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Daimajin
Daimajin’s chief claim to fame is that it is the gigantic, stone samurai movie. That’s quite a mouthful, and considering that it was made in 1960s when Godzilla had deviated from being a grave image for nuclear destruction and had firmly planted himself as a B-grade rubber monster, it would initially be tempting to group the stone demigod in with his fellow rubber cohorts of the era. Just look at his costume. A statue that, when called to life, turns from stone to more rubber-like in nature, complete with a blue, angry mask that clearly only serves to conceal a obviously human one. Plus, there’s that man-in-monster-suit-strut, which shakes the earth with thunder-like power that is slightly out of step with the actual walk of the demigod itself. There is definitely some B-level action happening here. Yet Daimajin is not like the Godzilla films of its era; in fact, it owes more to the Zatoichi series than the men-in-suits epics. It is curious to note that many websites devoted to Asian and samurai films rank it not with rubber lizards, but as essential, serious samurai viewing. A man-in-suit movie is indispensable viewing for those interested in samurai drama? Why? Because like Sanjuro, Zatoichi, and Nemuri Kyoshiro, the world that Daimajin inhabits is a chillingly real one, in which noble people are few and in between and most samurais are opportunistic, nomadic scoundrels who will slay helpless innocents if it means they will have riches and glory. This is a world filled with such injustice that it takes the likes of a supernatural, wandering demigod to administer justice and bring equilibrium. Otherwise, the turmoil would be too much to bear. It is also a world in which the old ways have been seemingly overpowered by the new ways, when the oppressors consider themselves to be so modern and civilized that a peasant’s threat of a god’s wrath only solicits laughter. As Daimajin awakens and comes to reap his vengeance, such “civilized” villains realize too late that they might have underestimated their opponents, not unlike the foes of Zatoichi who think they have an advantage over a blind swordsman. Daimajin seems to argue that there is something to be said for the old arts and the ancient traditions, and they refuse to be forgotten and shut away even as society advances and “improves.” Of course, any improvement that creates oppression is not an improvement at all, no matter how more convenient a rifle is over a sword (notice that the protagonists of the film never use “modern” weapons, but only swords). These men of authority have mistaken the ability to overpower others with the right to do so, and Daimajin serves to remind them that under the forces of fate and nature, all men are rendered equal. It’s surprising that a film with such outlandish subject matter is able to contain such depth. I suspect that it is the clear absence of the supernatural through nearly the entirety of the film that makes its man-in-suit ending work so well: What we have here is an intelligently-crafted adventure story about feudal Japan and warring tribes, and it deals in the human element and political intrigue for over three-fourths of the film before Daimajin actually makes his colossal entry and begins to smash the evildoers. That he arrives when he arrives—a god finally appearing to smite the foes of his oppressed people—gives with film a feeling of Biblical justice that rings less like B-grade cheese than it simply and convincingly brings the film to its inevitable but wholly satisfactory conclusion. Incurring the wrath of a god certainly brings to mind the vengeance of the Old Testament God, but Daimajin’s inspiration also comes from other mythological sources. Majin (as he is called in the film) is an angry god who was trapped inside a stone statue thousands of years before the movie begins, yet he can still control the weather and bring curses down on people who do not pay him homage. As a result, the locals worship him and present ritualistic sacrifices to him once a year, and that appeases his wrath. Until the final scenes, he remains distant, closed off, but ever present in the fearful minds of his worshippers. Sounds a bit like King Kong, no? Majin is also benevolent to those who worship him, and he will occasionally be stirred to life to assist those who help him—certainly a nod to the gods of Greek mythology. That he is a gigantic stone creature who will not necessarily stop his rampage after he has fulfilled his obligations also brings to mind the dreaded Gollum of German lore. The plot plays a bit like Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood, which in itself is an adaptation of Shakespeare’s MacBeth: A trusted chamberlain murders his king, gathers an army, slaughters all advisors loyal to the king, and assumes the throne. With the help of a noble samurai, the king’s children escape to the mountain of Majin, where the god rests silently in a gigantic stone structure. Ten years pass, which the refugees spend in meditation and worship. In the meantime, spies relay the status of the kingdom while the samurai, prince, and princess carefully plot their revenge. Once they learn that the new “king” has forced their subjects into slavery and oppression, they decide to act. I won’t, of course, reveal how the plot unfolds or how Majin finally factors in, but if you are familiar with either Throne of Blood or MacBeth, you shouldn’t expect much variation: If no sixty-foot gods facture into Daimajin’s inspirations, Divine Wrath is still apparent in them. The difference is that Daimajin presents retribution in the form of a literal god, whereas Kurosawa and Shakespeare only imply it. I’ll also add that once Daimajin arrives and begins his rampage, the special effects are surprisingly strong and much more absorbing than those of the Godzilla films. Instead of using obvious blue screens and unconvincing models, director Kimiyoshi Yasuda (who is also responsible for many of Zatoichi’s adventures) creates the illusion of the towering stone god mainly with trick photography and camera angles. Against all budgetary odds, it really looks like the king’s army is fleeing in terror from the demigod. The few moments of blue screen, such as men scrambling on the roof of a tower while Daimajin comes into view and stares at them icily, are convincing enough that they are not distracting. Daimajin is the first of a trilogy of films that were all shot simultaneously in 1966—the other two films, which were more or less remakes that effectively rehashed the same material, were aptly called The Return of Daimajin and The Wrath of Daimajin. All of the films featured similarly-told stories in which the Majin’s people are repressed by an evil samurai lord, and after great struggle and hardship, the gigantic stone god emerges from his dwelling and reaps a terrible, violent vengeance on those who have wronged his servants. Because the stories are well told and the oppression of these people always makes for stirring, convincing drama, I don’t mind that the films all reach an inevitable, action-packed conclusion in which the outcome is obvious—after all, so do the Yojimbo and Zatoichi series. Like those films, Daimajin is not so much about the action sequences, but rather concerns itself with the depravity in our nature that make such violent conclusions the only possible way to fairly administer justice. Daimajin takes place in rugged times when those in power dared to oppress innocent people without any thought of retribution. In real life, we know that most of these cruel people got away with their evil deeds. In the movies, we have the confidence that the merciful Daimajin is going to take care of his children. It’s a comforting thought. Cast: A film by Daiei Studios. Directed by Kimiyoshi Yasuda. Written by Tetsuro Yoshida. No M.P.A.A. rating, but contains lots of swords clashing and mostly bloodless violence. Running time: 84 minutes. Original Japanese theatrical release date: April 17, 1966. Japanese with English subtitles. Questions? Comments? E-mail me: danel_the_tinman@hotmail.com |
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