Plot Details: This opinion reveals major details about the movie's plot.

I've referred to writer/director Akira Kurosawa's "Rashomon" many times since I started reviewing, mostly in a literary sense. I once wrote that Matthew Kneale's book "English Passengers", "had a kind of hyper-'Rashomon' quality" to its narrative. Richard Russo's "Empire Falls" allows every characters' point-of-view to take over a chapter or two, the better to give their perspective on the story, "as if 'Rashomon' were set in Maine". Tom Perrotta's book "Election" also gives each character a chance at playing narrator. "The effect is 'Rashomon'-like," I said. In cinematic terms, I've used it to describe how in Francis Ford Coppola's "The Conversation", the centrepiece scene is shown many times from many different angles, all captured by the lead character's recording equipment. "It's one man's 'Rashomon'."

The fact that I kept out of each review, a fact that shames me to this day, is that I hadn't seen "Rashomon" before writing those words. A wrong that needed righting, I took a recent opportunity to see it as part of a Kurosawa/Toshirô Mifune retrospective at the local cinematheque. Could this classic film, whose power is so strong that it penetrated my personal frame of reference sight unseen, live up to its billing? Well, of course it can.

Sometime in the 12th century, on a dark and stormy night (my, what an inauspicious beginning!), we come across the run-down gate to Temple Rashomon. Constructed in 789, it was the largest gate in Kyoto, the ancient capital of Japan. But since the city's fall into decline, the gate has become rundown, and now only serves as a hideout for undesirables. Two such men take shelter there this night. All is silent, except for the pounding rain. Thunderstruck expressions adorn their faces:

"I don't understand," says the first man.

"I really don't understand," says the second.

A fantastic, Beckett-esque opening, I'd say. A third man, dressed in rags even more worn than the others, approaches. He appears to be a bandit, full of life and energy, despite having just taken a long and treacherous journey. He bullies the two men into telling him of the "horrible" incident they have just witnessed. And so they do.

That is the ingenious framing device that surrounds the story of "Rashomon". Actually, that should be 'stories', for it is the multiplicity of viewpoints, the hearsay nature of the narrative, and the inability of the audience to distinguish between who's telling the truth and who's telling lies, that makes "Rashomon" a groundbreaking and well-remembered piece of cinema. The concept of the unreliable narrator(s), one of my favourite post-modern rhetorical devices, is used to great effect here.

The first story is told from the point of view of one of the original two men. A Woodcutter by trade, he was traveling through the forest looking to gather firewood. Happening on the body of a slain man, he hurries back to town to notify the authorities, and eventually testifies at a court inquiry. Like a Medieval Japan version of "Memento", the film begins with the aftermath before shooting back to fill in the rest of the tale. The most notable aspect of the sequence, besides its ability to effectively set up the story, is a 'pre'-enactment of the famous running-through-the-fields shots from "The Seven Samurai".

Takashi Shimura, who also played the wise old master in "The Seven Samurai" (not to mention roles in some twenty other Kurosawa movies), plays the Woodcutter. His hangdog face reveals the character's feebleness, his raw emotional state, and his inability to act after being witness to such horrors. The problem with this sequence, and it’s a problem I noticed throughout the film, is that Kurosawa spends too much time on events that could easily be cut down for time. We watch Shimura walk through the woods for a terribly long period of time, before he arrives at anywhere of consequence. I understand what was being done with this scene -- building tension, as the character goes deeper and deeper into the heart of the forest, and thus deeper and deeper into the heart of the story -- but it gave the film a padded feel. Many of the other scenes also felt much longer than they needed to be (even some of the sword fights tended to drag on and on), which further calls attention to the fact that, despite a relatively short 90-minute running time, the narrative is rather skimpy. I know it needs to be short -- otherwise the film couldn't have justified telling the story four different times -- but Kurosawa might have found a better way of filling in the gaps than watching a man take an uneventful walk through the forest for five minutes.

The second story is told from the point of view of Tajomaru, a notorious bandit who is now a captive prisoner brought before the court. He is the first narrator to let the audience in on the true nature of what happened in the forest: A husband was leading a horse, which carried his veiled wife on its back, through the forest. They encounter Tajomaru, who immediately falls in love with the hidden woman. Eventually a rape occurs, and the husband is killed. But is the rape in fact consensual? And who really killed the husband? Tajomaru, from the get go, clouds the truth, forever calling the factuality of the events into question.

Toshirô Mifune, the actor who plays Tajomaru, is tied to Kurosawa in much the same way that Robert De Niro is tied to Martin Scorsese, or Chow Yun Fat is tied to John Woo, or Liv Ullmann is tied to Ingemar Bergman. His feral intensity and manic soul provide a wonderful muse through which the autocratic Kurosawa can filter his vision. Here Mifune plays a loner character much in the same vein as the one he played in "The Seven Samurai". Only Tajomaru is even more disheveled and wild than that film's Kikuchiyo could ever hope to be. He screams in delight even when facing death, and not a moment goes by when he's not sneering, scratching himself, or picking bugs from his neck. Mifune is a joy to behold in these moments. Try and take your eyes off of him.

The third story is told from the point of view of Masako, the raped wife. Her character might be the most problematic for Western audiences, whose notion of honour and duty is much less severe than their (Medieval) Japanese counterparts. I thought the predicament she found herself in -- choosing suicide or a life with a roughneck bandit because her honourable husband can't have a wife who has known two men sexually -- almost laughable in its simplicity, and frustrating in its shortsightedness. Machiko Kyô, who plays Masako, doesn't help matters by delivering a character that is much too shrieky and melodramatic for modern tastes (although she does have one moment of about-face that deliciously catches the audience assuming too much; still, it's not enough to save the performance).

The fourth story is even more problematic, utilizing a narrative device that I couldn't take seriously for a second. Even though he has died, the husband, Takehiro, is still able to testify at the trial… through a spiritual medium. Fumiko Honma, the actress who played the medium, brought some much-needed beauty to the proceedings -- her flowing silk robes and dynamic dances are wonders to behold -- but the character lacks credibility in front of a Western audience. [tangential question: what's with the thumbprint eyebrows that the women sport in this movie? Was that really the style at the time? Hard to fathom…] Masayuki Mori, as the dead husband, thankfully saves these scenes. He is cold, clinical, and stoic, never blinking an eye, even in the face of Tajomaru's wrath. Or does he? In some versions of the story Takehiro becomes a sniveling little coward when at death's door. Mori plays both sides of this character quite well, allowing the audience to both distance themselves from and feel for the man.

The scenes showing the final story, if detailed properly, would give away too much of the plot. I will talk about them, to be sure, but not before raising a…

SPOILER WARNING

The Woodcutter returns to the tale once again, revealing that he saw much more of the events in question than he first let on. Is his story then the one that the audience can find most reliable? Frankly, that's neither here nor there, for the film isn't about a search for credibility, but an examination of man's fallibility, his selfishness, and his cowardice. Those listening to him believe the Woodcutter's tale, but the audience shouldn't take what he says at face value. How do I know? Consider this: up until this point, whomever was telling the story turned out to be the one who killed Takehiro (Tajomaru's tale had him vanquishing his opponent in an epic sword battle; Masako's retelling had her killing her husband, after suffering through his judgmental gaze, with a dagger; and Takehiro, through the medium, admitted that he was so overcome with shame that a private seppuku was his only option). But in The Woodcutter's final version, Tajomaru, the most obvious candidate, is the guilty one. Even though it might seem unlikely, could the Woodcutter be hiding his own guilt? Did he kill Takehiro? In the world of "Rashomon" anything is possible.

While I'm making wild speculations, let me offer you another one: Tajomaru claims that Takehiro is the first man to manage "touching blades with me more than 20 times" in their climactic sword fight. But in the Woodcutter's story, Tajomaru, supposedly a renowned bandit warrior, stumbles around on the ground, exhibiting no grace or skill whatsoever. I propose the theory that the man claiming to be Tajomaru isn't Tajomaru at all, but an attention-seeking imposter! Lies and deceptions saturate this film so much that everything and anything can be called into question.

END SPOILER WARNING

Besides the principal actors noted above, there are two other players here who deserve mention.

Minoru Chiaki plays the Priest, the other fearful man who kept the Woodcutter company at the gates of Rashomon. The Priest is a thoughtful, contemplative man, who was so shaken by what he heard at the trial that he nearly loses his faith in the soul of man. Chiaki plays the Priest in very whiny manner, necessary to show how the core of this moralistic man has been rocked. He acts as nothing more than an observer and commentator throughout the film, and fulfills his duties here rather well.

Kichijiro Ueda plays the Commoner, the bandit who joins and torments the Woodcutter and the Priest. He is loutish and hostile towards his new friends, active and energetic where they are shaken and subdued. The Commoner gets some of the film's best -- and most provocative -- lines, acting as the audience's Everyman surrogate, asking the tough questions and raising pertinent thematic issues. Regarding the dishonesty that permeates the narrative, he has this rather lowbrow observation: "I don't care if it is a lie, as long as it's entertaining." And when the issue of man's basest nature comes up, the Commoner sums up the film's take (and justifies its title), by remembering how once "a demon fled Rashomon for he feared the ferocity of man." Ueda plays the Commoner with necessary charisma and vitality, offering animated relief from a film that's often dour and overly serious.

Akira Kurosawa -- and I admit this will be the least controversial thing I say in this review -- masterfully directs the film, composing shot-after-shot which are notable for their beauty and their ability to advance the film's major themes. In the former account, his camera is most effective when contrasting the stark, isolated, and foreboding setting of the temple (many shots are framed between giant columns, or around a meditative face in the foreground) and the isolated, animalistic nature of the forest (where the clearing in the woods becomes its own little staging area; in fact, the simple three-setting quality of the film could easily be achieved in a stage play). As for the latter account, just watch how the torrential rains, so dominant throughout the film, give up just as one man's redemption is achieved.

Kurosawa's handling of the story, though, is possibly his greatest achievement. All the events the audience sees, except for those that take place at the gate, are told through second -- and in at least one case, third -- generational stories. Hearsay, lies, unreliability, etc., all taint what is being told. But Kurosawa keeps things relatively simple, never losing his audience in the intricate narrative, while still allowing it do the work that needs to get done. "Rashomon" is remembered most for its unusual narrative; Kurosawa's work lives up to the hype.

I can't give "Rashomon" full marks, for as a Westerner I had too many problems with the way it presents its characters, the decisions they make, the choices of some of the actors, and the inaccessibility of some of its main themes. But for its rousing technique, its narrative soaked in near literary complexity, and its status as a vehicle for Toshirô Mifune's wild man shenanigans, I can recommend it wholeheartedly. And I look forward to the next review in which I can reference "Rashomon", this time, for the first time, without a guilty conscience.

Recommended: Yes