Blogical Conclusion

LIGHTS. CAMERA. PROTRACTION.

MAR 21, 2009 – THE OPENING CREDITS OF RASHÔMON are drenched in rain, ceaseless rain, as if nature’s fury were beating down upon man’s folly. Just what the exact circumstances of this folly are, we never really understand – and neither does the woodcutter (Takashi Shimura) who squats at Rashômon Gate, sheltering himself from the downpour. After a deep grunt, he gazes at nowhere in particular and begins to mutter, “I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.” The priest (Minoru Chiaki), a fellow refugee at Rashômon Gate, looks at his companion and looks away, just in time to be deposited at the centre of a characteristically beautiful shot from Kurosawa – the two hapless men boxed in as much by creation as construction, the looming gate above, the rain in front, and the mountains behind.

As a peasant (Kichijiro Ueda) scampers through the rain and takes shelter at the gate, the woodcutter repeats, “I don’t understand it at all. I just don’t understand.” The peasant walks over to the woodcutter. He enquires, “What’s wrong?” The woodcutter stares up at the peasant, who insists, “What don’t you understand?” The woodcutter admits, “I’ve never heard such a strange story.” The peasant, possibly seeking diversion till the rains stop and he can be on his way, prods the woodcutter, “Why don’t you tell me about it?” There’s no reply, so he turns to the other man. “Look, we happen to have a wise priest in our midst.” The priest speaks, “No, not even the renowned wise priest from Kiyomizu Temple has heard a story as strange as this.”

Naturally, after all these hints dropped about the tantalising strangeness of this story, the peasant’s curiosity is as piqued as ours. “So you know something about this strange story?” he asks. The priest replies, “This man and I have just seen it and heard it ourselves.” The peasant wants to know where. The priest reveals, “In the courthouse garden… A man was murdered.” The peasant scoffs. “Just one? So what? On top of this gate you’ll find at least five or six unclaimed bodies.” The priest sighs, “You’re right. War, earthquake, winds, fire, famine, the plague – year after year, it’s been nothing but disasters. And bandits descend upon us every night. I’ve seen so many men getting killed like insects, but even I have never heard a story as horrible as this.”

Some six minutes have passed, and we’re still at the buildup stage, with Kurosawa doing nothing but impressing on us the strangeness and the horribleness of a story that shows no signs – yet – of unfolding. The feeling is not dissimilar to being seated at a classical music performance with the orchestra playing endless variations of an overture in a minor key, with no discernible sight of the first act. The priest continues, “This time I may finally lose my faith in the human soul. It’s worse than bandits, the plague, famine, fire, or war.” The peasant has (understandably) had enough. He snaps, “Look here, priest, enough with the sermon. It sounded interesting at least while I kept out of the rain. But if it’s a sermon, I’d sooner listen to the rain.”

The peasant is indubitably the audience stand-in. Like us, his patience is beginning to wear thin, and in order to occupy himself otherwise – or perhaps with the sly understanding that having pleaded so much for the story, there was none forthcoming, so an apparent lack of interest might produce better results – he walks away. He tears strips of wood from the rotting gate, hurls them to the floor in front of the twosome that was there before him, and he begins to peel back the bark in preparation for a fire. His ruse – if it indeed was one – works. The woodcutter scurries over and demands, “Hear me out. Maybe you can tell me what it means.” The peasant stops what he’s doing and looks at the woodcutter, who continues, “I don’t understand any of those three.”

The peasant asks, “Which three?” “Well, says the woodcutter, squatting beside the peasant. “I’ll tell you about them.” The languid stretches of dialogue from earlier are beginning to pick up pace, transforming into shorter bursts of breathless patter. The peasant remarks, “Calm down and tell me slowly.” He looks up. “The rain’s not going to stop anytime soon.” The woodcutter looks up too, and Kurosawa cuts to a complementary shot from above that makes it appear that the action is mutual, that the rain, too, is looking down at them. The woodcutter settles down – but he doesn’t say anything, not yet. There’s still the last bit of anticipatory drama to be played out before this story – one the most famous art-house stories of all time – begins to unfold. He pauses for a few breaths, as if clearing his lungs before stepping onto a stage for a ripe monologue. Only then, finally, does he get going. “It was three days ago. I went into the mountains to get wood…”

Rashômon (1950, Japanese; aka In the Woods). Directed by Akira Kurosawa. Starring Toshirô Mifune, Machiko Kyô, Masayuki Mori, Takashi Shimura.

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