Review of "The Ballad of Narayama"

Elijah Kineg

Matthew Mizenko

Japanese Film

14 November 2011

Review of The Ballad of Narayama

Shôhei Immura released what is considered to be his masterpiece on April 29^th, 1983 with “The Ballad of Narayama.” This fully colored film was produced under the Toei Company and supported a 1.85:1 aspect ratio upon its original release. The screenplay and plot are both derived from the novel by Shichiro Fukazawa which was released many years prior in 1956. This was not the last time the story would see screen time as Keisuke Kinoshita also turned it script-side in 1958. Immura’s rendition of the story is dark, challenging, and ultimately life affirming. The tone is certainly dramatic and heavy, but moments of humor and reflection keep things from feeling like a beat down. The real concept at hand here are the different ways to view death, birth, and where humanity falls among all life on planet earth.

The film takes place in the early 1800’s where a village of subsistence farmers find themselves living cyclical lives dominated by their internally developed regulations and beliefs. The focus here is on Orin, a woman nearing her 70^th birthday. The residence of the small village are concerned always about people being able to lend a hand and maintain their survival of a whole (Tuttle 1). For that reason, the elderly are exiled to the mountain of Narayama where they will meet death indefinitely. Survival is the first thought of all the characters since the weather and environment are so ruthlessly harsh. The iconic process of Japanese farmers tending a plot of rice has never been so difficult to watch as they stand ankle-high (and barefoot) in pools of water open to the cold air of northern Japan. These are hardworking people with the desire to survive; many of Immura’s scenes aspire to convey that idea with clarity. An early hunting scene shows just how educated and controlled these men have become as they scare a rabbit up a hill only to have it be shot by a rifleman waiting at the head of the peak. Even before any hunting begins families are hard at work, weaving baskets and pounding grain.

The cord is always moments from snapping, so rigorous work schedules and strong wills are the only things to combat their own demise. For this reason, Orin makes an interesting focus since her lack of productivity ultimately becomes the biggest dilemma. The townspeople don’t like Orin, calling her a “devil” due to her healthy set of teeth, accusing her of working with the devil in order to extend her lifeline. This is obviously untrue, but her bodily health means the she will continue to require precious resources while not being able to work in the fields and support the community (Kim 1). One family in the village steals food and hides it in the back store rooms and beneath the floor boards. “No wonder our crops were bad this year,” one man says, as the angry mob harnesses the family (of which included a pregnant women and children) in hand-held nets where they are brought to a deep hole and buried alive. This is one of the more difficult scenes to watch but also one of the most provocative since it reveals just how animalistic humans can become – but more on that later.

The patterns of life and death are treated with a disturbing amount of nonchalance even when concerning such horrors as infanticide. Families are in a consistent balancing act with their resources as people stop becoming individuals and start becoming another mouth to feed. The birth of another child could lead to the starvation of the rest of the family. Life in the crops can be preserved through good fertilizer but will require the death of a child - and their body - in order to do so. Riding above the diplomatic (and barbaric) confrontations of the townsfolk is a metaphysical battle between life and death that is shown here (Kim 1). The people fear death but also the discordant nature of living, thus paying homage to ancient ancestors in order to gain spiritual favor. The ending of the film is potent when keeping that last point in mind. After taking his mother to the peak of Mount Narayama, Orin and Tatsuhei gaze upon the piles of corpses amassing on the mountain. This single moment unhinges the faith of the townspeople as the audience realizes that the ancestors that have been called upon have really only become another blink in the universe’s eye, a soulless body lost among many like it. Nature proves to be the most powerful entity of the film since it operates without bias or intention. Instead it shifts through the seasons, abiding only by the rules of life and death.

Death is handled so often that some of the more spiritual towns folk actually wish to go to Narayama in order to pass into the next life in order to do away with the burden on physical existence. Orin, too, wants to get to Narayama quickly but simply cannot avoid good health despite a threatening sickness. Or order to do this (and to rid herself of any accusations concerning her strong teeth) she bashes her two front teeth on a rock to pop them out. This way she will not shame her family and will likely be cast away to the mountain quicker so that she may indirectly help her family survive. One of the most interesting aspects of Imura’s work here was studying the different ways in which people experienced the presence of death and age.

The first shot in Narayama is a series of long pans across the cold plains where the town is located. Imaura likely insisted that this be the first shot of the film since it instantly places the focus not on the characters, but on nature itself. This prowess of cinematography is explored very little in the remainder of the film, highlighting it through contrast. The cinematography resorts to more standardized static shots for the remainder of the running time and deviates from this very little. The sophistication of this film is not marked through its camerawork but through its editing. Various shots of surrounding landscapes, flora and fauna, are all spliced intermittently within the narrative. Scenes will play out normally before switching to an attractive, albeit unrelated nature shot (Weiler 1). This can be jarring, but keeps that original image and concept of the environment fresh in the audience’s mind despite the deviation of the context.

By connecting all of these things the main theme of the film begins to surface. The villagers, as previously mentioned, are concerned only about the essentials: food, reproduction, and production. This is a group of people on the brink of death at all times. Their desperation provides clarity to the reintegration of people back into nature. When humanity is reduced down to its bare essentials of survival we begin to see just how animalistic we really are as a race. During the 1980’s Japan was still experiencing its golden age where the country had more wealth than it may ever have in its existence. The original novel of Narayama may not have been produced during this period but the film could not have been released at a better time due to the friction it has against the over embellished society of contemporary Japan and the starved farmers. One could assume that this dichotomy was one of the contributing factors to what made this film so effective upon its release.

While not over sexualized, The Ballad of Narayama does include many scenes of sexual encounters – but not always just with people. A couple sits by the river while herb picking and begin to get sweet on each other. They soon begin to have sex, but the camera slowly pulls back and refocuses on a bird perched in the foreground. After that the sound of their lovemaking can still be heard but they are off camera as the focus turns first to snakes mating... then frogs, then the birds. The scene is bizarre, no doubt, but shows that the cycle of life is happening at all times around us, despite what we do. Much like the frozen villagers who brave the cold winds of Narayama, we, too are at the mercy of nature. When the town residents act coolly toward life and death, perhaps they are ahead of the curve. Reproduction, sex, death, these are all things that are naturalistic processes of a biological existence. Why, then, do we are human beings feel so crippled by the deductions we know are coming? This concept with likely raise the eye brows of anyone with more then a few drops of sympathy but it is a topic open for debate.

This is a powerful film that manages to keep the audience engaged, thinking and feeling. While I had difficulty tracking down the film’s financial success, the critical reception was very sound. The film received the Cannes Film Festival award in 1983 and is considered to be Shôhei Immura’s best work – which is saying something since his 1997 film “The Eel” also won the Cannes the year it was released (“Japan’s Two-Time” 1). This is a movie that succeeds on a narrative level, a technical level and conceptual level. The object of a drama is to always been notching up the tension and Narayama does this between the conflicts of neighbors, expanding out to the metaphorical battle of life and death.

Works Cited

"Japan's Two-time Cannes Winner Imamura Dies at 79 - USATODAY.com." USAToday. 30 May 2006. Web. 16 Nov. 2011. .

Kim, Nelson. "Shohei Imamura." Senses of Cinema. 30 May 2006. Web. 16 Nov. 2011. .

Tuttle, Harry. "Ballad of Narayama (1983/Imamura)." SCREENVILLE. 17 Oct. 2005. Web. 16 Nov. 2011. .

Weiler, A.h. "Movie Review - Ballad of Narayama - Screen: Taken From Japanese Legend:'Ballad of Narayama' Is Import at Carnegie Drama Is Stylized and Occasionally Graphic - NYTimes.com." NYTimes. 16 Nov. 2011. Web. 16 Nov. 2011. .

Dissolving the Importance of Feudalism

In 1932, director Yasujiro Ozu released his film “I Was Born, But…” to Japanese audiences. Within its context one can explore ideas of feudalism, class conflict and the basic struggles of adolescence. These are minutely detailed and elaborate films, one’s whose depth and internal meaning could be scrutinized all on their own. What is so shocking however is a collective meaning I was able to achieve across three of the films we’ve watched. There is an amazing expansion of awareness in the minds of Japanese society as documented by Ozu’s work as well as Kurosawa and Ichikawa’s filmic expressions. While first beginning in the dilemmas of being a child, films like “The Burmese Harp” concentrate on complex moral difficulties of being a human being. This movement of thought development is indicative of not just the structure of society during the golden age of Japanese film, but the structure of the people’s very minds.

A wheel spins desperately in the muddy ditch as an engine fights to work its way unstuck. Two young boys, Keiji and Ryoichi help their father push the truck free. This is the opening scene of “I Was Born, But…” Interesting how we are exposed to Ozu’s core concepts in the first five minutes of the film: a cyclical struggle. The suburbs of Tokyo are decidedly inglorious with barren landscapes greeted with abandoned skeletons of trains and industrial buildings. Mr. Yoshii, the boy’s father has the first impression of flawed professionalism. Although his suit suggests that he is higher up on the chain of social Darwinism, a careful audience will note his stained attire and generally sloppy presentation. The boys slowly become aware of their father’s undesirable status and begin to question him. In stark contrast of the Yoshii household (which lacks spaciousness and finesse) the two boys and Mr. Yoshii go to his bosses’ house. Mr. Iwasaki not only has a projection screen but delicate Victorian style interiors with luscious color. Ozu does a lot with cinematography and color in order to convey his messages. Tokyo’s outskirts are barren and visually bland while the Iwasaki’s estate is luscious and full of color. A Marxist would really tear into this kind of thing – it is clear what, by conventionalities, is considered a valuable lifestyle. The juxtaposition between the comfort of “stuff” and the comfort of family is done well here. While Iwasaki might lack any sign of stains on his suit, his life seems to be for focused around material goods. While having the Yoshii families over they are seen crowding round a screen, rarely interacting with each other. When we are given glimpses of the small household Mrs. Yoshii is quiet, obedient and productive. The boys play with one another. They live their lives. And life is the key word here – Ozu shows both the struggle and beauty of lower class living. Conflict can be both devastating and unifying all at once – a concept explored not just by Ozu.

Unification through conflict has yet to be better explored then in Kurosawa’s film “The Seven Samurai.” The film begins with a small farming village lamenting over the attrition attacks by surrounding bandits. What seems like the whole town has congregated to pine their challenging and fatal circumstances. One striking shot is of a crying woman bending down to her knees before her neighbors. The camera, however, is located directly behind her; the audience doesn’t see her lips moving. By not giving the woman a face to look at we’re able to achieve a general consensus from the group. Alternatively it acts as another way for Kurosawa to represent how tight the community is and how everyone is worried about the same things. Even the village is placed low geographically with the heart placed right at the foot of a grand mountain. We’re given a very literal representation of the feudal clash as the bandits roll over the hill.

The introduction of the samurai was not exactly the way I expected it. The archetypal picture of a samurai is of nobility and highest wisdom – but the group doesn’t come off that way. Many of the samurai have been dressed with their own colorful personalities (most notable is Heiachi, a wild hothead that lacks conventional battle strategies). With Ozu’s film we see happiness succeeding beyond the class structure. Here we see something similar with the revelation of a new idea: even the upper class is dotted with their own conflicts. Basically, being someone of higher status does not guarantee one happiness (as previously explored by Ozu’s Iwasaki scene). The audience’s impression of the samurai is to be amazed and dazzled, but that is because they stand in contrast to the meek farmers we’re familiar with. In truth, even the samurai must respond to the daimyo – no one is really on top here.

These concepts help dissolve the ideas that there is one class that is “better” than another. Some classes are restricted by their abilities, but all people, upper or lower class, are subject to a higher power. A scene with a distressed samurai displays this. Kneeling in the water before a burning barn we hear him recall his own tragic past and loss of innocence. A sub-plot that explores a rejected affection between a simple farmer girl and the (assumed) prestigious samurai helps reinforce the abstraction that people are all at the mercy of emotions. After shoving out the bandit threat, the two remaining samurai stand looking over the farmer’s newly achieved freedom. This ending is passionate and undoubtedly muti-faceted. The samurai seem unshaken from their victory and lack any kind of pride. Instead, the camera crawls to the burial of the fallen warriors on the hill and the audience is given a moment to reflect. Perhaps the samurai’s heightened awareness about the world’s function that they do not revel in victory. Buddhist philosophy tells us that “life is suffering,” it is all a part of existing on planet earth. The Samurai know this and do not let joy sweep them away. He says that the true victory is in the hands of the farmers – but of course it is. They are less in tune with this concept that life is a struggle.

There is an interesting ladder of awareness across our director’s focus at this point: Ozu staples down the base struggles of class and status. Kurosawa expands on this postipulation by expanding of the core scope. Instead of people being at the mercy of other people, we have people at the mercy of their own emotion. Emotion is a broad stroke, though, and I would care not to leave it at that. In 1956 Ichikawa released “The Burmese Harp,” a beautiful film that shows a soldier’s awareness of the violence in Burma expand to a crucial life decision. The man’s name is Mizushima, a skilled harpist and scout. Reconnecting the idea of emotional power gaining ascendency over class structure is important here. Mizushima uses the universally communicable power of music to unite the British and the Japanese (speaking only though emotion, no doubt). Throughout the film we see his character blossom from a respected footman to a wise monk. Upon witnessing desecration of the conflict he begins adapting Buddhist philosophies quite rapidly. This philosophy tells us to live with less in order to live with more. Quite literally Mizushima’s wardrobe decreases down to nothing more then a light sash and the harp around his shoulder. In the end he decides to live even without his family and to dedicate his life to healing the land and natives. Mizushima draws the conclusion to live through action and not through possession, actions are indicative of who we are, class is not (especially when considering the achieving of high status through lineage).

I like to believe that there is an overall message to be extracted when looking at these three films collectively. Mr. Yoshii may not have been a rich, successful businessman, sure. But he was a confident father and patient husband. Kurosawa gages this idea a little more with the conceptual notion that emotion is a power that rides above any feudalistic structure. And finally Ichikawa ties everything together: if emotion is really in the driver’s seat of us all then one should make it a top priority to generate as much positive emotion as possible. There is some really amazing instruction from these three films together. Be not concerned with spot on your suit. Instead, be concerned with your ability to act selflessly. Selflessness and the promotion of good sentiment is something that any upper class citizen could attest to, after all, we aren’t here to consume we are here to provide.