Cumulative Blossay - Morality in East Asian Film

                Morality is a dense and complex topic, applying to many facets of our lives.  Most of us adhere to some form of moral code which we alter and adapt as we live our lives.  Film provides a valuable form of moral expression as it brings to life characters that can be in put in almost any imaginable moral situation, but without actually enacting the consequences on real lives with their decisions.  Themes and filmic elements can also potentially carry moral commentary.  It’s important to note that while films and characters themselves don’t have the agency to make decisions which are harmful to those in real life, the content of films and what might be interpreted from them should still be considered as something that potentially affects real people.  I stand firmly on the side against censorship, but I am rational enough to hold respect for the audience and how consumers may be affected from film as well.

                Now that we have the subject framed and some of its stipulations considered, I would like to delve into what we have learned about morality and its place in cinema from our foray into East Asian film.  Morality can be seen on many different levels, and can be categorized as stemming from many different groups.  We have our own individual moralities, just as we have morals reinforced by our family and friends, principles instilled through religion, and values and ethics stemming from society and culture.  Having a glimpse into many different Eastern cultures at different times in history has given us a fresh perspective on morals differing from what we have grown to be accustomed to.

                Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring provided a very interesting and effective means of portraying morality that to my knowledge is firmly tied to Buddhist teachings and philosophy.  Right from the start of the film, we are shown an adherence to specific practices, the most striking being the deliberate opening, walking through, and closing of doors that stand without walling anything off.  The specific action itself may be less important than the choice of expressing a practice them seems from one perspective unnecessary or without functional reason.  As a Western audience, I would assume that most of us questioned the reasoning behind this practice.  I ended up deciding on two nonexclusive interpretations of its meaning.  One is the idea that meticulous repeated practice that is not harmful but holds no reward is a way of disciplining one’s self.  The action’s purpose is the habituation of being able to do something that requires effort without needing a reward to do it.  The other idea is that which I had brought up in class.  It seemed to me to be a Buddhist way of expressing the artificiality of walling one’s self off for privacy.  One should be fully capable of respecting another’s privacy without enclosure or physical walls, and one can visibly portray this respect through actions such as using the door.

                At the heart of Buddhist ethics, there is the idea that one should not take life from other sentient creatures.  We see both young monks go through a point in their early lives in which they abuse animals for their own entertainment and pleasure.  Why would the director choose to show this, especially when real animals are used in the process of filming these scenes?  It could be to express that morality as we know it is not innate.  The scenes seemed to provide an ambiguity in what is the best way to instill proper morals to one who is amoral in certain regards.  The older monk would not intervene during the abuse, instead he would quietly watch over the young boy (as an additional layer of ambiguity, one could argue that the older monk may not have been diegetically there).  Only afterwards did the elder monk decide to teach the young boy a lesson.  I think this provided a thoughtful way of showing the liminal nature of morality.  One could contend that nature and the natural course of things is meant to go unquestioned, that the way of the world is best left untouched by human agency.  The other side can dispute that claim, saying that humans have the moral responsibility to act on things with the intent of making the presented world better due to our level of intelligence and reasoning.  Almost any way we decide to look at it, Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring is teeming with elements that have deep implications and considerations for morality.

                With a look back into Farewell My Concubine, I would like to consider the morality enacted upon by characters in their relationships with people they care deeply about.  Over the course of this epic, we learn the origins of the relationship between Douzi and Shitou, witness their transition into Dieyi and Xiaolou, and follow them up to the point of Dieyi’s death.  There is an immense amount of turbulence and turmoil throughout this relationship, and each character shows a vast range of moral and immoral actions.  Since childhood, the devotion between these two main characters seemed very true, with the first adult upheaval stemming from Dieyi’s ostensibly romantic feelings towards Xiaolou and his jealousy of Juxian.  Dieyi is stuck in an unfortunate position, one which makes his malice towards Xiaolou and Juxian both questionable yet potentially sympathized with.  Although we don’t know the true extent of his feelings for Xiaolou, we can certainly understand the pain of an unrequited love, particularly when it is a love that is societally forbidden for irrational reasons.  When I witnessed Dieyi acting out and making things difficult for Xiaolou, I was unhappy with his actions, but I was made to consider his feelings.  Morality can be seen from the perspective of ourselves and that of others.  When we deem that others act in a way that contradicts what we perceive as the right thing to do (such as: “if you truly loved me, you wouldn't do things that hurt me”), we can get wrapped up in emotion and even feel a justified sense of vengeance.

                As the story progresses, the characters get more chances to make what most might deem to be significantly immoral actions.  When Xiaolou is questioned by members of the Communist Party, he folds under duress and reveals that Dieyi performed for the Japanese and gave an implication of his homosexual relationship with Yuan.  In return, Dieyi reveals Juxian’s position as a prostitute, which makes Xiaolou feel the need to deny his love for her.  The dreadfulness of these actions is highlighted by the raging fire, making a visualization that I conceptualized as the burning fires of hell, which would certainly have strong associations with the immoral and sinful.  I think that this was a valuable filmic portrayal of morality, especially because of the already established characterization of Dieyi and Xiaolou.  Even though they have done bad things, I would assume that as an audience, most people would consider both main characters as reasonably well-meaning and mostly decent people.  The fact that they betray each other on such a deep level, and the way the Communist Party is shown harshly imposing on the two characters, helps the audience respect the fact that many of our moral codes can be broken under harsh circumstances.  Our convictions may seem strong and resilient, but only when they are put to the test can we really know how they hold up.

                Joint Security Area framed morality in yet another way.  It juxtaposed the morality in the feelings that a pair of South Korean soldiers shared with a pair of North Korean soldiers, and their duty and obligation to serve their countries.  While these two types of morality can be delineated in somewhat simple terms, the way to negotiate and compromise between them is immensely complex, especially due to them being seemingly mutually exclusive.  The drama that unfolds between the North and South soldiers illustrates the fact that government and politics can make people suffer, that the unreconciled differences between two nations (in this case a nation that has been split into two) can compromise the morality of individuals.  It’s interesting how this can be seen to parallel the way the Communist Party broke down the characters in Farewell My Concubine.  The group of soldiers may not have had their faces pressed against the fires of hell, but the introduction of an “outsider” (the commanding officer that unknowingly walked in on the four) forced them to face a hellish system where an understanding seemed to be impossible.  Both movies provided a situation in which we saw characters develop in ways which made them out to be respectable people, and then we see those people realistically break down due to their environment and witness a degradation of their morals.

                The last film I would like to analyze is Ikiru.  It reminded me of a proverbial expression that I’ve held on to for a long time, which is a quote from Socrates: “The unexamined life is not worth living.”  As humans, we have been given sentience and life.  Could it not be said that it is our moral duty to make the most of what we have in regards to living our lives?  Do we not owe it to ourselves to examine our place in the world, our beliefs, and our behavior in regards to how we treat ourselves and other people?  Watanabe is a fantastic character, not because he expresses some ideal paradigm, but because of his very human flaws.  While it may be a bit extreme to let yourself be stagnant at a job and to limit your experience of life to the extent that Watanabe did, the meaning behind his actions can be made applicable to almost any of our lives.  We become a bit like Watanabe in our own ways.  We reach levels of comfort and habituation that undermine the full realization of ourselves.  Just as Watanabe needed a terminal illness to get him to reexamine his life and change the way he was living, we sometimes need motivation to reassess the some of the significant aspects of living our own lives as well.

                Within the scope of morality, how much does intent matter?  Watanabe seemed to have the intention to do what was best for his son.  He wanted to hold a stable enough job so that he could give his remaining family peace of mind and security, but in doing so, he missed crucial moments in Mitsuo’s (his son’s) life.  Was Watanabe being immoral by perpetuating such a stagnant and fruitless life?  It’s funny how in breaking from this lifestyle, Watanabe ended up having a night of debauchery (which was by some standards very tame) which is traditionally in essence immoral.  I hesitate to call this exploration of life immoral, and instead consider it something more along the lines of being potentially irresponsible.  Either way, Watanabe has us consider a morality in that we must actively challenge what is wrong, just as he found that he had to challenge the futile bureaucratic system he was a part of.

                As for other films I have thought about in regards to morality, I could have talked about Fallen Angels, examining whether some of the characters were immoral or amoral, and Mononoke-hime, in which a sense of morality is tied to a respect and understanding of nature, and consideration could be given as to whether it is moral to help a select group at the cost of others.  Now that I have seen Oldboy, I have some thoughts swimming around about how impactful some of the most immoral actions of characters can be, and the difficulties in portraying a character who is so extremely worn down and a villain who has the capacity for such prolonged and premeditated malevolence.

                Morality is a deep topic, and it is hard to do it justice when I have tried to cover multiple movies at a relatively brief length.  Still, I feel that it is valuable to consider what we have learned about morality that stems from Eastern works, and to consider how it is effectively portrayed in film.  This class provided a lot of stimulating thought and discussion, not just on morality, but numerous different topics and aspects of life.  I want to thank Dr. Mizenko and all of my classmates for providing a class that I’ll remember and keep thinking about for a long time.

Japan Blossay - Formal Analysis of Late Spring and Ikiru

                Auteur theory is the idea that film directors express things that are unique to their personal creative vision through their particular way of conceptualizing and putting together the elements of a film.  The director, as the auteur, places a bit of him/herself in any work that he/she creates.  It should be recognized that many other people are involved in the making of films, and they too have the capabilities of expressing their own unique way of doing things, but the fact that the director is at the head of creative operations allows us to consider that their personalities, perspectives, and ways of thinking are predominantly expressed.  I think that it is reasonable and appropriate to consider both Yasujirō Ozu and Akira Kurosawa as masterful auteurs of film.  Evidence can be provided through a formal analysis of their films, and while I can’t yet say that Late Spring and Ikiru (respectively) are the best examples of their auteurship, I will certainly argue that they can provide ample evidence.

                It is seemingly impossible to formally analyze Yasujirō Ozu’s Late Spring without bringing up the focus on the low-angle shot, which in Ozu’s case has earned the name “tatami shot.”  We see it throughout the film, and many scholars have discussed it while still not being truly sure of Ozu’s true intent and meaning behind it.  I think the low-angle shots do a lot to help present a view that reinforces the feeling of it being a naturalistic observation.  To me, the point of view is not of one sitting on a tatami mat, as it is too low, instead, it is the point of view of a piece of furniture or object.  The view comes from something that belongs within the given setting, and is not intruding upon anything.  Its relative position to the characters of the film implies a respect or reverence.  We can see these elements very well in the scene in which Shukichi comes home from work and Noriko assists him in his usual routine.

                Through Ozu’s meticulous choice in fixed shots from different low-angle perspectives throughout the household, we become voyeuristic observers in the ordinary lives of the Somiya family.  Our view is not one of a privileged position, as the shot stays fixed even when Noriko has her back to us and is completely obscuring Shukichi from view.  This seems to be done with a sense of purpose, and it makes sense in context when we consider Late Spring’s genre classification as a shomin-geki, meaning that it is a Japanese film that focuses on the ordinary lives of working class people.

    One of the most memorable feelings I felt throughout my viewing of Late Spring was a sense of serenity and calm.  I would argue that one of Ozu’s fundamental aspects is that the film itself doesn’t overload the senses.  Music, for example, is used somewhat sparingly, mostly heard in transitions, and avoids melodramatic accentuation.  The music itself tends to be peaceful and cheerful, but does become a bit more sweeping and emotional at the very end.  As for visuals, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of camera movement at all.  Some of the static shots he employs are called “pillow shots,” which are transitional shots in which objects and settings are shown that have symbolic relation to the narrative, but aren’t necessarily part of the story.

    These shots add to a sense of unhurried thoughtfulness.  It makes me feel as if Ozu wants the audience to essentially “stop and smell the roses,” to help us get the most out of what he intends to show us.   Most of the indoor shots and some of the outdoor shots have the camera in a fixed position.  A scene that stuck out to me in which these aspects are portrayed in a remarkable way would be where Noriko and Hattori are riding their bikes together.

                This scene is particularly interesting because it actually has camera movement, but many of the shots, particularly the ones in which Noriko or Hattori are shown alone, are shot in a way in which the characters are framed in a fixed space.  I read that Ozu would drive his cameraman to tears by his insistence in the synchronization of the movement of the camera with the movement of the actors during a tracking shot.  Why would he be so insistent on such a thing?  I can’t say I know for sure, but as a true auteur, Ozu seems unwilling to compromise on the way he wants things portrayed.  Some say that his approach is contrarian to the typical Hollywood approach of making film, but I honestly think the differences are circumstantial rather than intentional.  Ozu knows how to effectively portray what he wants on screen, and anything extra or superfluous would detract from his vision.  Therefore, he would have no reason to stick to more typical filmic conventions.  Ozu’s works are simple and elegant while containing a lot of thoughtfulness and meaning.

                While Ozu may have more tangible consistency in the extent of what makes him an auteur, Akira Kurosawa’s passion and commitment to being involved in all aspects of film design compels me to also consider him an auteur.  Both directors pay meticulous attention to detail, but they do it in very different ways.  The mise-en-scène of Ikiru’s office spaces highlights the inefficacy and problems of the bureaucratic system by having mountains of paper and cramped spaces with disinterested workers, portraying a systematic chaos and perpetual futility.  Ozu finds integrity in the simple and modest, while Kurosawa goes the extra mile to cram his mise-en-scène with many little details for a complex authenticity.

                In the scene in which the concerned mothers are redirected to all manner of departments, only to return to where they started, we can clearly see aspects of Kurosawa’s auteurship.  Every single shot has something going on in the background to provide verisimilitude and dynamic elements.  This scene in particular also has one of Kurosawa’s well-known trademarks, the wipe.  He uses the wipe for every transition in this scene, making each prior shot linger as we move on to the next one.  In this particular scene, it helps accentuate the ridiculousness of the situation as they move from one department to the next.

                As opposed to Ozu, Kurosawa’s camera is much more dynamic.  He uses a lot of tracking shots and has cameras filming from multiple perspectives and angles at once, allowing for a great variation of shots.  He seems to favor the eye-line shot and a frequent use of close-up shots, likely highlighting the expressions of his very capable cast of actors.  One thing that Ozu and Kurosawa share is their penchant for having the same actors and actresses star in many of their films.

                The scene in which Watanabe finds out about his cancer contains a lot of interesting elements.  From the start, we hear the clank of medical equipment and the eerie hum of the x-ray viewer.  Once Watanabe hears the dooming phrase of his affliction simply being an ulcer, it quickly cuts to Watanabe dropping his hat, while we hear a pounding beat.  All of this serves to unnerve the viewer, helping them to empathize with Watanabe.  The camera cuts from one person to another, having the viewer give greater consideration to what each of the characters may be thinking and feeling during this tense and uncomfortable scene.

                I’ll be honest here, it is difficult to go into as much depth as I’d like to in regards to how Ozu and Kurosawa are auteurs without actually watching their other films.  However, with Late Spring and Ikiru being as rich and expressive of their respective directors as they are, I feel like it was a worthwhile venture to explore these two works in such a way.  When I imagine Ozu at work, I see a clarity and confidence of vision.  He breaks down film into the essential, and with great discipline molds and constructs his works according to his own tight rules and parameters, not those of typical filmic and supposedly crowd-pleasing convention.  Kurosawa at work is a man who considers all facets of the cinematic process and stops at nothing short of the best.  He gives great consideration to detail, creating worlds that seem to live of their own volition.  His camera work is fearless, using the vast range of motion and perspective that film has to offer.

China Blossay - A Review of Zhang Yimou's Hero (2002)

(Please note: this is a film review for Hero and while I do my best to avoid unnecessary spoilers, I cannot make it completely spoiler-free.  Hero is a 99-minute long wuxia film directed by Zhang Yimou and one of my favorite films, available from Netflix’s Instant Queue and Myrin Library.  If you have any interest in watching the film, I highly recommend that you watch it before reading my blossay.)

            I can still remember my older brother renting Zhang Yimou's Hero from Blockbuster shortly after it was made available for home rental--about eight years ago.  It's the very first foreign language English-subtitled movie I can remember watching.  I would have thought that reading subtitles was going to be a chore, but soon after the move started, I don't remember minding at all.  Why?  Well, I can still vividly remember it being such a stunning spectacle in my 13-year-old (or so) eyes.  Not only was I impressed by the actual martial arts of the fight scenes, but also the amazing scenery and how they were interwoven in these struggles between masterful, graceful fighters.  Ten years later, I could still think back and remember elements of the first fight.  I still had vivid memories of the beautiful courtyard, the magnificent effect of rain and water, and the plucking of the old musician's stringed instrument.

Having never seen any wuxia films other than Hero prior to our screening of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (CTHD), I came into it with expectations from my rose-tinted memories of watching Hero as a kid.  It may come as a surprise, but these expectations made we walk away from CTHD somewhat unsatisfied.  CTHD is a fantastic and expertly-crafted film, with my frame of mind of what a wuxia film was, it seems that maybe I wanted more of an epic, sweeping adventure.  I decided to re-watch Hero after eight years to reassess what made my expectations as they were.  If I were to suggest a singular film that truly seems to capture the essence of wuxia, I could very confidently say that Hero would be that film.

The overarching story of Hero is based on a mythological retelling of the historical origin of China and it's first emperor, and woven into the plot of Hero is the concept of storytelling and narrative itself.  The plot works within a framework of having the protagonist, known as Nameless (Jet Li), and the King of Qin (Chen Daoming) exchanging stories.  Each telling of a story is beautifully portrayed in a series of flashbacks.  The audience likely won't be privy to Nameless's scheming at first.  The film takes place in a mythic land of wuxia, where inhuman feats are possible, so we take his tales as truth.  We can easily be made to forget that while the characters can accomplish the feats portrayed, they may still simply choose to create their own versions of the truth.  I think it is particularly interesting how the characters of the film who are already living legends use stories as a means to an end, because stories are the only way we can experience these types of heroes in real life.  By the time that we get to the supposed truth of events, we have the protagonist reassess his entire mission after ten long years of preparation.  At that point, the "right" thing to do is no longer clear.  The subject of sacrifice for the greater good and the needs of the many is juxtaposed against vengeance and a challenge against potential tyranny.

            While the origins and station of the heroes of wuxia tend to be modest, their adventures and undertakings are everything but.  Part of the reason I didn't enjoy CTHD as much as I thought I would was likely simply due to scope.  I think that CTHD provided beautiful characterization of the retirement of a wuxia hero (Li Mu Bai), and the struggles of one who yearns to live that type of free life (Jen).  The problem for me was that I wanted to know of the great adventures of Li Mu Bai.  I wanted to see the experiences that made Shu Lien the powerful and honorable woman she was.  I want to stress that there is nothing wrong about showing the conflicts that are more subtle and repressed.  We should consider that Lee Ang's intent was not to make the quintessential wuxia film.  It was interesting how both films have love stories, but have the characters express their love in such different ways.  Li Mu Bai and Shu Lien’s love for one another was something that I feel fits well under my (somewhat nebulous) idea of “zimny ogień,” or “cold fire.”  Their love has intense passion, but it is not outwardly expressed, instead it is withheld and kept inside due to obligations to uphold societal expectations.  In Hero, Broken Sword and Flying Snow’s love is portrayed in a more dramatic and theatrical manner.  We witness a unique relationship where they must engage in combat against each other, because of conflicting motives (where one believes firmly that the king must be assassinated, while the other is convinced that he must live), and even in an attempt to save the other's life (by attempting to wound the other enough so they cannot continue the mission, but not severely enough that they might die).  They both clearly express that they are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for each other.

It’s hard to think of a scene that isn’t beautifully arranged.  The King of Qin’s beautiful palace is serene yet imposing, and his devout followers and legions of soldiers are shown in staggering masses.  I am reminded of Raise the Red Lantern (which Yimou also directed), where the palatial nature of the setting resonates due to mise-en-scene that captures the beauty of the architecture and the dutiful work of the servants.  The fights all have their own unique aspects of using the set to enhance their masterful portrayal of martial arts.  In one scene, Flying Snow (Maggie Cheung) reluctantly fights someone in a forest.  The fallen leaves accentuate the actions of both combatants, but the viewer can easily tell that Flying Snow has the upper hand.  With a sweep of her sword, Flying Snow can manipulate the air around her, rebuffing her opponent with ease.  At the end of the fight, the leaves that were previously in shades of bright yellow-orange all transition into a stark hue of blood red.  In another scene, Nameless and Broken Sword (Tony Leung) have a duel on top of the waters of a lake.  They gracefully spin and dance on top of the water, having the ability to tread on it and hold themselves up with their blades alone.  The narration tells us that these combatants don’t really want to fight each other, and the scene expresses that well.  Much more time is spent in this fight on the ballet-like maneuvers of each fighter; many times they go back and forth without striking against one another.  The use of color itself, such as the green billowy drapes in the fight between Broken Sword and the King of Qin (perhaps signifying the challenge of newfound knowledge and reassessing one’s way of thinking), the reds seen during the arrow bombardment of the calligraphy school (reinforcing the power of Chinese tradition and duty), or the blues during the scene at the lake (expressing sorrow and a loss of passion), is simply astounding. Even scenes for the sake of transition offer us a breathtaking view of the landscape of this imagined ancient China.

The story that Hero tells is something that feels truly profound.  The way the characters act makes it seem like they are ancient myth made flesh.  They provide a striking balance between a certain level of realism, allowing the view for a suspension of disbelief, and supernatural capabilities portrayed with a full confidence, that makes us believe that this is an onscreen portrayal of the genuine heroes of wuxia as imagined by many before us.  Even supporting characters, such as the master at the school of calligraphy, uphold this difficult balance.  As arrows rain upon his humble school, his students flee in terror.  He stops them, saying “You must all remember.  The arrows of Qin may be powerful, they may penetrate our cities and destroy our kingdom, but they can never annihilate our written words!  Today you will all learn the true spirit of our art.”  He proceeds to his position at the front of the class, continuing to write his calligraphy with an astounding bravery and dignity, even as arrows pour into the room.  It is enough to make all of his students believe in the worthiness of their work and their art, as they all pick up their tools and continue to write, even in the face of death.

Hero does a marvelous job of bringing the mystic heroes of a storyteller’s ancient China to life on screen.  The characters, setting, and thematic elements work cohesively together to make a truly evocative experience.  So much must have been labored over in the creation of the world, and it truly shows.  This is a movie that another ten years from now will still augment my expectations of film.