Ugetsu (1953)

One of Kenji Mizoguchi’s last films (he made seven more from 1953-1956), Ugetsu is an attentively created work of art. Blending a traditional Japanese fable with contemporary filmmaking technique, Mizoguchi is able to craft an enduring tale of moralistic integrity. Mizoguchi’s adept handling of the more supernatural elements invoke a sense of wonder instead of bewilderment, and perfectly portray the overarching spirituality of 16th century Japan.

Diligent farmers Genjûrô (Masayuki Mori) and Tôbee (Eitarô Ozawa) have dreams much larger than their current circumstances, and decide to use the impending civil war to their advantage. Genjûrô’s hobby, pottery, pays off when he is able to make more money than he or his conscientious wife, Miyagi (Kinuyo Tanaka), have ever seen. Enlisting the help of Tôbee and his wife, Ohama (Mitsuko Mito), Genjûrô and his wife put everything they have into one large batch of pottery. When the army arrives in their village ahead of schedule, they must flee into the mountains – but not before they gather up the freshly-baked pottery. Going ahead with their plans, Genjûrô leaves his wife and son, and sets off across a lake with Tôbee and Ohama to strike it rich in a bigger town.

Ugetsu is the story of forsaking one’s family for greed and status, yet, through the depiction of human drama and a baleful score; Mizoguchi weaves a beautiful story of love and loss. Much like the work by Ueda Akinari upon which it was based, Ugetsu is a pensive study of the human condition, and how quickly one’s desires can spin life into chaos. Mizoguchi constructs an immense sense of unease early on in his film, by preying on his audience’s expectation. We know that it is a story of the pitfalls of greed, yet he teases his audience with the introduction of peril, previewing countless chances for the men to reconsider. Mizoguchi employs his prodigious talent for the long take as a way to compound this tension, while building relationships between his characters. His meticulous planning of character interaction and staging bring his characters closer together, and leave the audience anticipating the cut. Mizoguchi is also a master of unexpectedly releasing the tension he has so carefully created. Working closely with his (unappreciated) cinematographer Kazou Miyagawa, Mizoguchi will cut from the action he has so carefully assembled to shots of Japanese countryside or a river – in the case of two pivotal and powerful scenes – or to complete darkness (audio intact).

Mizoguchi seems to delight in the supernatural fantasy of his films. Because his subjects believe that spirits are present in their everyday lives, Mizoguchi must visualize their effect on the culture, and on individuals. Through the use of foreshadowing, he hints at the ubiquity of ghosts, yet only once does he announce their company. In a truly ill-fated scene, Genjûrô has delivered pottery to the manor of Lady Wakasa (Michiko Kyô), and is invited to take part in a ceremony. As Lady Wakasa sings accompanied by her nurse and servants, a distinctly male voice begins to accompany hers. It is not until the song finishes that the audience, and Genjûrô are made aware that it is the voice of Lady Wakasa’s deceased father, singing with delight at his daughter’s happiness. In another magnificent scene, Mizoguchi follows Genjûrô as he searches an abandoned house in a single, unbroken 360° shot. As Genjûrô completes his circle, we find the once-empty house full of life, and are left stupefied by the beauty of Mizoguchi’s work.

Mizoguchi was known as the first feminist director, and his deep admiration for women is omnipresent in the film. While keeping women within the bounds of traditional Japanese society, Mizoguchi uses them as the voice of reason, begging for their husbands to return to sanity. Doomed to accept whatever fate befalls them as their husbands abandon them, Omaha and Miyagi face their destiny with dignity and courage. In a society based on physical merits (agriculture, near-constant war), women are treated as second-class citizens – used and thrown away by rampaging soldiers under the guise of “battle,” exploited by their husbands as a source of labor – yet their steadfast determination is potently endearing.

Kinuyo Tanaka and Mitsuko Mito do a wonderful job in their respective roles, and although they are not the main focus of the film, they lend a graceful wisdom and stoicism to their characters. Levelheaded and independent, Tanaka and Mito are a far cry from the leading-ladies that permeated Hollywood in the 50’s. Mizoguchi loved to work with Tanaka, and the two had a long career together in films like Sansho: The Bailiff, and Life of Oharu. The women’s prideful and greedy counterparts, Masayuki Mori and Eitarô Ozawa are a welcome counter-balance to their more reserved partners. Each character has his particular vice, yet as well-intentioned as their dreams may be, the actors impart a sense of ugly stupidity to their characters’ overall persona. As a constant reminder of the overpowering effects of lustful thought (over money, power, status, or good old fashioned sexual lust), the men serve as a threat to both their own safety, and those whom they are entrusted to protect.

A true master of Japanese cinema (and cinema all together) Kenji Mizoguchi has an unimaginable aptitude in both his storytelling and character development. A sweeping tale of both the light and dark sides of humanity with Mizoguchi’s unique predilection towards extended focus on minute interaction, Ugetsu stands out amongst a crowd of equally-great Japanese masterpieces.