Medieval Mystery

In his 1950 medieval crime story Rashomon, Akira Kurosawa delivers an intriguing tale on the notion of truth that explores the art of movie-making through unique cinematography and pioneering plot development. As a woodcutter, a priest, and a commoner find shelter from the rain under the city gate of a small town struck by calamity, they attempt to resolve the mystery of a recent murder. The woodcutter and the priest retell the crime story six times, from six different perspectives, offering six different solutions and leaving the audience in doubt about the veracity of each report.

In terms of camera work, Kurosawa implements numerous shots that remind of early silent movies, such as Sunrise (1927) or Metropolis (1927), as he repeatedly uses alternating close-up shots to emphasize the protagonists’ emotions. The depiction of the bandit’s moments of madness as well as the women’s fury strongly resembled the Metropolis’ portrayal of the robot women’s lunacy. Another aspect that struck me was Kurosawa’s use of fore- and background. In particular the city gate scenes reveal his interplay between camera movement and the characters’ movement between fore- and background. With few exceptions, the three men are always in frame, at times balanced, at times with selected focus on two or one of them. In these scenes by the destroyed city gate, the audience is mere observer. However, Kurosawa’s compels the audience to confront itself with the unsolved mystery as the trial scenes a filmed from the judge’s perspective. As each of the involved characters pleads his/her case, the recipient has to actively engage in the story and solve the mystery.

The increasing number of contradicting witnesses makes the task of finding a solution less and less feasible. The audience finds itself in web of inconsistencies, diminishing all hope to discover an objective truth. As the three men discuss the impossibility of resolving the case, the recipient feels engaged in a discourse questioning the mere existence of an objective truth. Is the entity of human perceptions nothing more than a grand accumulation of self-inflicted illusions which are impossible to penetrate? As the movie progresses, confusion increases and this nihilistic viewpoint seems confirmed. “In the end, you cannot know what men are doing,” concludes the peasant and throws the firewood in the rain. However, Kurosawa offers an optimistic ending, as the woodcutter, whose prolonging lie seemed to diminish the priest’s last hope in the goodness of humanity, offers to take care of an abandoned infant.

Without this final hope for goodness, the movie would imply an utterly negative portrayal of human nature. Considering the historical circumstances of post-war Japan, the possibility of righteousness in the closing scene of the movie is vital. The preceding tale of uncertainty might reflect Japan’s anxiety after a war that decreased man’s trust in humanity. Through his visionary work, Kurosawa evokes this feeling of uncertainty throughout the movie. In the end, the mystery is not fully resolved. However, possibility of hope diverts the story from its nihilistic implications.

When considering the minimal number of three set locations (gate, forest, and court), the force of Kurosawa’s cinematic means becomes apparent. Through his innovative story telling as well as skillful camera work, Kurosawa creates an intriguing reality that compels the audience to take part in resolving a crime which, if subtracting the unique plot development, could hardly be more ordinary. I personally enjoyed the movie due to its repetitive nature, which ridicules our normative perception of reality and truth. Rashomon’s advance in storytelling seems to have inspired numerous following works of cinema, such as The Outrage (1964), Pulp Fiction (1994), or Memento (2000), to name a few.

Kurosawa’s thoroughly thought-out plot devices and camera work suggest that he planned out each detail of the production. Indeed, he was known as a perfectionist. I read that, in order to create the image of a severe rain storm in the opening scene of Rashamon, Kurosawa dyed the water black with calligraphy. Also, in the final scene of Throne of Blood (1957), he hired professional archers to shoot real arrows only centimeters away from Mifune’s body. In order to achieve a more realistic portrayal of the characters, he supplied them with their wardrobe weeks before filming so they could wear them off and identify with their role. These arrangements demonstrate how particular Kurosawa was in his work. Certainly, his attention to detail contributed to his success.