Rashomon Review

Dead men tell no tales, or so goes the saying.  Yet in Akira Kurosawa's Rashomon, after other character's recount their versions of a man's murder, the victim himself testifies from beyond the grave.  Each account varies wildly from the others, creating a layered narrative that challenges the audience to decide for itself what is true.  This bold approach to story-telling also calls the viewer's attention to the nature of film - a predominantly visual medium - itself.  A viewer may easily take for granted that the action unfolding onscreen is, in the world of the film, true.  It's a matter of seeing being believing, where what is presented is understood as existing.  Kurosawa defies this basic audience reaction by presenting the first account of the murder (from the perspective of the thief Tajomaru, played by Toshiro Mifune) and, shortly thereafter, having another character claim that Tajomaru's version of the tale is a lie.  It's a startling moment that portends the complicated narrative that unfolds (without completely unfolding) throughout the film.

Rashomon is, in many ways, an actors' movie.  Each member of the ensemble portrays a character that is complex within the film's reality and further complicated by the various sketches provided in other characters' testimonies before the court.  Tajomaru is, by turns, a villainous thief, a seductive lover, an honorable bandit, and a clumsy oaf.  Kurosawa directs his cast in a way that defies neatly drawn, easily defined characters.  Instead, his actors play multiple versions of their characters, perhaps providing intense focus on different character traits within each tale, or possibly demonstrating how truly subjective perception is, especially when it is tainted by selfish motivation.

Motivation is certainly a theme that Kurosawa works with throughout his film.  Late in the film, it is observed, "You cannot understand the things men do."  While the "truth" of the film's story is hindered by the multiple accounts of the man's murder, the truth of this observation resonates off-screen as well as within the confines of the film.  Even the frustrated old woodcutter who witnesses the murder has his reason for botching the true version of events, though he bemoans the other witnesses for acting similarly.

The most impressive scope of character types comes from Machiko Kyo, who portrays the murdered man's wife.  Initially, her character appears to be a typical woman of the time: she rides a horse led by her husband, her face hidden by a veil.  While the veil serves as a source of decency, even honor, it serves another purpose: it suggests the hidden strength of character the woman possesses.

In multiple accounts of the murder, the woman is presented as weak and easily controlled, little more than an object to be handed over after Tajomaru rapes her.  When the woodcutter tells his version of the events (the version that seems to ring truest, perhaps because of the recency effect or because the woodcutter is an uninvolved witness to the events), however, the woman shows a surprising strength, criticizing her cowardly husband and adopting the shout-like laughter that Tajomaru employs throughout the film.  It's an exciting instance of Kurosawa using a character to defy expectations, further creating a rich film experience.

While the film succeeds on a narrative level - it's an interesting story cleverly told - the pacing is inconsistent, and the film suffers for it.  Certain scenes and sequences stretch on too long, such as when the woodcutter first recounts his trek through the woods during which he discovered the murdered man's corpse.  While the sequence showcases some impressive cinematography - including tracking shots through the trees and beautifully framed crane shots - the length seems arbitrary and thus frustrates.  Thankfully, most of the film avoids these pacing problems by editing scenes from the three layers of narrative (the three men huddled under the gate, the witnesses at the trial, and their actual testimonies) together.

Rashomon's influence is still clearly at play in today's cinema; just this summer, Christopher Nolan's Inception used a similar layered narrative that was shaped by various characters' perceptions.  Even without a modern analogue, however, the film has aged incredibly well and still manages the surprise and intrigue even as it entertains.  The subjective, conflicting narrations create an ambiguity that will likely inspire viewers to discuss the film after the credits roll, something that very few films today manage to achieve.  Kurosawa's examination of the way selfishness and truth interact to create perception is as fascinating today as it was fifty years ago.