To be an artist is to live in the presence of one existential crisis: what is your legacy? For those who are brave, this is easy. All that one has to do is merely create, allowing the public to contemplate the meaning behind one’s creation. This is easier said than done, especially in an age where one viral exchange can turn years of hard work into a notorious failure. It makes sense that one would want to be more meticulous when releasing art into the world. It’s such a vulnerable part of oneself. At best, it comes to define a person and at worst it cripples them; hiding their passion from the world for fear of further scrutiny.
It’s definitely a conflict that I continue to face in my years of writing. The issue comes with defining what makes an artist successful. Is it the art itself, presenting a provocative message that resonates with society to the point that their image can become shorthand for something greater? Or is it the commerce, the mass-production that creates a stable living? I’ve found that the further into finances things go, the more compromised the vision becomes, and it often fails to recognize the artist’s truest intentions. It may get close, but for me personally, I’m proudest when I create art free of this exchange – which is kind of contradictory to capitalist society and really confuses things more. I want the art to be something that people look at and ask not only what its themes are, but “Who was Thomas Willett?” It’s a conversation between reader and author (and a big reason I hate The Death of the Author™).
Even though this is only my third experience with director Akira Kurosawa, I feel like he thinks very similar. Going in, I want to specify that I am not all that familiar with Post-WWII Japan nor do I recognize any historical significance to the story that may differ from my interpretation.
Ikiru (1952) is a film that I have long recognized by an image. To me, it’s one of the most recognizable moments in world cinema. As depicted on the poster, Kanji Watanabe (Takashi Shimura) is sitting on a swing set in the snow. It’s an ominous image that leaves one to wonder what brought this aging man to this place. It isn’t necessarily the most ideal place to be during the winter months, snow pouring down like dirt on a gravesite. Still, there is something beautiful about that still image, sticking with me and waiting for the day when I would stop by to hear about Watanabe’s life. Little did I know this would come late in the third act, a major moment in his narrative. But the most inspired part isn’t so much the image but everything that encompasses it.
The title is Japanese for “to live” and serves as the major thesis. What does it mean to live? Watanabe has gone decades in his life without any sign of accomplishment. With cancer looming, he is looking back on life and realizing how hollow it is. He has sacrificed so much for his family, but they have come to ignore him. When sharing his cancer diagnosis, his son becomes flippant, refusing to care. At work, Watanabe mostly stamps documents that take their turns on a bureaucratic whirligig. Even if it looks like a lot is done, nothing has been achieved. People will still complain that there’s sewage in the pipes while staff complains that some other department gets the job done.
In this regard, Watanabe is a cog. The way that Kurosawa shoots the office alone explains why he’s considered one of the greatest directors. On a character level, Watanabe is constantly fearing the day when cancer finally eats him, where his body becomes so backed up that he rejects food, that progress cannot be made. Behind his desk is an insurmountable pile of documents, intimidating him with endless work that will likely outlive him. Add in the dizzying montage that opens the film, the lack of productivity to better society becomes clear. As a collective, his fear is already a reality. The sewage represents stagnation, the documents inactivity, and the constant work around a lack of willingness to take responsibility for a problem. With nothing more than a selection of minor grievances, Kurosawa has effectively shown the antithesis: how the living are walking contradictions.
Watanabe isn’t an artist by trade, but then again he isn’t much of anything. With a family that disappoints him, he wonders what there is that he’ll leave behind for future generations. Is it just going to be mounds of paperwork? With his failing body, he realizes that he can’t die because he hasn’t lived, in some ways a failure of a human for decades. It’s to Shimura’s credit that he makes this impish man hold such deep sorrow. With just a lowered head, he feels like he’s examining life for the first time and realizing his own tragedy.
To Kurosawa’s credit, Ikiru isn’t solely the plight of Watanabe. While he is the central character going about a journey of rediscovering life, the third act takes a moment to ask questions about the greater society. Following his death, his coworkers gather to mourn his passing while questioning just what exactly the point of his death was. Did he die of cancer, or did he die from being frozen in the snow, the elements consuming him whole?
Going back to the image on the poster, Watanabe is out on the swing set. While this section of the story is told more from an observant standpoint, pulling away from anything resembling Watanabe’s personal focus, it becomes clear that this is the only way to fully understand his journey. The self becomes the community at this moment, reflecting on the achievements of an entire populous, eager to have something that they left behind in this world. Something that will live a positive lasting impact.
The men recounting this moment are his coworkers. They punch clocks with the familiar frequency. Watanabe dying on a swing initially seems barbaric because it seems foolish. He went against government protocol to produce a playground that would please the town. He has promised himself that he would build it in a part of town that needed improvement. Nobody wanted him to, and yet he did. In this own symbolic way, he was using his influence to better the world, to stop the cycle, and bring forth pride in the community.
It comes down to the song that he is singing, a reprise from earlier of a 1920s song called “Life is Brief.” When it’s initially brought up, he’s lost in the middle of an existential crisis. He is drinking to escape his misery, believing that somehow he will find happiness in the excess. The issue is that he doesn’t. At a bar, a pianist encourages him to sing what basically sounds like the thesis of the film, albeit with that depression one can only experience late at night at a bar. If it isn’t rock bottom, it’s the moment where things become clear, where he finally has a clear head and needs to find something purposeful.
The reprise is basically the satisfactory conclusion of everything. Having experienced a drive to better himself, he has finally achieved something of merit. Kurosawa shoots Watanabe often behind barriers, usually with bars that could symbolize imprisonment. They could also represent a foundation, a building of purpose in his life. By the time that the audience sees the image of him on the swing, he’s singing “Life is Brief” again, initially from the other side of a jungle gym. The bars once again look imprisoning as Kurosawa slowly moves into focus. Instead of cutting directly to a more conventional head-on shot, he pauses for a moment between the bars, creating this architectural frame, as if a photo that he’s finally proud enough to hang on his proverbial wall.
This is where everything glues together. Watanabe has never been happier. Gone are the suffocating backgrounds full of lifeless intimidation. He’s surrounded by emptiness as if clarity of his mind in the final moments.
Some may initially find the choice to focus on his coworkers a bit confusing or tedious, but something becomes clear. As they sit around conversing, they realize that for a man they deem useless, they sure are talking about him a lot. Watanabe seems crazy until they realize that he did something they hadn’t. Watanabe did something with his life that didn’t involve pointless busywork. He examined his life and chose to do something about his inferiority. With that revelation, the insecurity begins to rise in every expression, the reality that had they died tomorrow they wouldn’t be more than figurative cogs. What kind of life is that? Given that a governmental agency they are restricting others from similar happiness, they ask a lot of questions about their place in the world.
Ikiru is a phenomenal story that only grows in the viewer’s mind as they think about every detail. On the surface, Watanabe isn’t an interesting man. His ultimate accomplishment seems so mundane. But why is this so affecting to him? For the artist, the answer is much clearer. Everyone wants to create something valuable to the community, free of any immediate financial gain that could give them a stable life. Obviously, there is a need to find a balance in everything, but at the end of the day nobody will look at paychecks and be like “He’s a failure because he made minimum wage!” No, they’ll look at work that continues to serve value, like Watanabe and the playground. In some ways, the swing itself is his key to immortality, a tie to youth that gives him a small amount of joy.
With such a simple story, Kurosawa has captured the human condition so perfectly. It is full of joy and sadness, coming with revelations and growth along the way. It is likely that everyone watching does so with a meditation on their own lives, drawing in how Watanabe’s experiences are reflective of their own, whether it be the uncertainty or desperation, the triumph or isolation. Whatever it is, this story felt worth telling because most people argue with their own significance in the world. What will they leave behind to let the future know that they were here? As Watanabe quickly points out, it’s never too late to start trying to answer that question.
On some level, I continue to struggle with this scenario. As a writer, I know that my words will be the only thing one day that’s left of me. What do I want to leave behind to others, to let them know I was here? It’s true that aspects like not having a big day paycheck and international recognition make me feel like I haven’t achieved a single thing. That’s more a conflict of society informing how to judge these terms. However, as evident by this website, by my novels and social media interaction, I have gotten somewhere. Maybe it’s not entirely where I want to be, but if Ikiru has taught me anything, it’s that these small things mean more. Putting yourself out there and following passion matters. Kurosawa asks what you’re doing to make the world a better place, and hopefully you end the film with at least some idea of how you personally want to answer the question. I know that I do.
Comments
Post a Comment