A blog formerly known as Bookishness / By Charles Matthews

"Dazzled by so many and such marvelous inventions, the people of Macondo ... became indignant over the living images that the prosperous merchant Bruno Crespi projected in the theater with the lion-head ticket windows, for a character who had died and was buried in one film and for whose misfortune tears had been shed would reappear alive and transformed into an Arab in the next one. The audience, who had paid two cents apiece to share the difficulties of the actors, would not tolerate that outlandish fraud and they broke up the seats. The mayor, at the urging of Bruno Crespi, explained in a proclamation that the cinema was a machine of illusions that did not merit the emotional outbursts of the audience. With that discouraging explanation many ... decided not to return to the movies, considering that they already had too many troubles of their own to weep over the acted-out misfortunes of imaginary beings."
--Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

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Showing posts with label Isao Yamagata. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Isao Yamagata. Show all posts

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

Gate of Hell (Teinosuke Kinugasa, 1953)

Machiko Kyo in Gate of Hell
Morito Endo: Kazuo Hasegawa
Kesa: Machiko Kyo
Wataru Watanabe: Isao Yamagata
Shigemori: Yataro Kurokawa
Rokuro: Kotaro Bando
Kogenta: Jun Tazaki
Kiyomori: Koreya Senda

Director: Teinosuke Kinugasa
Screenplay: Teinosuke Kinugasa, Masaichi Nagata
Based on a play by Kan Kikuchi
Cinematography: Kohei Sugiyama
Production design: Hiroshi Ozawa
Film editing: Shigeo Nishida
Music: Yasushi Akutagawa

Can a movie be too stylish for its own good? As Pauline Kael says of Gate of Hell, "It's as if the director, Teinosuke Kinugasa, had read those critics who compare every Japanese movie to a Japanese print and had decided to give them more pictorial effects than they could handle -- delicately choreographed battles, the flow and texture of garments, and everywhere the grace of movement and composition." What gets lost in Gate of Hell is the simple dignity of its story about a wife who sacrifices herself for her husband's sake. The film won an Oscar* for costume design, one of those rare Academy Awards to go to a film not made in English, and it certainly deserved it. But when the eye is continually caught by the color and texture of surfaces, the film risks being superficial. Fortunately, the wife, Kesa, is played by the superb Machiko Kyo, who makes the character into more than a mannequin for exquisite robes.

*The award was presented to Sanzo Wada, whereas the credited costume design is Shima Yoshizane. I haven't been able to discover whether Sanzo Wada is the same person as the credited "color consultant" for the film, Mitsuzo Wada, but Sanzo was a noted designer and the author of the six-volume Dictionary of Color Combinations, so it seems likely.

Sunday, September 30, 2018

La Truite (Joseph Losey, 1982)

Isabelle Huppert in La Truite
Frédérique: Isabelle Huppert
Rambert: Jean-Pierre Cassel
Lou Rambert: Jeanne Moreau
Saint-Genis: Daniel Olbrychski
Galuchat: Jacques Spiesser
Daigo Hamada: Isao Yamagata
Verjon: Jean-Paul Roussillon
The Count: Roland Bertin
Mariline: Lisette Malidor
Carter: Craig Stevens
Party Guest: Ruggero Raimondi
Gloria: Alexis Smith

Director: Joseph Losey
Screenplay: Monique Lange, Joseph Losey
Based on a novel by Roger Vailland
Cinematography: Henri Alekan
Production design: Alexandre Trauner
Film editing: Marie Castro
Music: Richard Hartley

I wish I had known beforehand that Joseph Losey's La Truite is supposedly a comedy or a "French sex farce" as the description on Rotten Tomatoes puts it. I wouldn't have worried so much that I had lost my sense of humor -- or concluded that Losey didn't know how to tell a joke. Or perhaps I would have laughed more at the scenes that seem to be meant to be funny, like Frédérique's bowling-alley hustle or the one in which she tosses out of the window the taxidermied fish belonging to the man who molested her in adolescence. Or even at the absurdity of seeing such luminaries of French cinema as Isabelle Huppert, Jeanne Moreau, and Jean-Pierre Cassel in a bowling alley. There was one scene that amused me: Alexis Smith's very funny cameo appearance as the worldly wise Gloria, whom Frédérique, encumbered with an armload of gift-wrapped packages, encounters in a Japanese hotel. But there's really not much humor to be found in stale marriages, suicide attempts, sexual harassment, and an apparent murder, anyway. Mostly La Truite is a slog, with Losey unable to set the proper prevailing tone -- or really any tone -- for his story about a young woman's rise to power and influence. We spend so much time puzzling out who these characters are and what their relationships to one another may be, that there's not much time left to appreciate the story, especially since it's chopped up with flashbacks. We know where we are in time mostly by the length of Frédérique's hair, which starts out in her childhood in the trout hatchery as a waist-length red mane, has become a pageboy bob by the time she meets the Ramberts and Saint-Genis, and is chopped off becomingly when the latter takes her with him to Japan. La Truite is visually interesting, thanks to the work of two veterans of French film: cinematographer Henri Alekan and production designer Alexandre Trauner. But Losey's work as both director and screenwriter lets them, and his cast, down.

Wednesday, August 8, 2018

Floating Clouds (Mikio Naruse, 1955)

Hideko Takamine in Floating Clouds
Yukiko Koda: Hideko Takamine
Kengo Tomioka: Masayuki Mori
Sei Mukai: Mariko Okada
Sugio Iba: Isao Yamagata
Kuniko Tomioka: Chieko Nakakita
Seikichi Mukai: Daisuke Kato

Director: Mikio Naruse
Screenplay: Yoko Mizuki
Based on a novel by Fumiko Hayashi
Cinematography: Masao Tamai
Production design: Satoru Chuko
Film editing: Eiji Ooi
Music: Ichiro Saito

Mikio Naruse's Floating Clouds brings to mind some of Ernest Hemingway's stories about war-damaged lovers trying to make the best of a doomed relationship. Yukiko is a young woman returning to Tokyo after working in Japanese-occupied French Indochina as a secretary. There she had an affair with the bitter, cynical Kengo, an employee of the Japanese forest service who is married to the sickly Kuniko. Trying to make it on her own in postwar Japan, Yukiko finds that her secretarial skills are in little demand because she doesn't know English, a necessity under the American occupation. Desperate, she picks up an American soldier and becomes his mistress. Meanwhile, she also seeks out Kengo, and finds him trying to make a go of it in the lumber business, still married to Kuniko but unwilling to divorce her and marry Yukiko. So over the course of the film, these two deeply wounded people meet and part repeatedly, not only lacerating themselves but also hurting others with words and deeds. At the end, they have seemingly found a way to live together, partly by retreating from the world onto a remote Japanese island, but even that rapprochement is ill-fated. Naruse's film is an absorbing downer, gaining much of its energy from our suspense about what the protagonists will do to each other next, as well as a showcase for Hideko Takamine's marvelous performance. There are those who think it a masterpiece.