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Kagemusha (The Shadow Warrior)
Every director has their dream project that they spend most of their lives trying to complete. David Lean had Nostromo, which grinded to a halt during its pre-production stages when he was too ill and frail to carry on. Orson Welles had Don Quixote, which he never found the funds to finish (it was finally completed, none too well, by Jesse Franco). Klaus Kinski obsessed over the creation of a film about the life of Paganini, which was ultimately incoherent and jumbled. Yet not all dream projects have such tragic endings. Akira Kurosawa’s Kagemusha, his self-proclaimed dream project, might be the best film of his career, and it is certainly one of the greatest cinematic experiences of all time. Not to say that the fates didn’t try to stop this production: After years of being in pre-production stages and having had various investors back out, Kurosawa attempted suicide before American producers George Lucas and Francis Ford Coppola stepped in to give the Japanese director the funds that he needed to complete the film once and for all. Both men have directed dream projects themselves, so they must have sympathized with Kurosawa’s struggles. Cinema is the better for it: Kagemusha is the type of film that inspires us film critics to want to write about movies, and I mean this in the best way possible. Kagemusha is a film about such a man who never quite knows what to expect, a man whose loyalties and perspectives shift until the final moments when he makes his final, triumphant stand for a cause that seems to surprise even him. Along the way, he seems to be living in routines, unsure of his next step, or even if a next step is an option. He learns along the way as he comes to both appreciate and fear his position on the earth. So do we. This man is a kagemusha, which means “shadow warrior.” The film speculates on historical events, in which a great warlord/king during sixteenth century Japan (Tatsuya Nakadai, who plays both the leader and his double) is killed in battle. For three years, his officials kept his secret using a body double, so that their soldiers would not lose heart at the fall of their beloved leader. After all, there were still battles to be won. This idea by itself would make for an interesting movie, but Kurosawa isn’t interested in the story of this warlord and his people so much as he is interesting in the poor thief who doubles him for such a long period of time. This is quite an interesting, internal approach that chronicles the history of an entire people through the eyes of one, terrified man. I am reminded of a one-man stage play I once saw about David and Goliath. It was told through the eyes of a completely overlooked character: The Bible speaks of Goliath’s shield bearer, who was the only other person on the field, witnessing the action firsthand when David slew the giant. One wonders how the poor shield carrier must have felt as he gripped an instrument bigger than he was and watched helplessly as a little boy chopped off his master’s head. In essence, Kagemusha is concerned with this very question. In the first scene, we are introduced to both the prince and the pauper, who are almost identical in features. In one long, nearly extreme shot, the thief is brought in by the king’s brother (Tsutomu Yamazaki), who rescued the man from crucifixion when he noticed the resemblance. The king, Shingen, is astonished that this beggar bears such an uncanny likeness, and he quickly absolves to make the thief his double. Still, Shingen is worried that despite their similar faces, no one would believe that this “wicked scoundrel” could convince anyone that he is really a king. The thief snaps back, “I only stole a few coins. A petty thief. But you've killed hundreds and robbed whole domains. Who is wicked, you or I?” I include this quote because it is the basis on which the rest of the movie rests. Flash forward a few years, and we find that Shingen has died in battle, but his final order is that no one know of his death for three years, so that the war with their neighboring enemies will find completion. If his men realize that he is dead, then they will be too brokenhearted to fight. Shingen has a son who will assume the throne, but the king does not believe that he is ready. Better for the war to be over first, so that his son can slip into the kingly role with ease. As a result of this order, the thief is thrust into the role of the king’s double, where he is guided by Shingen’s brother and a small circle of officials who alone know the truth. Very soon, the thief comes to realize the weight of his role, as men die on the battlefield for the sake of their king. If he believes that Shingen “killed hundreds and robbed whole domains,” he comes to understand that it is quite a man who can inspire legions of soldiers to die for such a cause. A more standard film would have taken a Rocky approach by turning this “nobody” into a noble leader who rallies the people to war and fully embraces his role as king’s shadow. Kurosawa, of course, never made a standard film, and there is no “go for it” approach to be found here. Instead, Kurosawa emphasizes realism and honestly contemplates human fear, arrogance, and admiration. Throughout his career as Shingen’s shadow, the thief never finds his footing in the role. He remains careless, clueless, and always a pawn of the king’s advisers, who control nearly his every movement. Certainly the thief’s ingenuity proves to be very effective—there are several moments in which he manages to convince people who were close to Shingen that he is actually the king, simply by thinking on his feet. In a very powerful moment, Kurosawa rests the camera on the thief as he impersonates the late Shingen, and his advisors marvel at the resemblance. Despite these fleeting moments, the shadow never truly understands the role that he is shadowing, and he is always looking to his left and right during moments of action, seeking out visual gestures of advice from Shingen’s inner circle. Actor Nakadai creates a very effective character in these scenes, keenly aware that at any moment, this charade could end by one, simple slip. Despite this fear, he constantly tries to save face and keep up his appearance. It must have been a difficult role to juggle, but Nakadai pulls it off by carefully balancing the thief’s fear with his wits and calculation. The inner circle itself consists of people who never fully trust the thief, and their appreciation for his services is limited at best. When they final release him after three years, they do so in such a tactless and cold manner that we question whether or not they felt they really needed his services at all, or if they simply used him to honor the wishes of a stubborn, dying man. Kurosawa working on several different levels here. He is, of course, showcasing the importance of maintaining heroes—even when they are gone, their “shadow” remains and continues to influence whole nations. As he did in Seven Samurai, he also comments on class systems and the results when the rich combine forces with the poor for a cause greater than wealth. And Kagemusha is also a strapping adventure story, filled with exciting images of war, as well as a historical drama depicting the fall of a great warlord. The most intriguing aspect in Akira Kurosawa's films is his ability to cover a multitude of themes and ideas, even though he never makes any direct statement about any of them. His films are like real life that way: Things happen; it might be fate, it might be luck. We might learn something, we might not. It is in the celebration of never knowing where life finds it profoundness, but finding it nonetheless, even though it often cannot be defined. Kagemusha demonstrates such an involving approach, and Kurosawa has tells a story here alive with human emotion. It is one of his best films. Cast: Questions? Comments? E-mail me: danel_the_tinman@hotmail.com |
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