuses heavily on swordfighting. There is almost no plot and only a few dialogues, but a series of fights between Musashi and a seemingly never-ending appearance of opponents he kills one after the other (8).
Before becoming a director, Shimomura worked primarily as an action director, stunt coordinator and stuntman. It is improbable, however, that his interest in fighting scenes and his expertise in the field are the sole reason for his choice. On the contrary, focusing on the fights is an effective means to reveal the very essence of the jidai geki and chanbara (9), as well as Musashi’s personality (10). This essence lies in the act of killing men. Inagaki and Uchida show the transformation of Musashi from a wild, uncontrolled youth to a disciplined swordsman. Musashi, the young peasant samurai (he is sixteen years old at the beginning of Yoshikawa’s novel) must learn how to harness his powers. He is presented with the chance to study and become a more accomplished swordsman, adhering to the samurai ideal of bu (martial valour) and bun (cultural achievement). After spending two and a half years in seclusion, reading and reflecting on his violent past, the protagonist embarks on a long journey to perfect his skills and master the sword and his mind. During his travels in Japan, he encounters several renowned warriors of his time, including Seijurō, the leader of the Yoshioka School whom he defeats, as well as Seijurō’s brother Denshichirō. At Ichijōji Temple, the Yoshiokas, led by thirteen-year-old son Matashichirō (11), attempt to regain their honour.
In Miyamoto Musashi, Mizoguchi already questions the motives of the protagonist. This Musashi (Kawarasaki Chōjūrō) denies fighting for personal reasons such as revenge, but Mizoguchi casts doubts on the purity of his acts. However, he depicts him as a master of the sword who is in full control of his body and mind. In Inagaki’s Sasaki Kojirō trilogy (1950/1951; 12), Musashi, played by Mifune Toshirō, is a wild, ruthless fighter who kills without hesitation. Mifune also plays Musashi in Inagaki’s Samurai Trilogy, where the famous swordsman exhibits more romantic traits (13). However, the three films do not completely obscure the ambiguity behind his violent actions. This ambiguity is further explored in Uchida’s Miyamoto Musashi: Ichijōji no kettō (1964), the fourth film in his series of five in which Musashi (Nakamura Kinnosuke) kills his opponents being in a frenzied state. At the end of the fight at Ichijōji Temple, Musashi, on the brink of madness, runs away as if escaping from his murderous self.
It is the contrast between the pursuit of spiritual enlightenment and the use of deadly force which is often depicted in films about Musashi as well as in other jidai geki. Many jidai geki of the 1960s feature samurai or rōnin who do not wish to kill, yet end up doing it anyway. This is the case in Okamoto Kihachi’s satirical Kill (Kiru, 1968) and in Gosha Hideo’s Goyōkin (1969). Also in Mikami’s Musashi, one of the characters states: “The only purpose of the sword is to kill people.” In this film, Musashi (Hosoda Yoshikiro) is a killing machine, driven by the idea of winning, despite his remorse after having killed a child at Ichijōji Temple.
In Crazy Samurai Musashi no guilt feeling is expressed. Violence is presented as a simple, unavoidable fact without being idealised or masked by notions of duty or honour. Musashi must kill to survive against the superior number of opponents. The film focuses on Musashi’s fighting without providing any explanation about his character or psychological approach. The lack of dialogue emphasises the importance of the action (14).
The film features three distinct locations in close proximity to the temple where the battle one against 400 occurs. The first is a small clearing in a forest, with Musashi facing a large number of opponents. The other two locations are the narrow streets of an abandoned village and the open space at the village entrance. These locations require varying camera positions and framing. Throughout the sword fighting sequences, Musashi is often filmed from behind, which conceals his emotions from the viewer. The fights filmed in the narrow streets of the abandoned village are shorter and more fragmented due to the visual closures created by the space.
Most shots are long shots, with close-ups and medium close-ups being infrequent. However, the fight sequences are presented with a variety of framing, camera movements, and the use of the handheld camera. For instance, in one duel sequence, the combatants are illuminated by lightning while the rolling thunder accompanies the sound of the fighting. The pouring rain blurs the contours of the setting, emphasising its desolation and adding to the sense of tragedy surrounding the violent action. The final moments of the fierce battle at Ichijōji Temple are shot from a bird’s-eye view, revealing Musashi surrounded by a multitude of adversaries.
The fight sequences depict Musashi taking brief breaks to drink water and recover, with his exhaustion palpable at times. Despite heavy panting, he quickly resumes his deadly business and ultimately fights with two swords, a technique attributed to the historical Musashi. The short pauses and infrequent dialogue, along with the soundtrack, contribute to the production’s originality. There are moments in which the only sound are the cries and the panting of the men and the clashing of the swords. The wind can also be heard and, in the aforementioned sequence, rain and thunder. The haunting sound of drums accompanies several moments of the fighting, while melodious tunes played on the piano and violins appear in others. The colour palette is dominated by shades of brown and grey and of blue, the colour of many of the kimonos worn by the combatants. The red of blood is the only vivid colour used in the long fighting scene. Musashi’s face and kimono are stained with blood; blood spurts from ruptured arteries. The limited colour palette and long takes emphasise the repetitive nature of the killings. Despite the abundance of action sequences, the film manages to avoid becoming tedious due to the sufficient visual and acoustic variations. However, repetition is also used to create tension. The numerous killing sequences can have an unsettling effect on the viewer. This feeling of anticipation and discomfort could lead to insight and deeper reflection on the sense or nonsense of violence and the code of honour of the samurai.
The series of fights takes place between two scenes containing comparatively more dialogue. In the film’s second scene, young Matashichirō (Kimura Kōsei) appears. He is a small child of approximately nine or ten years, an innocent boy who apparently does not fully understand the dangerous situation in which he is been placed by the elders of his clan. Matashichirō, smiling happily, is more interested in a white butterfly than the impending fighting, but Musashi’s sudden attack ends both the child’s and the butterfly’s life with a single stroke of his sword. The youthfulness and immature behaviour of the boy accentuate the horror of Musashi’s murderous action.
In Buddhism, white is a symbol of both purity and death. Combined with the delicate butterfly (15), it suggests the transience of life. In the final scene, which takes place seven years after the events at Ichijōji Temple, Musashi, now bearded and with his face covered in scars, is meditating beside a small stream when a white butterfly lands on the pommel of his sword. The butterfly is now associated with the warrior whose life is often short (16). Additionally, the butterfly remembers past events that continue to linger and seem to materialise in this very scene. Suddenly, Chūsuke (Yamazaki Kentō), a former student of the Yoshioka School, appears at the stream with a group of samurai. The short opening scene, which precedes the dialogue scene before the beginning of the battle, focuses on Chūsuke, practising with a wooden sword. Close-ups and medium close-ups of the young man in an interior are alternated with shots of a one-on-one duel taking place in a landscape. The fight is filmed in close-ups and extreme close ups, fragmenting bodies and objects. The combatant’s faces remain indistinct. It can be presumed that these shots are memory images showing Musashi who fights against one of the Yoshioka brothers. The dreamlike quality of these flashbacks is underlined by black-and-white photography. In the following scene, Chūsuke expresses his ardent desire to take revenge for the deaths of Seijurō and Denshichirō, providing an explanation to the previous shots. Seven years after the battle at Ichijōji Temple, Chūsuke challenges Musashi, driven by his desire for revenge fueled by the mass killing. Chūsuke appeals to his opponent’s sense of duty and honour as a samurai. Musashi dismisses these concepts as meaningless and declares that his only goal is to win. He then proceeds to kill Chūsuke’s men one by one, this time using a sickle instead of a sword. Throughout the short fight, Chūsuke is mesmerised by Musashi’s incredible swordsmanship.
Yoshikawa’s novel and the films made about Musashi present his life as a series of fights. However, none of them consist solely on fighting scenes. Crazy Samurai Musashi portrays violence in a concentrated and unadorned form, illustrating Musashi’s bitter realization at the end of Uchida’s Shinken shōbu (1971), the sixth film added to his series of five films on Musashi: “The sword is finally nothing else then violence.” (17)
Crazy Samurai Musashi reveals the ultimate consequences of violence as an inherent element of jidai geki. Shimomura’s film, which goes far beyond the works of his predecessors, presents a radical vision of the violence at the heart of the samurai ethos. The film does not include reflections on ethics, the search for the meaning of life, or honour and nobility. The only question is whether to kill or be killed. Musashi is portrayed as a killing machine who attacks with a frenzy. However, Shimomura also depicts the protagonist as an individual trapped in a cycle of violence that he strives to overcome and survive (18). The film ends with Chūsuke asking: “What are you?” Musahsi’s response is : “I am…”, followed by the words “crazy samurai Musashi” written in red kanji over a black background. Although Musashi’s actions may seem to be driven by obsession and insanity, it is important to note that they are rooted in an ethical system strongly asscoiated with violence. This system has inspired an entire cinematic genre. In a broader sense, Shimomura’s film reveals humanity’s persistent atavism.

Notes
(1) The names are written according to Japanese conventions in the order of family name followed by given name.
(2) The Ichijōji Temple is a Buddhist temple situated in northeastern Kyoto. The duel marked the culmination of a long-standing feud between Musashi’s family and the Yoshioka family.
(3) The novel was serialised in 1013 episodes from 23 August 1935 to 11 July 1939.
(4) Samurai I : Musashi Miyamoto (Miyamoto Musashi, 1954), Samurai II : Duel at Ichijōji Temple (Zoku Miyamoto Musashi : Ichijōji no kettō, 1955) and Samurai III: Duel at Ganryū-jima (Miyamoto Musashi kanketsuhen: Kettō Ganryū-jima, 1956).
(5) Miyamoto Musashi (1961), Miyamoto Musashi : Han’nyazaka no kettō (1962), Miyamoto Musashi : Nitōryu kaigen (1963), Miyamoto Musashi : Ichijōji no kettō (1964) and Miyamoto Musashi : Ganryū-jima no kettō (1965).

(6) Ichikawa Ebizō XI played Musashi in the taiga drama Musashi, broadcast in 2003. Taiga dramas are year-long historical television dramas, produced by NHK (Japan Broadcast Corporation).

(7) According to the novel and films, a great number of students of the Yoshioka School as well as mercenaries hired by the Yoshioka clan were hidden near the temple to kill Musashi in order to save the reputation of the once famous swordsman school, whose existence was in jeopardy after Musashi’s subsequent victories.

(8) The fight scene at Ichijōji Temple lasts for around 118 minutes in the 131-minute film.

(9) The term jidai geki refers to historical films (and other historical narratives), particularly those set in the Tokugawa period (1603-1868), while chanbara is a term for sword fighting films.

(10) However, viewers are free to enjoy the sword fighting.

(11) In Shimomura’s film, the boy involved in the scene is only referred to by name. However, in Yoshikawa’s novel, he is called Genjirō and is identified as the eldest son of Yoshioka Genzaemon, who is an uncle of Seijirō and Denshichirō. Other authors refer to the boy as Seijurō’s son and use the name Matashichirō. See Alexander Bennett, The Complete Musashi: The Book of Five Fings and Other Works, Rutland, Vermont, Tuttle Publishing, 2018, p. 31.

(12) The trilogy comprises of the following films: Sasaki Kojirō (1950), Zoku Sasaki Kojirō (1951) and Kanketsu Sasaki Kojirō: Ganryū-jima no kettō (1951). Sasaki Kojirō (ca. 1575-1612) was a renowned swordsman and Musashi’s rival. He was killed by Musashi in a duel on a small island, which was later named Ganryū-jima after Kojirō’s nickname Ganryū.

(13) In Samurai II: Duel at Ichijōji Temple (1955), Inagaki does not mention the killing of the boy from the Yoshioka clan. The omission aligns with the portrayal of Musashi as a man who does not hesitate to kill but who also exhibits great dignity. For such a character, taking the life of a child seems inconceivable.

(14) There are a few occasions where language is used. The second scene, lasting approximately six minutes, comprises extended dialogue between members of the Yoshioka School. During the long fight scene, two of the Yoshioka students engage in a heated argument. Three or four of Musashi’s opponents introduce themselves by name before facing him in a one-on-one fight. Musashi occasionally speaks to himself, questioning the number of men the Yoshiokas have and making statements such as “It’s getting tough” or “I’ll kill them all.”

(15) Butterflies are mentioned several times in Yoshikawa’s novel. For example, he writes: “To the universe, the death of a man could have any more signification than that of a butterfly, but in the realm of mankind, a single death could affect everything, for the better or worse.” (Yoshikawa Eiji, Musashi, New York, Kodansha USA, 2012, p. 522).

(16) The cherry blossom is traditionally associated with the samurai, symbolising the transience of life.

(17) In Shinken shōbu, Uchida focuses on a famous episode from Yoshikawa’s novel: Musashi’s duel with Baiken, a master with a sickle and notorious robber. Uchida’s film concludes with a lengthy duel scene between Musashi and Baiken, played by Mikuni Rentarō. However, unlike Shimomura, Uchida’s primary focus is on the relationship between the two main characters. He highlights their conversations and emotions, with the duel being just one of many scenes, albeit a very long one. In Crazy Samurai Musashi, Baiken is one of the fighters who has joined the Yoshioka samurai and who faces Musashi in a one-on-one duel.

(18) Despite his pursuit of higher awareness, Musashi cannot be considered a clear-cut hero, as his ardent desire to win conflicts with the values of honour and duty associated with samurai. As Alexander Bennett put it: “As much as Musashi is revered as a supreme warrior by the majority of Japanese, he is also reviled by some as representing the antithesis of the Way of the samurai. A common criticism is his alleged use of cowardly delaying tactics to irritate his opponents and to win by any means possible, however, dishonourable.” (Bennett, op. cit., p. 20). This ambiguity makes Musashi an especially intriguing case for questioning the idealised Way of the samurai.

Radar_City-Sadness-1_Courtesy-of-Curzon-Artificial-Eye

Der Vorspann, helle Schriftzeichen auf dunklem Untergrund. Aus dem Off hört man die Kapitulationsrede des japanischen Kaisers. Eine Aufblende wie das Licht am Ende des Tunnels in Lien Lien Fung Chen (Liebe wie Staub im Wind, 1987). Das erste Bild erscheint wie beim langsamen Sichtbarwerden eines Fotoabzuges im Entwicklerbad. Ein korpulenter Mann Wen Xiong (der älteste von vier Brüdern einer taiwanesischen Familie, der betet und Räucherstäbe anzündet. Diffuses Licht. In einem anderen Teil dieser Wohnung eine Frau, die unter Schmerzensschreien ein Kind zur Welt bringt. Gesprächsfetzen, die Schreie der Frau. das geräuschvolle Schlurfen Wen Xiongs. Irgendwann wird der Strom eingeschaltet, eine Stubenlampe leuchtet auf. Mit fast ritueller Sorgfalt krempelt der untersetzte Mann den Lampenschirm hoch und verläßt den Bildausschnitt. Die Lampe und ein Teil dieses Raumes. Menschenleer. Die menschlichen Stimmen von außerhalb der Kadrage gehen allmählich in ein elektronisches Dröhnen über, welches von weit außerhalb des Raumes und der Zeit herzukommen scheint. Dann der zweite Teil des Vorspanns, symphonische Synthesizermusik, der Bruch zwischen der Zeit, von der Beiqing Chengshi erzählt (die ersten Jahre nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg) und der Zeit eines Kinos in den Neunziger Jahren. Man könnte auch von dem Geräusch der Zeitmaschine Kino reden, die uns zeitlich und räumlich aus der Gegenwart heraus und wieder zurückführen wird.

Die Familie Lin bei der Vorbereitung eines Festes. Wen Liang, der dritte Bruder wird aus dem beendeten Krieg zurückerwartet. Der Blick in ein Zimmer, verengt durch Interieurs. In der verengten Kadrage das geschäftige Treiben der Personen, der Vater, der Opfergeld verbrennt, die Frauen, die den Haushalt besorgen. Gesprächsfetzen, die sich mosaikartig zu Informationen zusammensetzen. Oft treten die Personen aus dem Bildausschnitt heraus und wieder hinein, aus dem winzigen sichtbaren Teil des Raumes in den imaginären.

In den längsten Einstellungen des Films bleibt die Kamera meistens starr. ein Blick, der aus sicherer Distanz beobachtet. Personen, die essen, trinken oder reden. Szenen, die das dramatisch bewegende Sujet wieder unterwandern. Die Vergänglichkeit der Menschen und der Dinge in bis zu dreiminütigen Plansequences in kleinen Ewigkeiten festgehalten. Zu Beginn des Films treffen sich Intellektuelle in einer Bar. Irgendwann stimmen sie dann in ein nostalgisches Lied ein. Einer von ihnen öffnet das Fenster im Hintergrund der Bildmitte, ein blaues Quadrat, in das der Blick in die Tiefe nach „außen“flüchten kann. Die Befreiung des Blicks aus dem Eingeschlossensein eines begrenzten Raumes. Kein Hinweis, daß einer der Personen, Hinoe, im Laufe des Filmes. eine gewichtige Rolle spielen wird. Ein Schnitt, der die Tonspur aber nicht abbrechen läßt, auf eine gebirgige Landschaft, die von Leitungen wie von Schienennetzen durchzogen ist. Die Montage, die nicht den Sinn baut, sondern Möglichkeiten anbietet im Verlaufe des Films Verknüpfungen im eigenen Kopf vorzunehmen.

Der Gang eines Krankenhauses: Das Bild durch Säulen und Mauern doppelt gerahmt, verkleinert den Raum, in dem sich die Akteure bewegen auf die Hälfte des Filmformates. Der Blick kann wieder flüchten bis zum Eingang des Krankenhauses, wo das Tageslicht und die Grünanlagen die Freiheit versprechen. Diese Einstellung kehrt mehrmals wieder, vermutlich sogar in identischen Einstellungsgrößen. Einmal nach den ersten blutigen Unruhen versammelt sich eine Menschenmenge in dem ohnehin schon verengten Bildausschnitt, Ärzte und Krankenschwestern, die Verletzte behandeln oder durch die Räume tragen. Die ganze Welt scheint sich auf dieses kleine Stückchen Raum reduziert zu haben. Es ist Nacht. Kein Licht am Ende des Tunnels.

Ein Treffen von Oppositionellen in den Wohnung Wenqings, des jüngsten, der vier Brüder. Seit frühester Kindheit ist er staubstumm. Während sich die anderen unterhalten, beschäftigen sich Wenqing und die Krankenschwester Hinomi miteinander. Obwohl im selben Raum mit den anderen, nur Zentimeter von deren Tisch entfernt, dominiert hier für einen Moment die Geschichte zwischen diesen beiden Figuren. Von einem Plattenspieler hört man das Loreley-Lied „Ich weiß nicht, was soll es bedeuten.“ Die Kommunikation zwischen beiden ist beschränkt auf das Austauschen von kleinen Zettelchen, die als ausgedehnte Zwischentitel wie Referenzen an den Stummfilm auf der Leinwand erscheinen. Schriftlich erzählt Hinomi dem Stummen die Geschichte des Loreley-Liedes. Eine intime Szene einer sich entwickelnden Liebesgeschichte, die gleichermaßen Aufmerksamkeit beansprucht, wie die Hinweise von Morden, Unruhen und der Auseinandersetzung zwischen der KMT-Regierung und der Untergrundbewegung. Inmitten einer Zeit der Angst, lange lyrische Sequenzen, wie kleine Inseln, zu denen man gelegentlich flüchten kann.

Die Vielfalt der Sprachen; Mandarin, verschiedene Akzente, unter ihnen der, den die TaiwanesischenUreinwohner sprechen und auch japanisch, die Sprache der ehemaligen Besatzungsmacht ist zugleich auch eine Krise der Verständigung. Die Untertitel versuchen daher nicht nur für Europäer dieses Wirrwarr zu ordnen. Auf der anderen Ebene, Inserts, Zwischentitel, aus dem Off gesprochene Briefe und Tagebuchaufzeichnungen. Die Frauen, fast bar jeder Macht und jeden Einflußes sind denoch die eigentlichen Chronisten. Die propagandistischen Radioansprachen der Regierung werden mit den persönlichen Reflexionen der Frauen konfrontiert. Die offizielle Geschichte und die Stimmen derer, die später in der Geschichtsschreibung verstummen werden. Die gesprochene und geschriebene Sprache als Chaos oder als Versuch zu ordnen, die ihre Grenzen offenbart und auf nichtverbaler Ebene ihre Entsprechung in Blicken und Gesten findet. Die exaktesten historischen Exkurse über dieses Sujet müssen zwangsläufig scheitern. Beiqing Chengshi ist unter anderem auch ein Film über die Sprache, die versucht zu benennen und über die Dinge, die für sich selbst sprechen.

Der stumme Wenqing wird verhaftet. Von außen durch die Gefängnistür und Gitter halb verdeckt, eine kleine schweigende Gruppe von Gefangenen, denen man auf den ersten Blick kaum Todesangst ansieht. Emotionen, die sich allenfalls erkennen lassen in der sorgfältigen Betrachtung der Gesten, die sich manchmal nur auf banale mechanische Funktionen der Gliedmaßen reduzieren. Ein Name wird aufgerufen. Körper, die sich zum Abschied umarmen, von denen manchmal nur die Rümpfe zu erkennen sind. Fragmente einer Tragödie, die sich im Nichtsichtbaren abspielt. Die Tür, die den Blick in die Zelle bricht wird geöffnet, ein Mann abgeführt. Kurze Zeit später fällt ein Schuß. Wenqings Name wird aufgerufen. Ein Blick auf seine Mitinsassen zeigt ihm, daß er gemeint ist. Wieder wird die Tür geöffnet, Wenqing abgeführt. Sie führen ihn durch einen langen Gang, der eine Unendlichkeit in die Tiefe des Bildes zu ragen scheint. Die Kamera bleibt starr, folgt ihnen nicht. Ganz am Ende des Ganges wird eine Tür geöffnet und wieder geschlossen. dann die Leere des unendlichen Ganges. Was bleibt ist die Ahnung der unaussprechlichen Angst, eine namenlose Drohung. Kein Licht am Ende des Tunnels.

Wenqing, durch seine Stummheit mit der Welt nur visuell in Verbindung stehend, ist Fotograf. Wie seine tagebuchschreibende Freundin ist auch er ein Chronist jenseits der offiziellen Geschichte. Mehrmals sieht man ihn bei der Betrachtung oder Retouchierung von Fotografien auf einem Lichtpult. Seltsame, durch das Licht verfremdete winzige Chimären, sepiafarbene Phantomwesen außerhalb der Zeit. Der ganze Film ist weit entfernt von einer spektakulären Familiensaga, eher ein überdimensionales Familienalbum. Jedes Bild ein Zeugnis von der Präsenz der Menschen und der Dinge. Jedes Bild hat seine eigene fragmentierte Geschichte. Beiqing Chengshi ist einem Film wie Ozus Bakushu näher als beispielsweise Xie jins Furong Zhen (Die Stadt Hibiskus, China 1988). Vermutlich völlig unabhängig von Ozu, die gleiche tiefe Suche nach der Bestimmung des Kinos und dessen Basis, das fotografierte Bild. Die Personen erleiden nicht nur Geschichte, sondern sind sogar bestrebt, sie festzuhalten oder aufzuzeichnen, vielleicht sogar in dem Bewußtsein ihrer eigenen Vergänglichkeit. Die Fotografie des ermordeten ältesten Bruders, welches auf der Beerdigung von seinen Angehörigen getragen wird, der Versuch zumindest einen winzigen Teil des Lebens aus der Zeit zu nehmen und über den Tod hinaus zu erhalten. Eine der letzten Szenen, die mir auf merkwürdige Weise Andre Bazins Aufsatz Ontologie des photografischen Bildes ins Gedächtnis ruft: Wenqing vor dem Spiegel beim Einbalsamieren seiner Haare mit nahezu ritueller Feierlichkeit. Hinomi und ihr gemeinsames Kind sitzen bereits in einer Pappdekoration mit gemaltem Kamin, gemaltem Fenster, gemalter Vase. Nichts Lebendiges. Eine künstliche Idylle, der verzweifelte Versuch dem Traum von einem beseren Leben, außerhalb der Wirklichkeit (außerhalb des Diesseits ?) Gestalt zu verleihen. Das Klicken des fotografischen Selbstauslösers. Das Bild friert ein, die Haltung der Personen gleicht fast denen von Mumien. Aus dem Off die Stimme Hinomis, die in einem Brief mitteilt, dieses Foto sei drei Tage vor der Verhaftung Wenqings gemacht worden. Wenqing habe darauf bestanden, seine Arbeit beenden zu können. Seit Tagen hat sie nichts mehr von ihm gehört. Unausgesprochen bleibt die Gewißheit, daß Wenqing inzwischen hingerichtet wurde.

Bilder, Szenen, die sich nicht einfach summieren. Szenen, die manchmal wie streng abgeteilte Räume eines Gebäudes wirken und die von der Montage nicht einfach zu einer Geschichte verbunden werden. Vielmehr eröffnet die Montage zahlreiche Kombinationsmöglichkeiten diese fragmentierten und manchmal nur angedeuteten Episoden mit Hilfe der eigenen Vorstellungskraft zu vervollständigen. Wenige Rückblenden, aus dem Off gesprochene Tagebuchtexte, wie kleine unterirdische Gänge, durch die man sich einen Weg bahnen kann, von einem Stück Geschichte zum nächsten. Die „Geschichte“, die man durch Inhaltsangaben erfährt, zefällt wie bei einer Zellteilung in viele verschiedene, die ihre Souveränität gegenüber dem Hauptplot behalten, auch wenn sie sich dennoch miteinander verknüpfen lassen: Die Geschichte von Wenliang, dem dritten Bruder, der bereits als seelisches Wrack aus dem Krieg zurückkehrt, in den ihn die japanischen Besatzer gezwungen haben, der aufgrund seiner Labilität in Gangsterkreise gerät, als Kollaborateur verhaftet wird und in den KMT-Gefängnissen zum körperlich und geistigen Krüppel geschlagen wird. Der Rest seiner Identiät, das verbotene Naschen von halb verfaulten Opfergaben. Unter anderem geht es auch um die Geschichte Hinomis, Wenqings und ihrer Liebe, die Geschichte einer Familie, welche die KMT-Regierung als Fortsetzung der japanischen Okkupation erleidet. Sogar der zweite Bruder (ein Arzt), der gar nicht erst aus dem Krieg zurückkehrt, ist in kleinen Geschichten präsent. Seine Frau, in der irrationelen Hoffnung, er werde dennoch zurückkehren, desinfiziert regelmäßig seine Instrumente. Es sind die Geschichten der Namenlosen, die in die Geschichtsbücher keinen Zugang haben. Geschichten wie Splitter eines zerbrochenen Glases. Faccetten von Menschenleben, die für einen Moment die Vielschichtigkeit einer Person durchscheinen lassen. Der Tod des ältesten Bruders, ein Häftling, der zur Hinrichtung geführt wird oder eine Messerstecherei mit tödlichen Folgen. Kurze häßliche Szenen, ohne Pathos die banale Ungeheuerlichkeit des Todes. Jede dieser Personen, ein kleines Universum für sich, jeder Tod ein kleiner Weltuntergang.

Das letzte Bild. Wie zu Beginn, ein menschenleerer Raum, ein Fenster und eine Vase. Ein Stilleben. Die Starrheit der leblosen Dinge gegenüber dem bewegten und vergänglichen Leben der Menschen. Das Kino wieder an seinem Ausgangspunkt, der Fotografie. Dann eine Abblende, die den Raum wieder schließt, den die Aufblende am Anfang geöffnet hatte. Der Nachspann, ein traditionelles Kinoritual, die Schriftzeichen wie Hiroglyphen auf dem Tor zu einem Raum, der sich öffnet und wieder schließt, in dem man nr Beobachter ist und in dem doch für 160 Minuten die Menschen und die Dinge auf nahezu unheimliche Weise präsent waren. Es gibt Filme, die kann man nicht so einfach nacherzählen, sie sind wie Räume, in denen man für einige Zeit gewohnt haben muß.

Rüdiger Tomczak (Erstdruck in Journal Film, Freiburg im Breisgau, Sommer 1991)

cityofsadness

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by Andrea Grunert

There are films one cannot forget. One that has continued to haunt me since I first saw it is François Rotger’s The Passenger (France/Canada/Japan, 2005). Living in Germany, where it had no theatrical release, I discovered the film only three or four years ago while doing research on the Japanese actor-director Yūsuke Iseya, who plays the leading role.

Violence and alienation in modern society
The Passenger was Rotger’s directorial debut (1) and the film was shot in three languages – Japanese, English and French – with the action set in Japan and Canada. Kohji (Iseya) is sent to Canada by the yakuza Naoki Sando (Yōsuke Natsuki), his mission being to kill Tanner (François Trottier), Sando’s Canadian business partner. Sando has stolen the yakuza’s gang’s takings from dog races, has put the blame on Tanner, and therefore needs to silence him to cover up his misdeed. Three years earlier, Sando surprised Kohji in bed with his daughter Hiroko (Kumi Kaneko), and Kohji is eager to fulfil the task in order to regain the elderly man’s favour.
Yakuza – members of the organized crime syndicates in Japan – play an important part in the film, but it is concerned less with their criminal deeds than with alienation in modern society, exploring human feelings and dealing with topics such as violence and vulnerability. However, The Passenger is not a psychological study either, instead making powerful use of mise en scène and editing devices to depict strong emotions and create disturbing moments.
The film’s parallel structure, sequences in Canada alternating with others in Japan, indicates just how closely the human destinies are intermingled despite the geographical distance. The relationship between Kohji and Hiroko is revealed through flashbacks giving glimpses of memories the two young people have of their lovemaking and shared moments of tenderness. Hiroko’s longing for her lover is expressed when her voice from the off accompanies shots of Kohji in the corridor of his hotel in Montreal. For Kohji, her voice is the acoustic materialization of a phone call that the young man now recalls visibly lost in thought. This dissociation of image and sound, which is also one of space and time, is a reminder of the geographical distance but also of the strong bond between the two lovers.
Disconnecting image and sound is used in The Passenger as a means to create fragmentation. Flashbacks and cross-cutting are also used to disrupt linearity, while abrupt cuts result in mere allusions. The viewer cannot always immediately make a connection between the shots and the action. In one of these shots, Tanner’s ex-wife Viv (Gabrielle Lazure), is sitting at a desk and framed in a side view. It is not until later in the film that the significance of this very brief image is revealed, and this is done in a longer sequence in which Viv is filmed in the same position and from the same angle. This is just one example of the many shots or short sequences which, at first glance, do not seem to be plot-related and therefore interrupt the narrative flow. However, by contributing to the film’s fragmented and allusive style, they imbue The Passenger with unsettling moments.
Although shot in three languages, The Passenger is a film with astonishingly little dialogue. Except for Hiroko’s long monologue at the end, the characters are anything but talkative. Kohji in particular is practically silent, contributing very little to the film’s dialogue. One explanation could be the fact that he has only a basic knowledge of English and none at all of French, but there is more to his uncommunicative behaviour than a lack of ability to express himself in a foreign language.
The relative silence that he and other characters maintain points to lack of communication as one of the film’s central tropes. In Kohji’s case, silence is accompanied by defiant body posture, expressing resistance and mistrust. Hiroko’s voice – the phone call in which she tells him that her father will forgive him if he kills Tanner – offers him a glimmer of hope. Not unlike Kohji, Hiroko, who is a student at high school, lives in a world of her own, refusing to tell her father about her relationship with Kohji and maintaining a distance between herself and her classmates. Instead of using words, many of the characters – for example Akira (Ryō Kase), the young nephew of a yakuza boss – resort to violence. In the first sequence in which he appears, Akira is shown battering a man frantically with a plastic bag containing a stone. This beating is filmed in a general shot with the characters – Akira, his victim and Akira’s three henchmen – tiny figures in the background. However, this distant framing does not diminish the extreme brutality of the killing. Akira is depicted as an aggressive adolescent who visibly enjoys violence. Violence is his way of compensating for a lack of maturity – his youthful smile giving him an air of innocence when he drives Hiroko home. Buoyed up by her friendly attitude, he suddenly changes his behaviour, starting to race around in circles on an empty site in an industrial estate. However, both seem to enjoy the wild ride, revealing their youthful desire for freedom.
Despite several scenes of great brutality, violence is predominantly latent, emanating from the body language of the characters and also from the hostile environment depicted in both Japan and Canada, and reinforced by a feeling of constant tension created by cinematic means. Abrupt movements within the image and frequent shifts from static shots to rapid movement create moments of shock, for example when Kohji, earning money as a male prostitute, is shown with a client in the hotel room in Canada, both undressing slowly. A hard cut emphasizes the movement with which the young Japanese is suddenly and brutally pinned against the wall, where his client takes him from behind.
In a previous sequence, still set in Japan, several young men with Kohji among them are waiting on a beach promenade when a car stops to pick up Kohji, suggesting that he makes a living by selling his body. In a different sequence, Kohji and other homeless men are sleeping in the street. No explanation is offered for this life in misery except for the fact that he has fallen from favour with his mentor Sando. However, his situation hints at the problems facing many Japanese young men who were left with no career prospects after the end of the bubble economy in the early 1990s, an economic decline that continued into the early 2000s. It was especially young people like Kohji who were hit by the problems of unemployment and a general lack of orientation.

Hostile environments and human bodies
Kohji’s search for Tanner in a country unknown to him is also a quest for identity by a disoriented youth. However, alienation affects not only young people such as Kohji and Hiroko, with Viv also trapped in a world marked by solitude and despair, and the film’s dehumanized bleak urban and suburban environment is an indication of loneliness in the modern world. Kohji and other characters too walk and drive along empty streets, and several scenes take place on industrial sites devoid of any human presence, their ugliness intensifying the film’s gloomy atmosphere. The modern-looking residential area where Viv lives has stylish houses but looks similarly lifeless, with no sign of other inhabitants or of vegetation. The light grey colour of the buildings, all of them outwardly identical, is in keeping with the film’s strongly reduced colour palette, as is the greyness and cold blue of the snow-covered countryside. The barren wintry landscape in Canada is a hostile environment in which Kohji, a small human figure filmed in a general shot, fights his way through the snow. Numerous nocturnal scenes reinforce the feeling of oppression – the light reflected by the snow creating an eerie atmosphere.
Deepening the visual impression, Rotger depicts modern society as an inhospitable place, with the silence that dominates long stretches of the film intensifying its persistent tension. Music – mainly non-diegetic – is used sparingly. A haunting tune that accompanies the first sequence recurs later at several points as a fitting reinforcement of the film’s disturbing atmosphere.
Communication in the film is a physical matter involving the human body through violence and sexual intercourse. Kohji has sex with his girlfriend and with his client in the hotel. He also has sex with Viv, depicted as a lonely and frustrated divorcee living in a house as empty and sterile as the residential area in which it is located. The middle-aged Viv, afraid of getting older, is obsessed with her body, torturing it in the fitness studio and undergoing beauty surgery. Kohji seems to give her hope – in a conversation with her former husband, she says that she has a new lover. However, for Viv and also for Tanner, love is an illusion. His new girlfriend is 23 years old, and after making love to him, she takes all the money from his wallet and leaves. Kohji’s interest in Viv is mainly a ruse to help him find Tanner. However, he does give her a moment of happiness brief though it may be.

No escape from the self
Communication, often non-verbal, is also conveyed by the eyes, for example when Kohji sizes up Viv or the tender expression on his face while caressing Hiroko. When Akira tries to kiss Hiroko, the young woman resists, and angered by her rejection, he pushes her violently, causing her to stumble and fall onto a table with a glass top, which shatters. Covered in blood and in great pain, she stares at Akira, her face expressing a mixture of feelings – confusion, fear, pride.
The film depicts not only moments of violence and aggression but also moments of tenderness. Kohji and Hiroko kiss in a field of pampas grass bathed in the warm yellowish colours of a summer day. In Japanese culture, pampas grass is related to death and this scene thus seems to forebode the tragic events to come. Alternating editing shows Akira shooting Hiroko dead while Kohji, unaware of the man’s innocence, strangles Tanner underwater in the latter’s private swimming pool. This cross cutting links violence and love, suggesting that when Kohji fulfils his murderous mission, he is at the same time losing the woman he loves. This close connection between love and death is also created via colours and lighting, the bluish water of the swimming pool contrasting sharply with the scene in the field of pampas grass in the bright sunlight. In both sequences, the characters are naked, and the underwater killing resembles an embrace between killer and victim, two lonely souls locked together in an underwater dance of death.
In both Japanese and Western culture, water is richly symbolic, signifying among other things purity, renewal and the flow of life. The idea of impermanence with which water is associated in Buddhist thinking permeates the whole film. A shot in one of the final sequences again shows Kohji and other male prostitutes waiting for clients on the deserted beach promenade under a leaden sky. A few moments later, another single shot shows the same location, now devoid of all human presence, as if pointing to the transient nature of existence, something that Hiroko also refers to in her long monologue, for which she is filmed in front of a black background, like a ghost talking from the realm of the dead.
The sequence with Kohji and Hiroko in the field of pampas grass creates an impression of innocence and vulnerability, and frequent shots of Kohji struggling in the cold of the Canadian winter also contribute to the image of a vulnerable and lonely young man, magnificently supported in these shots by Iseya’s strong performance. For Kohji and other characters in the film, the fragility of human existence is a symptom of their desire to be loved, a desire that remains unfulfilled for the lonely Viv as well as for the two young Japanese.
Kohji, lied to by Sando, is a pawn in a network of intrigues and betrayals. However, he is not depicted simply as a victim but also as a clever and resourceful person in a foreign country and with scarcely any knowledge of the language who manages to track down his prey. He is perfectly capable of adapting to new conditions and to surviving, defying the extreme cold and fighting his way – “fighting” being here the most appropriate term – through a hostile environment. He steals a car, breaks into the industrial premises that Tanner uses for his business, gains Viv’s confidence and steals a fax Tanner has sent her on which he finds the important information about Tanner’s whereabouts. Brutally beaten by Tanner’s henchmen and submitting to violent sex with his client, Kohji not only receives violence but also distributes it. He shoots at Tanner’s men and gives a vengeful hard kick at the bed of his sleeping client before leaving the hotel room. This is the rather childish reaction of a young man, someone who nevertheless acts like a professional criminal and cold-blooded killer. After he has murdered Tanner, Kohji is seen kneeling on a frozen lake and drinking from a hole he has dug in the ice. Filmed in a general shot, he is a tiny figure in the vast expanse of the snowy landscape – the final image of a lonely survivor.

Notes
(1) François Rotger, born in France, established himself as a fashion photographer and director of music videos. After making several short films, he wrote and directed The Passenger, which premiered in 2005 at the Locarno Film Festival. Story of Jen, his second feature film and for which he also wrote the soundtrack, was released in 2008.

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