D: Hideo Gosha. P: Ginichi Kashimoto,
Tetsuro Tanba. W: Keiichi Abe, Hideo Gosha, Ginichi Kashimoto, Eizaburo Shiba.
Ph: Tadashi Sakai. M: Toshiaki Tsushima. St: Tetsuro Tamba (Sakon Shiba), Isamu
Nagato (Kyojuro Sakura), Mikijiro Hira (Einosuke Kikyo), Miyuki Kuwano (Aya),
Yoshiko Kayama (Oyasu)
The most renowned of these internationally,
of course, certainly in the area of jidaigeki,
was Kurosawa, and his influence is apparent throughout Three Outlaw Samurai, from the basic setup of swordsmen defending
farmers to the Sanjuro-like demeanour of the titular antiheroes. Much as the
best works of, say, Ford and Leone were perfect distillations of generic
material, so Kurosawa and the most talented of his compatriots refined plot
elements widespread in samurai fiction. Besides fixating on the internal
conflict between giri (obligation to
one’s clan or masters) and ninjo
(conscience) that constantly rages in chambara
protagonists, filmmakers in the Sixties embarked on “a genuine exploration of
the social aberrations of Japan’s long feudal history”.[i]
A broad analogy can be drawn with the era’s revisionist American westerns.
Gosha’s meditations on this theme were suffused
with cynicism, although his early films are more digestible (and faster paced,
a legacy of his TV training) than his decade-ending masterpieces, Goyokin and Tenchu, with their acrid tang. Here, chambara stalwart Tetsuro Tamba plays Shiba, a ronin who combines the integrity of Kanbei in Seven Samurai with the sardonicism of Sanjuro in Yojimbo. Like all Gosha’s protagonists
he is a rebel; we don’t know why Shiba has rejected his feudal masters –
implicitly, he cannot reconcile giri
with ninjo – but his actions on
behalf of peasants in their dispute with a haughty magistrate speak louder than
words. A fellow “vagabond”, the scruffy spearman Sakura, takes Shiba’s side
partly because, like Kikuchiyo in Seven
Samurai and the peasants here, he is of farming stock. The remaining member
of the triumvirate, Kikyo, at first holds aloof – “I’ll see which way the wind
blows.” Employed by the magistrate as an enforcer, he declares that, “Fighting
farmers is a waste of my skill,” and eventually comes to Shiba’s aid, recognising
a stray dog of his own breed.
One of the film’s pleasures is watching
the central trio sizing each other up before applying their senses to the
situation at hand, weighing the relative benefits of involvement or detachment,
of remaining stray or forming a pack. Shiba’s air of amused disinterest gives
way fairly early to bruised nobility, befitting Tamba’s authoritative bearing.
His offer to take 100 lashes in exchange for the peasants’ pardon seems
entirely plausible, as does his outrage when the magistrate – a member of the
samurai class whose vow, we are told, “cannot be broken” – reneges on the deal.
As the nonchalant Kikyo, Hira manifests a healthy disdain for authority that
makes his volte-face explicable, while Nagato elicits laughter and empathy as Sakura,
a man in thrall to his emotions. Sakura’s remorse when he inadvertently kills a
farmer is compounded when he falls for the widow, before his conscience guides
him back to his comrades for the final showdown.
As an examination of masculine mores this
ranks alongside the pithiest action films of the Sixties, but Gosha also
considered the role of women in a male-dominated society worthy of attention
and respect: in a gruelling scene, Oyasu, a peasant’s daughter, held as a
bargaining chip by the villains, kills herself to weaken their position; Aya, the
magistrate’s girl, experiences an epiphany, her eyes newly open to injustice –
“I don’t see things like before; not my father, not the world.” It is a bitter
irony that examples like Oyasu’s fail to embolden the peasants en masse, complicit as they are, in
Shiba’s view, in their own continued misery. Gosha finds few reasons for
optimism in a rigidly hierarchical system.
The director’s craftsmanship
complements the verve of the storytelling. Well-balanced shots make full use of
the frame, often staged in depth and imbued with rich tonal contrasts by
Sakai’s superb monochrome photography. The flurries of violent action are
visceral, with ritualistic posing kept to a minimum.
Gosha’s maverick heroes end the film poised
for further adventures. There were no sequels, but the director in his
remaining chambara continued the
fight against corruption and oppression, extended his critique of the vaunted samurai
code. In the process, he became arguably “the first director working in the
genre to define a profound and consistent world view”.[ii]
Kevin Grant
[i] Alain Silver, The Samurai Film (Overlook, 2005)
[ii] Ibid
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