Blogical Conclusion

THE AMPLIFICATION OF A LEGEND

SEP 19, 2009 – AKIRA KUROSAWA MAY HAVE MADE “ART FILMS,” but he was certainly no snob about the popular appeal of cinema – especially when it came to the iconic presence of the “hero.” Even if his kind of storytelling leaned more towards a protagonist than a “hero,” there was – even in a relatively unheroic drama like Red Beard – the explicit acknowledgement of a cinematic tradition derived from centuries of swashbuckling theatre: the gradual build-up to the ta-dah moment when the curtains are drawn back and the eponymous character is finally (and fully) revealed. The agent for this revelation, here, is Noboru Yasumoto (Yuzo Kayama), a handsome young doctor who, at the beginning of the film, makes purposeful strides towards Koshikawa Clinic. He introduces himself to the first person he sees, and he’s told that he’s to replace a doctor who’s waiting to leave.

Yasumoto is confused. “I was just told to call,” he says. He’s trained in the ways of Dutch medicine, he’s practiced in Nagasaki for three years, and, as lucrative reward, he expected to become the personal physician of the shogun. Instead, he’s at this clinic, where, “The patients are slum people, full of fleas and lice. They even smell bad. We don’t get much money. And Red Beard is after us night and day.” Thus begins the gradual amplification of the titular legend (played by Toshirô Mifune). Yasumoto, naturally, is intrigued. He enquires, “Red Beard?” He receives a perfunctory reply. “The head doctor. His beard is sort of reddish.” A single professional detail, a solitary personal characteristic — that’s all Yasumoto (and, by extension, the audience) is provided for now.

Yasumoto’s guide leads the way into the clinic, past scores of squatters. Without a second glance at these patients awaiting medical attention, he sneers, “It’s really terrible here. Being here makes you wonder why you wanted to be a doctor.” He steps through a doorway. Yasumoto, however, draws back, wrinkling his nose. “It smells like rotten fruit.” The guide points to the people around, who are positioned in characteristically arresting Kurosawa compositions. “It’s the smell of the poor. The waiting room for outpatients. They’re treated for free in the afternoons. I don’t know. All of them would be better off dead.” Another bit of the Red Beard legend snaps casually into place, that he’s some sort of benevolent ruler who dispenses kindnesses to people who might be “better off dead.”

The guide steps through another doorway. “This way,” he instructs, leading Yasumoto (and us) further into Red Beard’s fiefdom. He points to the pharmacy, the clinic, the men’s wards, the women’s wards. “Is there no tatami?” Yasumoto asks, referring to the traditional Japanese flooring. “No,” comes the reply. “Our rooms are all the same.” A patient complains, “Yes, even our clothes are like this. It’s all right for us men. But even poor women are women. They should wear something brighter. I’d hate to die in this.” But another patient explains, “These clothes… They show dirt. They’re easy to wash. So, you see, we can always stay clean. You smelled when you came here, but it’s not so bad now. You owe it all to your clothes.” He adds, “You see, tatami catches all the dirt and moisture. That’s why…”

Red Beard, we’re beginning to understand, works in mysterious ways, not always comprehensible to those of little faith. And as Yasumoto resumes his journey to the sanctum sanctorum, he asks his guide, “Are these things the rule here?” He’s told, “Red Beard’s rules. He’s the dictator here. A good doctor, dedicated to his work. Many daimyo and rich people trust him. But he’s stubborn, inconsiderate, radical, and proud.” Having burnished the Red Beard legend a little more, he takes Yasumoto past the living quarters. “Beyond here are our quarters. The south side gets the sun. That’s for the patients. The damp north side is for us.” They move past the patients’ service room, the kitchen, the dining room, drawing closer and closer to their destination. The women in the kitchen gather behind Yasumoto, wondering who this stranger is, this man who’s being led to their lord and master.

One look from the guide sends them scurrying back to work. He pauses outside a door and his voice drops to a whisper. “Red Beard’s room.” He straightens his dress and barks out, in almost militaristic fashion, like a recruit before a stern commanding officer, “I brought Dr. Yasumoto!” For the first time, we hear Red Beard, a gruff voice that instructs, “Come in.” The guide slides the door open, but Kurosawa isn’t ready, yet, for the full reveal. Red Beard is seated with his back to us. As the men enter and seat themselves, the framing yields a perfect triangle, the two men towards us forming the base, and Red Beard, unsurprisingly, at the apex. After the slightest pause, this man at the top – this story’s “hero” – turns to face his visitors. Yasumoto bows instantly. “I’m Noboru Yasumoto.” There’s no corresponding introduction – at least, not immediately. There’s an imperious stare, an apparently interminable silence, and then the great man intones, “Red Beard.”

Red Beard (1965, Japanese; aka Akahige). Directed by Akira Kurosawa. Starring Toshirô Mifune, Yuzo Kayama, Tsutomu Yamazaki.

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