Ugetsu Monogatori

Kenji Mizoguchi made almost 100 films; unfortunately, the vagaries of war and studio negligence have deprived the world of many of them.  For instance, over half of his filmography is silent, and of those, only three and a fragment survive.  In addition, Japanese producers sometimes made bizarre judgments about what would or would not play in the West.  Thus, Ozu was considered “too Japanese” for Western audiences, and Mizoguchi didn’t get wide play until he consciously began to make films that were a little more like the films of a certain other Japanese director.   Rumor has it that there was a bit of jealousy on Mizoguchi’s part of Akira Kurosawa’s meteoric rise upon release of 1950’s Rashomon.

Whether that’s true or not, his producers took due note of what played overseas, and Mizoguchi began making more jidai geki (historical dramas); it’s these later films, shot mostly after 1950, upon which his continuing reputation stands.  Ugetsu Monogatori is one of those: it’s a tale of greed and oppression that has the force and clarity of a fairy tale.  It is set during the civil wars of 16th-century Japan, and concerns the fate of two peasant families.  One consists of the potter (Masayuki Mori), his wife Miyagi (Kinuyo Tanaka) and their son Genichi (Ikio Sawamura).  The other consists of his brother Tobei (Sakae Ozawa) and wife Ohama (Mitsuko Mito).

Both men dream of bigger things: Genjurô of selling his pottery for huge war-time profits and Tobei of becoming a samurai.  After their village is sacked by rebels, their pottery miraculously survives and — even more miraculously — is cured in a kiln in which the fire has been extinguished.  They men decide to cross Lake Biwa to take the pots to a larger town; during the crossing, they discover a boat drifting with a man near death.  He warns them to beware of pirates, and to guard their women; Genjurô puts Miyagi and Genichi ashore in fear.

Once in the city, Genjurô does quite well with his pots, but Tobei gives Ohama the slip, buys a suit of armor, and sets out to become a samurai.  Thus, both men have abandoned their wives in wartime, with dire consequences for both women.  In fact, an overriding theme of the film is that women are often at the mercy of men, and that the ambitions of men often result in the oppression of women.   This, of course, is a recurring theme in Mizoguchi’s films.

As the film progresses, the supernatural gradually impinges upon the narrative.  This is evident in the crossing of Lake Biwa, but one could argue that it is first seen in the miraculous salvation of the finished pots.  Whatever: the supernatural certainly is present in full force as Lady Wasaka (Machiko Kyô) and her servant (Kikue Môri) buy pots for her manor house and escort Genjurô there to deliver them.

Wasaka and her servants are spirits, and Ugetsu is billed as a ghost story, but it is peculiarly Japanese.  There are no “ooga-booga” moments, when something startles the hero and audience.  There are no optical effects, no double exposures — or no obvious ones, anyway.  The supernatural is created by shadows and light, by set design and acting.  In this regard, the work of cinematographer Kazuo Miyagawa is indispensible: he creates a richly-painted world of light and dark.

Due to a falling-out, Mizoguchi’s customary production designer Hiroshi Mizutani was replaced on this project by Kisaku Ito.  As Tony Raynes remarks in his commentary on the Criterion disc, it hardly matters:  Ugetsu shows the lavish design and attention to detail that is standard in a Mizoguchi production.  The director’s obsessive control over every aspect of the production, coupled with Miyagawa’s gorgeous photography, results in beautiful, rich images unlike those of any other director.

Early in his career, Mizoguchi became famous for “one scene, one shot,” which is exactly what it sounds like: an entire scene is captured in one shot.  In Ugetsu, perhaps as a nod to Western filmmaking, he does not stick to this philosophy, but still displays a preference for long shots.  They are fluid and complex, with the camera moving in intricate patterns to capture the action in a scene.  His cuts, while correspondingly few, are very deliberate — none are superfluous, each has a purpose.  The result is an unhurried rhythm, well-suited to the languid supernatural storyline.

Ugetsu’s structure can be described as dialectic: it is centered around opposite pairs.  Men versus women, greed versus being satisfied by what you have, natural versus supernatural.  The scene on Lake Biwa captures beautifully what Mizoguchi is up to.  The boat bearing the two families slowly materializes out of the mist; Ohama is at the helm, she’s singing a plaintive lament.  The men are drinking sake while Ohama guides the boat and Miyagi tends the child.  As we watch the action, tendrils of mist delicately swirl around the actors, as if the spirit world is prodding at them, trying to get at them.  Although the scene feels spooky, there are no overtly supernatural element — the balance between the two realms is exquisitely maintained.

In the end, the film is conservative in its acceptance of the status quo, of being happy with what you have.  It has been called mono no aware, and is an overall theme of Japanese film:  life is transient, fleeting, and hard. One cannot do anything about it, and there is value in graciously accepting that fact.  Mizoguchi’s art often embodied this outlook, with his stories of women, horribly mistreated at the hands of the patriarchy, yet silently suffering their fates.

Of course, there is a larger context at work here:  at the time of its making, Japan was still reeling from the effects of World War II.  Although I don’t want to carry the analogy too far, Japan itself was as ill-served by its leadership as Mizoguchi’s heroines are by theirs.   Kurosawa’s answer was often the opposite of mono no aware: Ikiru and Seven Samurai, both from that period, argue that it is better to actively pursue change. That’s undoubtedly one reason he resonates with Western audiences more than Mizoguchi.  Nevertheless, Ugetsu Monogatori is a masterpiece of world cinema, beautiful and delicate.  If you haven’t seen it, put it on your Netflix queue.  You won’t be sorry.