黒澤明『七人の侍』とリアリズムAkira Kurosawa's Seven Samurai and Realism

Akira Kurosawa, whose influence on Japanese cinema remains absolute, once spoke these words: "Drama must be so true that everyone can recognize the elements of that drama within their own hearts." Indeed, from the very beginning, his films were frequently discussed in the world of film criticism through the lens of the pursuit of realism. This issue of realism emerged with particular strength after the Second World War; it was a question actively interrogated not only by filmmakers but by photographers as well.

Seven Samurai (1954), often cited as Kurosawa’s masterpiece, is the archetypal example. What made this film revolutionary compared to conventional Japanese cinema was its introduction, for the first time, of rigorous historical verification. Japanese cinema originally possessed a unique lineage, slightly divergent from Western film history: the tradition of kabuki. It is no exaggeration to say that early Japanese cinema was essentially the filming of kabuki; in fact, the producers of early Japanese film grappled with the emancipation from kabuki as a central theme, a history of tireless refinement. Consequently, the subjects and atmospheres treated in kabuki were transplanted directly into film. There was a significant stage where the medium had to deviate from that grammar to gradually reach a pursuit of realism. Particularly during the Second World War, narratives of the samurai were heavily emphasized for the purpose of elevating national fighting spirit, yet these remained strictly within the domain of "period pieces"—films that merely used the era as subject matter. Broadly speaking, they lacked the power to press directly upon, and question, the hearts of human beings living in the present.

Until the pre-war era, due to the influence of Confucianism in Japan, there was a very strong tendency for films to center on themes of giri (義理), a sense of duty, and ninjo (人情), human feeling. Rather than adopting an attitude of creating works that confronted the hearts of people living through the war era in reality, there was a tendency to emphasize indescribable cultural issues. To put it simply, this was jocho (情緒), or "sentiment." In pre-war Japanese cinema, the delicate movements of this sentiment were intense; the sentiment in Japanese films of the late 1930s, as the nation moved toward the Second World War, was more vivid and moving than even literature. However, after the defeat and into the post-war period, these sentimental aspects were mercilessly identified with the national spirit and were denied and discarded; Japan entered an oppressive era where possessing such a spirit was internationally impermissible. At this juncture, due to the existence of ambiguous concepts unilaterally defined as "Japanese spirit," the cultural source of sentiment, nurtured throughout the Edo period, was cast away.

I believe that realism is what emerged reactively against this process of losing the unquantifiable historical capital of sentiment. Particularly symbolic was Kurosawa’s attempt to introduce the academic basis of historical verification into film for the first time. In pre-war Japanese cinema, historical accuracy was never an issue; rather, it was considered alien to the medium. Indeed, no matter how superior the historical verification, without substance, it is mere form and will never move people. In other words, Kurosawa’s magnificence lay in the fact that he did not pander to the intellectuals of the time who disguised a new era’s realism movement by simply applying historical verification to declare realism. Instead, he positioned the sentiment—the residue of the pre-war era—as his foundation, and became a pioneer in constructing a visual world where the details were forged through historical verification.

In the world of photography, this realism was led by the renowned Ken Domon, yet his realism was mere form, lacking substance. I position him as a photographer who, typically trapped by style, lost the essence; however, as Ken Domon was a heavyweight in the photography world at the time, his influence was tremendous. On the other hand, inside the intersecting worlds of Nara and Yamato, Taikichi Irie continued to take photographs earnestly, swaying neither to the left nor right by the trends of the photography world, and he magnificently expressed sentiment within the climate and landscape. It can be said that in the 1950s, this problem of realism arose in both film and photography, yet Kurosawa was able to execute a realism that did not fall into the empty forms of men like Domon.

Seven Samurai began with thorough historical verification, and in order to pursue realism in the sense that Akira Kurosawa spoke of, the plan—originally scheduled for six months from production to release—deviated drastically. This was a gamble for Kurosawa, but his dedication as a creator was absolute. Taking two screenwriters he had trusted for years, he secluded himself in an inn in Atami. There, they wrote the script continuously, like ascetics, completing the screenplay for Seven Samurai over forty-five days. Within his lifetime, Kurosawa repeatedly asserted the conviction that "From a weak scenario, a superior film can absolutely never be made. From a weak seedling, a rich harvest can absolutely never be expected. This is absolute." This conviction was a warning bell against the speed of Japanese film production at the time, which churned out films from creation to release in about a month. However, this was also influenced by the background of pre-war Japanese cinema, where careers very often started with writing scripts. There was an era where, if one could not write a good script, the opportunity to direct a work would never come around; Kurosawa, without exception, followed this lineage. Yet, in the post-war era, the structure of the film world itself gradually changed, and the younger generation of film directors ceased to write scripts. This was due to the strengthening of the division of labor, but with the emergence of screenwriters as specialized professionals, the film director became closer to a producer. Kurosawa repeatedly expressed bitterness regarding this, and even in a late-life interview with Nagisa Oshima, he stated, "If you cannot write a script, you are no good."

Not only historical verification, but his own pursuit of realism truly shifted the Japanese film industry greatly. In films made under a director with such strong convictions, the heat of the actors and staff inevitably rises. For instance, the first difficulty was finding the location. Those who have seen the film will remember the scene in the opening where the rogue bandits discover the farming village below; this began with a search across Japan for a landscape that matched the image Kurosawa had sketched. Japan at that time was not as developed as it is today, so the staff thought that in a Japan possessing countless farming villages, it must exist somewhere. Yet, no matter where they went, it could not be found. They increased the search groups and scrambled to find a place matching Kurosawa’s image. Eventually, they found a landscape matching the image at a place called Shimotanna in Izu. Furthermore, Seven Samurai divided its shooting locations: the east of the village at Horikiri in Izu, the west at Gotemba, the northern forest at Nagao Pass in Hakone, the flower field at Sengokuhara, and the center of the village filmed at the Toho open set in Tokyo.

On the first day of production, Kurosawa stated, "Let us make the real thing. A real period drama." He instilled in everyone involved the consciousness that this work was entirely different from conventional films. Therefore, his obsession with realism allowed no compromise, permeating every detail. Based on the storyboards Kurosawa drew, Yoshiro Muraki—the art director who was involved in 19 works throughout Kurosawa's life—received the request to reproduce the lived-in sense of the farmers of that time. He began by touring various regions to photograph reference materials, and after thinking through how to reflect Kurosawa’s imagined worldview in the set construction, he decided to adopt a special processing method called yakiita (焼き板), or "burned boards." This process involves carefully burning both sides of a board, scraping off the charcoal with a wire brush, painting it with mud pigment, waxing it, and polishing it with a scrubbing brush. Through this, the lived-in sensation of the Warring States period was etched onto the film. Indeed, scenes using these burned boards demonstrate their effect on the wall when the peasant Yohei has his rice stolen while staying at an inn during the search for samurai.

Furthermore, to give the extra villagers a sense of unity, Kurosawa created a village family registry that detailed the names, ages, family structures, and specific houses within the set for nearly one hundred villagers. During the shooting period, he had them act by family units, behaving as actual families. Indeed, unless one knows they are extras, this film possesses a unity that makes one think they are using real villagers. Moreover, in the scene where the village elder’s watermill is burned down by bandits, the hut was rebuilt and filmed six times because the impact was deemed insufficient. However, such thorough film production by Kurosawa naturally could not be completed without disregarding schedules and budgets. In fact, under the original schedule, shooting was to begin on June 7, 1953, and wrap up by August 18, but even five months past the scheduled end, filming had not finished, and the budget had ballooned to more than double. Consequently, the production parent, Toho, was furious and ordered the immediate cessation of filming. An instruction from Toho to stop production meant that the film could no longer be made. At the time, film directors, staff, and even actors were without exception in employment relationships with major production companies, so the company's decision was not something that could be ignored.

Thus, Kurosawa was forced to hastily splice together the film shot up to that point to hold a screening for the upper management of Toho. What is interesting is that once the screening for the Toho executives began, the gathered executives were overwhelmed by a quality of film they had never seen before; they were intensely captivated and immersed. However, just as the story reached its highest tide before the climax, the film suddenly cut out, and the screen went pitch black. The executives were startled by the sudden break and uproariously demanded of Kurosawa, "What happens next?" Kurosawa, with resolve, shot back a single phrase: "Beyond this, I have not shot a single frame." The Toho upper management immediately agreed, "We want to see the rest!" and an order to resume filming was instantly handed down to Kurosawa.

Thus, on January 18, 1954, filming resumed. Finally, they reached the climax of the film, the mountain of the shoot: the battle scene in the torrential rain. This final scene is a fierce, extended sequence where the seven samurai and the villagers fight the bandits; its intensity leaves one speechless, unfolding in a world like a mud swamp. However, this was actually not intended. It happened because, by coincidence, heavy snow had piled up on the Toho open set during this period. Since the film could not be shot in a snowy landscape, the staff first began by melting the snow, but because of the heavy snowfall, it took a week just to melt it. Yet, this hardship was rewarded in an unexpected form. The melting of the heavy snow inevitably turned the soil into a quagmire. Because they sprayed rain and filmed upon that ground, that scene of such intensity was created. However, shooting a battle scene where horses charge at full speed into a mud swamp under heavy rainfall is no easy task for the actors. Therefore, a restriction was imposed: retakes were absolutely impossible. Cinema, at times, births revolutionary methods under such extreme conditions.

For example, in Steven Spielberg’s famous Jaws, the work expresses fear using only music without the shark appearing, but this was a technique born out of necessity because the mechanical model of the shark broke during filming. Yet, this produced an unexpected effect, birthing that quiet intensity. Similarly, in this extreme situation, as Kurosawa thought and thought continuously, a single idea suddenly descended into his mind. That was the multi-camera method, shooting one scene with multiple cameras. It is common practice now, but it had never been used in Japan at the time; here, shooting by the multi-camera method was conducted for the first time. Thus, four cameras were used, capturing various angles and compositions, and by splicing them together at the end, that power was expressed.

Thus, Seven Samurai was completed as a film, but the final problem was the theme music. The man who handled that film score flowing from the opening was Fumio Hayasaka, who had been recognized by the president of Toho Films in 1939 and entered the company as a music director. He was intimate with Kurosawa, having already handled the music for Drunken Angel, Stray Dog, and Rashomon, and was evaluated as a young composer carrying the future of Japanese cinema on his shoulders. But Hayasaka was suffering from tuberculosis, and the shadow of death was approaching. Hayasaka, who had worked in tandem with Kurosawa, wrote in a letter to Kurosawa while bedridden and unable to make progress: "If I die for the work, that too is a man’s spirit." Ignoring his family’s pleas for rest, he continued to compose even as he collapsed from illness. On the verge of death, whittling away his life, he wrote countless drafts on the score, but the samurai theme music was particularly troublesome. Kurosawa was not satisfied even after listening to more than twenty pieces Hayasaka presented. As Kurosawa agonized over what to do, Hayasaka suddenly picked up a score he had discarded in the trash without showing Kurosawa, and began to play the opening on the piano. The moment he heard that sound, Kurosawa trembled and said, "This is it." The decision was made at last.

Thus, Seven Samurai was released in Japan on April 26, 1954. But a year and a half later, on October 15, 1955, Hayasaka passed away at the young age of 41. His last words were, "I am sorry to Kurosawa." The shock of losing Hayasaka, who was an ally and the greatest understander, brought immense sorrow to Kurosawa, and he continued to weep for ten days. This film is not merely a classic masterpiece. It is a work for us to know, in our own time, just how much cinema was made in earnest, carving out life itself.

Akira Kurosawa was evaluated globally throughout his life, but when we reconsider his words—"Drama must be so true that everyone can recognize the elements of that drama within their own hearts"—it evokes deep emotion. Certainly, by using historical verification, one might say that on the surface, or formally, it was a pursuit of realism. However, personally, I believe that Kurosawa’s realism lies in the location of this truth; in other words, the location of that truth is the drama.

Speaking of film directors of that time, led by Akira Kurosawa, there were masters of a slightly older generation like Kenji Mizoguchi and Yasujiro Ozu, but they actually belonged to different companies. Belonging to different companies, and furthermore different studios, meant in those days that their artistic styles were completely different. For example, in the 1950s, Akira Kurosawa was Toho, Kenji Mizoguchi was Daiei, and Yasujiro Ozu was Shochiku. Furthermore, surrounding them were heavyweights of the Japanese film world like Mikio Naruse and Hiroshi Shimizu, each making wonderful films. What was common among them was that their "eye for people" was exceptional. Personally, I view the differences in where each of them placed their perspective on people as reflected in the differences in their films. Particularly when compared to these masters, the reason Akira Kurosawa’s evaluation rose precociously in the West was that he was attempting to incorporate universality in the Western world. At a glance, Kurosawa might seem like a film director who gained popularity with films depicting samurai from the 1950s, or perhaps the image of a director of traditional samurai period dramas is strong. But that is not the truth. Rather, as understood from his absolute emphasis on the script, he actively incorporated Russian literature and the like into his original ideas; Seven Samurai references Tolstoy’s War and Peace, and indeed, in 1951 he released a work based on Dostoevsky’s The Idiot. A thorough contemplation on "living" was reflected in his work.

On the other hand, Kenji Mizoguchi held a perspective of viewing the world through the lens of classical Japanese beauty; in fact, he lived in Kyoto, and he actively reflected the movements of the people he saw there in his films. Meanwhile, Yasujiro Ozu, who was evaluated in the West a little later than Kurosawa and Mizoguchi, observed the daily movements of the family closely. Furthermore, Mikio Naruse, while watching that, was simultaneously watching a single street. In this way, perspectives naturally differ by person, but they watched people very well, they watched the city, and they knew that the figure itself was a living creature. And they continued to watch sincerely to find where the drama lay within that living creature. That is precisely why superior works were created.

Akira Kurosawa’s conviction that a good film comes from a good script gives us much to think about. This is because what is necessary for a good script to be born ultimately boils down to where you are looking in daily life, and who you are looking at, and how. In other words, a good script is never born from a selfish human being who lacks the power to see people. Shintaro Katsu, known for the Zatoichi series, was known for always carrying multiple rolls of ten-thousand yen bills and handing them to people in the city. To a manager who complained about this, Katsu declared, "Actors learn from the figures of living human beings in the world. It is only natural to pay a price for having been shown those living figures." Because truth is, as Kurosawa says, something that "everyone can recognize the elements of that drama within their own hearts," in a sense, it is important to discern where the universal lies, or where the thing that moves the human heart lies in a place common to the era or beyond the era. To do that, we must regain the power to see people. A good book is filled with new realizations no matter how many times you read it; a good film is the same.

Why not revisit Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai from this perspective? Still, for me, who holds deep reverence for classic Japanese cinema, perhaps writing about film is the greatest happiness of all...