RASHOMON

The very nature of perception is a crux in humanity’s search for truth. We can grant - as philosophers often do - that there is already a problem with perception in the respect that it is the sole source of all our beliefs regarding an external world and we have no means of testing whether or not it reliable, because we have no yardstick by which to judge it. Kurosawa’s Rashomon clearly outlines another issue which prevents us from grasping objective truth: this film is an investigation of the manner in which perception is distorted and disturbed by our own impulses, be it the impulse to honour, the avoidance of shame or the tendency to self-aggrandization. Our human desires and impulses chip away at the truth creating its own new subjective truth. Rashomon  explores the consequences of a reality that runs counter to our self-image. The truth is an ideal which, when touched by the muddy-waters of human interrelations loses its perfection.

Taking shelter from the rain, a woodcutter (Takashi Shimura) a priest (Minoru Chiaki) and a commoner (Kichijiro Ueda) meet at a dilapidated city gate. The priest is in a state of disbelief – both he and the woodcutter have just witnessed a trial concerning the murder of a samurai and the rape of the samurai’s wife. They have seen three different people confess to the murder and fail to understand how this could be possible. The story of the murder is told through flashbacks from four different points of view. The first is told from the perspective of the notorious bandit Tajōmaru (Kurosawa regular, Toshurō Mifune), who describes a great battle between he and the samurai in which he is the victor. Second to the stand is the Samurai’s wife (the spectacularly over the top, yet somehow magnetic Machiko Kyō) who, drowning in shame and unable to receive the forgiveness she desires from her husband, kills him and attempts to kill herself. Then we hear the samurai’s story from the lips of a medium, who claims he killed himself as a result of the dishonour brought upon him by his wife. Finally, we hear from the woodcutter himself, who was also present at the time and offers an account which seems to have the strongest claim to being an objective truth.

There’s plenty of fun to be had piecing the elements of the story together and judging not only what is true from these accounts, but also why the storyteller chooses to lie when they do. The film is also a technical marvel. It’s in Rashomon that Kurosawa reveals himself to be particularly adept at manipulating light to create an uneasy tension or to suggest impending violence. The film’s primary setting, the woodland glen acts as a obstacle between the characters and the sunlight which plays an important role in this film. The branches and leaves of the trees cast glum shadows onto the characters – particularly the bandit - suggesting a kind of darkness present within them. It was common belief that one should never shoot directly into the sun, for fear that it would highly distort the exposure of the shot and damage the camera itself. Kurosawa, like every great auteur recognised that the rules of photography were not laws, and could be adapted or adopted to meet his purposes. As a result, the film is littered with shots where the camera is pointed directly at the sun. In one particularly symbolic shot, the samurai’s wife looks to the sky as she braces herself to be violated by Tajōmaru and sees the sun take cover behind a patch of clouds.

Then there is the distinction between the intense, pounding sun which characterises the flashbacks and the pouring rain which abounds as the as the priest and woodcutter tell the commoner their stories. The dichotomy in weather serves not only as a tool to distinguish between timelines, but also as a barometer of mood. It’s easy to identify the torrential rain with the confusion and uncertainty that underlines every scene with the Priest, Woodcutter and Commoner under the city gate. This uncertainty is branded not only unto these characters, but no doubt in viewers themselves, who simply do not know what is true and what is false. In Plato’s allegory of the cave the sun is the great source of illumination – our means for obtaining of knowledge. In the language of The Forms, the sun represents both The Good and the The Truth. So of course, as these storytellers all seek to appear to be relating some objective truth to those listening, the sun beats down upon them. When it comes to the investigation of these stories, the light of illumination has gone.

Rashomon is the most widely shown Japanese film of all time. It’s certainly Kurosawa’s best known film, even if it’s not his finest. One of the key reasons behind this is its accessibility: the film runs for only an hour and a half and thus does not require the commitment that other Kurosawa masterpieces such as Ikiru and Seven Samurai call for. More importantly, the film almost demands talk and debate between those who have seen it. You can discuss the motivations behind why each character painted their story in the way they did. What parts were true and why did they choose to lie when they did? Can we trust everything the woodcutter has to say?

The film is also rife with symbolism. As the priest and the woodcutter regale the commoner with the story, the three of them slowly dismantle and damage the gate in which they are taking shelter. As they tell their stories our gateway to the truth is slowly and systematically being destroyed. The gates also holds an obvious link to civilization: it is that through which we enter into it, or leave through it, back into the wilderness. If we wish to take a different message from this story it’s that these savage acts not only lead us to lose our civility but could lead to the destruction of society and a paradise lost. The contrast is there, of course, with the woodcutter, the character who acts as the sole source of hope in the film and whose job is one that directly aids the building of civilization.

I can understand objections to the film that suggest the ending feels ‘tacked on’ or incongruous with what we’ve seen for the previous hour and a half. We have been offered this image of humanity as a pathetic, scheming, lying group of savages and it is almost as if, at the last moment Kurosawa tears this image down and says, “Yes, the world is a bad place, but don’t worry there is still hope”. Rashomon, unlike Ikiru, released just two years later suffers from an ending which is tonally different from what we have seen in the rest of the film. Yet this film still remains one of Kurosawa’s great works. Beyond his daring efforts behind the camera, there is the story, which manages to remain compelling, even after being retold for the fourth time. It is also paced to perfection: watching closely you can see how Kurosawa allots the same amount of time for each individual element of the film. Thus, each flashback lasts about 15 minutes; but also on a smaller scale, the length of screen time given to the bandit’s hysterics and the wife’s hysterics is equal. Kurosawa effortlessly conjures a world full of deceit and barbarism. We are led to a conclusion; our one attempt to form an objective truth: Rashomon is a classic.