A Fugitive from the Past, Restored at the Japan Society

We're not saying Tomu Uchida’s three-hour film noir masterpiece is dark, but it starts with a ferry disaster killing hundreds of innocent people. Those currents off the coast of Hokkaido are so treacherous, they even spit up two extra bodies. It turns out they were ex-cons, mostly likely responsible for a lethal home invasion. Det. Yumisaka will pursue the “third man” like Javert in Les Miserables. The cop from The Fugitive might be an even more apt comparison. Although Takichi Inukai (if that is his real name) is not a one-armed man, he has a crushed finger that definitely counts as an identifying characteristic in Uchida’s A Fugitive from the Past (a.k.a. Straits of Hunger), which screens in its freshly restored glory at the Japan Society.

During the immediate post-war, black-market years, it was not just those straits that were hungry. Nevertheless, Inukai seems genuinely distressed by the fate of his traveling companions and also their victims. With the cops out in full force, Inukai takes refuge with hostess-oiran-prostitute-borderline dominatrix Yae Sugito, who gives him a bit of hard time, but rather takes a shine to the rough but shy character. The feeling is somewhat mutual judging from the whopper of a tip the mystery man left behind.

As Yumiska spends years following-up false leads, Sugito uses Inukai’s money to pay off her family’s debts and start leading a relatively straight life in Tokyo. Yet, ironically, she will return to her former profession, preferring the stability of life with her new paternalist mom-and-pop employers. Alas, the government eventually decides to be progressive and reformist by shuttering legal houses of prostitution. Forced to make another new start, Sugito happens to notice a provincial philanthropist’s picture in the newspaper. Mr. Kyôichirô Tarumi certainly bears a strong resemblance to the man responsible for her nest egg, who has taken on almost saintly status in her own head.

It is not hard to understand why Fugitive (or Straits) is regarded in Japan as one of the finest Japanese films of all time. It truly combines elements of the sympathetic (if not wholly innocent) fugitive thriller, in the tradition of Hitchcock’s The Wrong Man, with the sweeping scope and tragedy of Les Mis (which Uchida adapted straight-up in 1931). His use of gritty widescreen 16mm also gives it a 1960s docu-drama vibe, but what makes the film so appealingly idiosyncratic is the delight Uchida takes in breaking all the rules. Inukai disappears for a long period of time, allowing the second movement to become an empathetic woman’s story, roughly akin to Naruse’s When a Woman Ascends the Stairs.

Tomu Uchida at MoMA: Swords in the Moonlight Parts 1, 2 & 3

Daibosatsu Pass is bloodier than the Khyber or Breakheart, thanks largely to the mean-spirited samurai Ryunosuke Tsukue. Years ago, a Buddhist monk tried to sanctify the picturesque mountain rest stop, but it clearly did not take. Instead, it is the sight of a senseless murder that will unleash a convoluted chain of bad karma in Swords in the Moonlight (a.k.a. Souls in the Moonlight) Tomu Uchida’s three-film adaptation of Kaizan Nakazato’s Great Bodhisattva Pass, all of which screen in succession during MoMA’s ongoing retrospective of the major Japanese auteur.

This is indeed the same Tsukue of Kihachi Okamoto’s Sword of Doom, but there is clearly more to his story. Part 1 follows roughly the same narrative. It starts with Tsukue killing the pilgrim at the pass out of simple wanton cruelty, but he is survived by his granddaughter Omatsu, who will have a significant role to play in later films. Once again, Tsukue is to face the inferior swordsman Bunnojo Utsuki in an exhibition match that carries great important for Tsukue’s opponent but virtually none for himself. Utsuki’s fiancée Ohama begs the notorious swordsman to have mercy on her intended, but her intervention stimulates his lust instead.

The recaps that start parts one and two first says Tsukue “abducts” and then “seduces” Ohama, but it is really something in between. Regardless, their time spent together is mutually miserable, despite the son they bring into the world. Ironically, some of Tsukue’s most peaceful times are spent with Otoyo, a spooky dead-ringer for Ohama (with the emphasis on dead), who nurses the now rogue ronin back to health. Meanwhile, the pilgrim’s granddaughter Omatsu and Utsuki’s young brother Hyomi are thrust together by their shared history with Tsukue. They are also falling in love, but the junior Utsuki gives precedence to his quest for vengeance.

Even if you have seen Sword of Doom, films 2 and 3 largely cover new territory. In yet another ironic twist of fate, part two climaxes with both Tsukue and Utsuki fighting the same crooked feudal lord’s attempt to confiscate a prosperous mining concern, unbeknown to each other. The scope of the epic continues to broaden in the third film when Tsukue and Utsuki align themselves with rival lords, albeit rather reluctantly in Tsukue’s case.

Frankly, Swords in the Moonlight is all good, but it gets even better with each installment. Tsukue also becomes an increasingly intriguing figure. Despite his sociopathic tendencies, we start to see something that resembles tenderness from him in the second and third films. His relationships with women defy easy categorization, especially his ambiguous involvement with a disfigured noble woman, who is another involuntary guest of Tsukue’s patron-lord. Part three also ends with some stone-cold Buddhist “fire and brimstone,” well above and beyond anything in Doom.

Indeed, the series goes from good to great, but Chiezô Kataoka is always an electric presence as the psychotic yet guilt-ridden Tsukue. He just radiates badassery, even and especially when Tsukue’s eyes start to fail, making him into an evil early ancestor of Zatoichi. Yumiko Hasegawa fully capitalizes on her opportunity to be exquisitely tragic under two very different circumstances as Ohama and Otoyo, while Satomi Oka and Yorozuya Kinnosuke are rather appealing as Omatsu and Hyomi Utsuki. As an added bonus, Muku (the wonder dog) manages to be as handy as Lassie without coming across as a gimmick.

That’s right, there is a ton of hardcore hacking and slashing in the Moonlight trilogy, plus a faithful canine saves the day several times over. Uchida even throws in some macabrely expressionistic dream sequences. Seriously, what more could a movie lover ask for? Very highly recommended for Jidaigeki fans, Swords in the Moonlight Parts 1, 2, and 3 screens again this Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoons (11/1-11/3) as part of MoMA’s revelatory Tomu Uchida retrospective.

Tomu Uchida at MoMA: Straits of Hunger

We’re not saying Tomu Uchida’s three-hour film noir masterpiece is dark, but it starts with a ferry disaster killing hundreds of innocent people. Those currents off the coast of Hokkaido are so treacherous, they even spit up two extra bodies. It turns out they were ex-cons, mostly likely responsible for a lethal home invasion. Det. Yumisaka will pursue the “third man” like Javert in Les Miserables. The cop from The Fugitive might be an even more apt comparison. Although Takichi Inukai (if that is his real name) is not a one-armed man, he has a crushed finger that definitely counts as an identifying characteristic in Uchida’s Straits of Hunger (a.k.a. A Fugitive from the Past), which screens as part of MoMA’s ongoing retrospective of the major Japanese auteur.

During the immediate post-war, black market years, it was not just those straits that were hungry. Nevertheless, Inukai seems genuinely distressed by the fate of his traveling companions and also their victims. With the cops out in full force, Inukai takes refuge with hostess-oiran-prostitute-borderline dominatrix Yae Sugito, who gives him a bit of hard time, but rather takes a shine to the rough but shy character. The feeling is somewhat mutual judging from the whopper of a tip the mystery man left behind.

As Yumiska spends years following-up false leads, Sugito uses Inukai’s money to pay off her family’s debts and start leading a relatively straight life in Tokyo. Ironically, she will return to her former profession, preferring the stability of life with her new paternalist mom-and-pop employers. Alas, the government eventually decides to be progressive and reformist by shuttering legal houses of prostitution. Forced to make yet another new start, Sugito happens to notice a provincial philanthropist’s picture in the newspaper. Mr. Kyôichirô Tarumi certainly bears a strong resemblance to the man responsible for her nest egg, who has taken on almost saintly status in her own head.

It is not hard to understand why Straits (or Fugitive) is regarded in Japan as one of the finest Japanese films of all time. It truly combines elements of the sympathetic (if not wholly innocent) fugitive thriller, in the tradition of Hitchcock’s The Wrong Man, with the sweeping scope and tragedy of Les Mis (which Uchida adapted straight-up in 1931). His use of gritty widescreen 16mm also gives it a 1960s docu-drama vibe. Yet, what makes the film so appealingly idiosyncratic is the delight Uchida takes in breaking all the rules. Inukai disappears for a long period of time, allowing the second movement to become an empathetic woman’s story, roughly akin to Naruse’s When a Woman Ascends the Stairs.

Sachiko Hidari is remarkably sensitive and forceful as Yae, commanding the screen and keeping viewers tightly focused even when the noir skullduggery is at a low ebb. Rentarô Mikuni is indeed generous with the spotlight, but he brings some seriously hardnosed intensity in the first and third acts. Noir fans will also appreciate Junzaburô Ban’s wheezy Yamisaka, who projects world-weary fatalism worthy of Inspector Maigret.

Aside from the three-hour running time, it is hard to puzzle out Straits’ under-screened and unsung status outside of Japan. Perhaps Uchida’s lurid color washes used during times of extreme psychological stress have not aged so well, but the exquisite work of Hidari and Mikuni gives this ironic tale the ring and heft of classical tragedy. Very highly recommended, Straits of Hunger screens again next Sunday, November 6, as part of MoMA’s Tomu Uchida retrospective.

Tomu Uchida at MoMA: The Outsiders

The sprawling Hokkaido vistas demand the widescreen Toheiscope treatment, but the concerns of the local “Shamo” ethnic Japanese power brokers are strictly narrow-minded. There is a truly unhealthy obsession over blood and genes in Tomu Uchida’s American western-inspired The Outsiders, which screens as part of MoMA’s ongoing retrospective of the major Japanese auteur.

Ishitaro Kazamori, a.k.a. “Byakki the Phoenix,” is the Robin Hood of the northern Ainu villages. His sworn enemy is Takeshi Oiwa, the manager and heir apparent of his family’s fish-processing plant, who steadfastly refuses to hire Ainu workers. Kazamori knows his darkest secret—and possibly vice versa.

Eventually, tensions between the two men will boil over into violence, despite the best calming efforts of visiting artist Yoshiko Saeki, a landscape painter invited to Hokkaido by the sympathetic Shamo humanitarian, Dr. Ike. Initially, Kazamori resents her presumed dilettantism and cultural appropriation, but she is a fast learner. Soon, he starts to enjoy their random encounters. Saeki also forges a fast friendship with the fragile Ainu woman Mitsu, who was abandoned by her Shamo lover years ago. She seems to know everyone’s secrets, which partially explains her strange, platonic connection with Kazamori.

All you really need to know about Kazamori is he is played by legendary Japanese movie tough guy Ken Takakura. When he faces off against Rentarô Mikuni’s Oiwa, it is a lot like watching Lee Marvin mix it up with Robert Ryan. It is all square jaws and stone fists.

Even by revisionist western standards, Outsiders is one seriously moody Eastern Western. It makes Heaven’s Gate look like a James Garner cowboy comedy. To Allied ears, all the talk of race and blood in 1958 film rings like an indictment of Axis Powers racialist theories and war crimes. The ending also conspicuously echoes the conclusion of George Stevens’ Shane (which released in America five years prior).

Regardless, Takakura is brutally awesome as Kazamori, while Mayumi Fujisato’s sensitive portrayal of Mitsu provides the film its human center. Technically, Takakura hailed from Fukuoka in the south, but nobody questions him as the Ainu rabble-rouser. Frankly, most differences in accent and the like will be lost on western audiences, which arguably makes the racism it depicts look all the more arbitrary and absurd.

Hardnosed and existential, The Outsiders is a big picture by any standard, so its relative obscurity in the West, along with the rest of Uchida’s oeuvre is absolutely mystifying. Recommended for fans of contemporary westerns in the spirit of John Sayles’ Lone Star, The Outsiders screens again next Friday (11/4), as part of MoMA’s Tomu Uchida retrospective.

Tomu Uchida at MoMA: Bloody Spear at Mount Fuji

Class distinctions could be profoundly unfair during the Edo era, but sometimes they cut both ways. Cut is indeed the correct operative word in this socially conscious samurai film. A poor but honorable samurai and his faithful servants become increasingly aware of the injustices of the world as the make their way to the capitol in Tomu Uchida’s slightly misleadingly titled Bloody Spear at Mount Fuji, which screens as part of MoMA’s revelatory retrospective of the major Japanese auteur, who remains bizarrely under-screened in the West.

Sakawa Kojūrō is a good man and a good samurai, but not when he drinks. Therefore, his servants, Genpachi the lancer and Genta the more conventional manservant are under strict orders to keep him away from the sake. As they travel to Edo to offer tribute to their lord, they fall in with an itinerant shamisen player and her young daughter. The orphaned Jirō also takes a shine to Genpachi. In fact, the first two acts have a vibe weirdly reminiscent of The Canterbury Tales, as Kojūrō and his servants re-encounter many of the same fellow travelers (to use an unfortunate term) at every inn along their route.

In this case, familiarity largely breeds respect and affection, especially from the samurai, who will bitterly reproach himself for his inability to aid them in times of tribulation. However, his own egalitarian conduct with his servants will attract the wrong sort of attention from his fellow samurai.

Bloody Spear represented Uchida’s return to the Japanese studio system after spending over a decade making movies in Manchuria, so he had to call in favors with one-time contemporaries Yasujiro Ozu and Hiroshi Shimizu to act as production advisors. In fact, there is an intimacy and a sensitivity to Bloody Spear not unlike that of their domestic dramas. Of course, that spear will eventually get bloody—and when it does, the film gets massively heavy.

Resembling today’s Kôji Yakusho, Chiezō Kataoka is all kinds of hardnosed middle-aged steeliness as Genpachi. He has the gravitas and the hack-and-slash chops, but he also develops rather sweetly tender chemistry with Chizuru Kitagawa as the shamisen player and Motoharu Ueki’s Jirō. Daisuke Katō quite effectively counterbalances Kataoka as Genta, who initially seems to be the typical Falstaffian servant but slowly reveals himself to be a considerably deeper, more complex figure. Plus, Ryunsuke Tsukigata really kicks viewers’ legs out from under them as the mysterious Tōzaburō, whose secret really elevates Bloody Spear to the level of high tragedy.

Bloody Spear is just a terrific film that combines the sort of outrage at injustice that marked Reginald Rose’s early work with an affectionate needling of the common folks’ foibles, all within the Jidaigeki format. There is a lot of life happening on the road to Edo—and Uchida takes in quite a bit of it. Very highly recommended for fans of classic cinema of any variety, Bloody Spear at Mount Fuji screens again Thursday (11/3) as part of the Tomu Uchida retrospective now underway at MoMA.