Kwaidan is the second of three movies in Kobayashi’s unofficial samurai trilogy (the others being Seppuku a.k.a. Hara Kiri and Samurai Rebellion). Seppuku exposes the bankrupt values of the samurai code during the Edo period in excruciating fashion. Samurai Rebellion posits that the only just response to a corrupt system is revolt. Samurai do not escape criticism in Kwaidan either. In the three of four episodes in which they appear, they are depicted as literal-minded men lacking the ability to comprehend figurative experiences. When, upon encountering an impasse that cannot be solved through literal-minded thinking, they respond with violence, insanity, or both.
As mentioned earlier, the samurai husband in “Black Hair” privileges his career over his loving wife, leaving her to die without his support. Upon his return to their home, he is surprised to see that she is as young and beautiful as the day he left her. Rather than consider the possible explanations of such an illogical situation, he accepts that what he sees is real. After spending the night with her, he awakens to discover that he slept beside the skeleton of his wife. The sudden shock of this realization causes him to lose his mind in a stunning visual sequence.
In “Earless Hoichi,” the samurai ghost responsible for escorting Hoichi to the graveyard on a nightly basis encounters a difficulty on the final night. There, in the spot where the blind biwa player normally sat and waited for him, is nothing more than a pair of disembodied ears floating in the air. While the samurai ponders his next action, Kobayashi incisively critiques the literal samurai mind, incapable of independent thought and problem solving, concerned only with discharging his duty to his lord. Seeing only Hoichi’s ears, the samurai simplistically deduces that Hoichi was unable to respond to his calls because he no longer had a mouth! No other explanations are considered before the samurai concludes that his only recourse is to bring the ears of Hoichi to his lord, thus obeying his orders “so far as was possible.”
Finally, this brings us to “In a Cup of Tea,” where the samurai featured in the story within a story refuses to accept the possibility he is being tormented by ghosts. He maintains this stubborn skepticism despite seeing the face of his nemesis in three different cups of water, followed by an equally inexplicable encounter when his nemesis apparently enters and leaves the room he is guarding through a solid wall. Lacking any strategy other than violence to respond to this visitor, he draws his sword and “wounds” the ghost without leaving any evidence of blood. The next night, three more ghosts appear at the samurai’s house, informing him of their wounded master’s wish to avenge himself. The samurai responds by attacking them with his sword, only to watch them disappear and reappear at will just out of his range. Despite witnessing this power, he seems convinced that a spear attack will rid him of the three visitors. After a long battle, he actually succeeds in dispatching them, only to see them reappear again, as fresh and ready to fight as they were upon their first arrival. Unable to cope with the situation, the story ends with the samurai laughing insanely. Kobayashi’s deeper point seems to be that literal-minded thinkers are ill equipped to survive in a world of symbols, art, and figurative language. Lacking the mental flexibility to do so, the eventual fall of the duty-bound samurai in history seems inevitable.
It’s interesting to note that the literal/figurative, or at least reality/supernatural dichotomy is also explored in “Snow Demon,” the one episode not featuring a samurai as a character. It is when Minokichi questions the reality of his encounter with the snow demon and dismisses it as a dream that Yuki feels compelled to contradict him. Is Kobayashi seriously suggesting that ghosts are real? Each viewer must decide that question personally. I believe that he is acknowledging that there are other powers that influence our lives in meaningful ways, even if they do not possess a material reality. There are the powers of dreams, language, delusion, love, and guilt--among others--that inform our experience. If we choose to deny those powers and adopt a materialist/realist worldview, we risk being condemned to leading an impoverished life characterized by a paucity of experience.
This essay about Kwaidan has really been an attempt to tease out and explore the themes that enrich the movie and contribute to its impact on the viewer. If I overreached at times, saw things that weren’t there, contradicted myself, or offered the occasional flawed interpretation, I don’t mind. On the whole, I feel that I have managed to tap some of the powerful currents that run through this movie and bring them to the attention of others for consideration. Whatever value any interpretation might hold, ultimately it represents a reduction of the original art form. The best thing we can do is consider an interpretation, forget it, then watch the film again, perhaps from a fresh perspective.
Links:
Here is another insightful review of Kwaidan at Midnight Eye that, coincidentally, refutes the same Donald Richie quotation I mentioned in Part 1 of my essay.
There is a longer version of Kwaidan available in the UK that contains 22 minutes of footage not available in the Criterion release. I haven’t seen it yet, but I dread finding something in the extra footage that undermines my thesis.
Only read this last part but heading over now to watch the film. Sounds good.
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