Before I leave the sixties completely, I should like to post a brief comment on Kinoshita. If Kinema Junpo‘s lists are to be trusted, he is now beginning to be forgotten by the Japanese, remembered only for Twenty-four Eyes. Critics outside Japan generally regarded Kinoshita as a film-maker perhaps significant in his time but marred by sentimentality, rarely mentioning either his experimentalism or his persistent social themes. Though certainly Kinoshita could wander into tear-jerker territory with films like Times of Joy and Sorrow, these were actually widely scattered throughout his career. Among the particular generation of major movie-makers who began work during the war years — Kurosawa, Imai, Yamamoto, Kawashima — Kinoshita was the least predictable. He did melodrama, film noir, horror stories, folk tales, romances, and remarkable comedies and farces that still remain funny seventy years later, almost all of which were from his own screenplays rarely adapted from novels or stories by others.
No Kinoshita movie looked like any of his others. Kurosawa certainly was a better visualist, famous for his period films where visual imagery is far more obvious, but then he was a better visualist than anyone in the world with the possible exception of David Lean. Since Kinoshita never made a chanbara, we can’t compare their talents in this area. Nevertheless, just as John Ford’s Westerns all look the same, Kurosawa’s jidai-geki all look the same, as magnificent as that look could be. This could never be said about any of Kinoshita’s movies. Even when doing a direct sequel, like Carmen’s Innocent Love, everything is different; discounting the obvious return to b & w, the latter is all full of crazy camera angles never seen in the simple story of Carmen Comes Home. He was one of the first to use theatricalized settings as a part of his realism, but typically did it in one of his most realistic stories, Ballad of Narayama. The Rose on his Arm was utterly, completely New Wave in subject matter and in camera work and editing, but half a decade before the famous French directors ever got behind a camera. Even earlier, A Japanese Tragedy introduced Godard’s sudden shifts in time, inter-cuts of newsreel and documentary footage, silent flash-backs, and location shooting even when the setting was close to the studio but almost a decade before Godard made a movie. Snow Flurry jumped back and forth in time, as experimental as anything Teshigahara, Yoshida, or Oshima would ever try. When Japanese directors were still hesitant to use the close-up for both cultural and technical reasons, Kinoshita in Woman and Yotsuya Kaidan produced some of the tightest closeups in cinema history before the development of modern fast film and special close-up lenses. Yet he could turn around and produce Mizoguchi-like movies shot in middle distance and long takes like She Was Like a Wild Chrysanthemum or Immortal Love. The montage sections of Wedding Ring are so effectively cut that Eisenstein would cheer the work. Technically, Kinoshita was simply one of cinema’s great experimentalists, aware of and willing to use all the possibilities of the film medium, but historically preceding the more famous “art film” directors of the sixties. He rarely gets much credit from modern film critics, probably because this experimentation was always done in the context not of the “art film” but of commercial studio production. The French New Wave taught us that the film artist must be a rebel, but Kinoshita never openly rebelled against the studio system in which he grew up, . He was the great outsider who always worked on the inside, never setting up an independent company.
If we look at Kinoshita’s movies one by one, as reviewers or a blog like this will do, we often miss the things that tie his films together. Yet, of the great post-war writer-directors before the emergence of Oshima or Kobayashi, Kinoshita was the most continually critical of Japan’s feudal/military society. His major preoccupation as a film-maker was the social and cultural damage that the feudal rush to war had caused for Japanese civilians, even before the war was lost. Three of his movies on this topic were made during the war itself: Living Mogoroku and Jubilation Street, which disguised the critique under family comedy, and Army, which on paper is a propaganda piece but ends as a great anti-war statement simply by the way Kinoshita uses the camera in the final scene, which reportedly got him in considerable trouble with the government. After the war, this examination continued in various forms in Morning for the Osone Family, Phoenix, Apostasy, Boyhood, Twenty-Four Eyes, Farewell to Dream, Immortal Love, A Japanese Tragedy, and A Legend or Was It? It is also a contributing factor to the sweet romance of The Girl I Loved. To these we might add The River Fuefuki, a rare visit to jidai-geki to examine the damage done to a family in the wars of the 16th century, the history of twentieth century Japan told through the tortured mother-daughter relationship of Scent of Incense, and his very late Children of Nagasaki which dealt directly with the aftermath of the atom bombing, as well as the re-armament sub-plot of Carmen’s Innocent Love. He never depicted the soldier’s lives but rather the social damage left behind them at home; when soldiers appear, they are always wounded, but never as wounded as the people left behind.
As might be expected from an essentially humanist film-maker, we’re never quite sure where Kinoshita himself fits in the politics of his time. He takes no obvious political positions. He chronicles the great damage done to Japanese society by the militarization of the thirties, the war, and the Occupation, but he does not seem to have any nostalgia for the time or the society before that, as did Ozu, Mizoguchi, or Inagaki. Nor does he celebrate the New Japan. A Legend warns about the way the modern society tries to pretend the unpleasant parts of the past never happened, a problem he explored in depth in his rare script for another director, Kinuyo Tanaka’s Love Letter. Garden of Women seems to be on the side of “modernization,” especially for women, just as Broken Drum seems to side with the children against the oppressive rule of the old patriarchy, but the modernization of the children in A Japanese Tragedy is far more destructive to the family even than in Tokyo Story and he has no sympathy for the greed and selfishness of the young people in Spring Dreams. He is on the side of people, not in masses but as individuals. Those individuals, such as the teacher in Twenty-four Eyes, may come to represent far more than just themselves, but his movies almost never try to make his characters into symbols (with the possible exception of A Japanese Tragedy). Each character is specific and unique. Even more than Ozu, he is the film-maker of his day trying to depict “life as it is,” through a much broader range of stories and techniques than Ozu would ever consider. Unlike Kurosawa, he finds no glory in the samurai class or era, and unlike Yamamoto, he never speechifies; unlike Imai, he changes technique almost at will, and unlike Kawashima he revealed his talent behind the camera almost immediately.
He is a remarkable film-maker, unique in that he left no towering “masterpieces” for us to study but rather a body of work that taken as a whole forms its own giant masterpiece. Because of his range of production, he is the great film artist most likely to be forgotten. A blog like this will do little to change that, I know, but I felt it should be noted somewhere.