Ikiru

The ‘few months to live’ plot device has become common currency for both innumerable TV movies and a fair helping of starry studio pictures vainly hoping to earn themselves an Oscar or two. Think of Dying Young, Autumn in New York or Steel Magnolias and you’ll immediately bring to mind sentimentalist rubbish. Though it dates from 1952 and thus pre-figures these efforts by a healthy margin, Ikiru - in which Takashi Shimura’s Watanabe discovers he is dying of stomach cancer – nonetheless can’t help but prompt such associations for modern viewers. Not that we need worry, however, for director and co-writer Akira Kurosawa firmly refutes such easy emotions. His approach is bittersweet as opposed to sentimental, Ikiru consisting of numerous techniques with which to combat any such traits.

The film begins almost as a case study, its first shot being that of an x-ray and its first words being spoken by an off-screen narrator. Watanabe is mockingly referred to as “our hero”, the ironic detachment continuing as he is compared to “a corpse” and generally treated in as harsh and stark a manner as possible: “Just killing time, just drifting through life.” Even our on-screen characters are less than complementary; both his son and daughter-in-law, and his colleagues at the town hall offices in which he works, seemingly have little time or respect for him. Moreover, they also appear to be doing a lot more talking and, initially, gaining a lot more screen time than Shimura as though Kurosawa is pressing us into taking their side. Indeed, this all seems a little strange coming for director renowned for his humanism, as well as a film which is said to bear out this quality more than any other in his lengthy career.

Yet Kurosawa is clearly working with intent here and the effect is twofold. Firstly, it creates an especially bleak world view. Despite being informed that Ikiru is set during “the warmest winter for thirty years” everyone appears downcast and almost unnaturally cynical (most ably demonstrated by the “red tape” montage in which a group of women are bundled from one bureaucratic subsection to the next without ever achieving anything constructive). Secondly, it means that Watanabe is able to achieve three dimensions and never once become the sentimental ploy that his inevitable death would no doubt allow for.

Certainly, by the time Watanabe does begin to figure more prominently onscreen, we’re not entirely sure how to take him – and this is something which Shimura only serves to enhance. Ikiru is quite a lengthy film for its time (with PAL speed-up it totals 137 minutes) and this allows Kurosawa to take the character through various permutations. First he takes to self-loathing and self-pity, next he turns to drink and then he finds a new lease of life by clinging onto Miki Odagiri’s youthful co-worker. In all three instances he’s hard to pin down, being neither a firmly likeable creation nor a dislikeable one; as said, Kurosawa refuses to take the easy emotional options. Rather he repeatedly frames Shimura in giant close-ups and lets the actor take the weight. The results are often tough and unforgiving, but as cinema truly extraordinary. Time and again the range of Shimura is really quite remarkable; he can do a poker face as well as Buster Keaton and represent pure innocent joy in a manner which tops Harpo Marx. And it is best to use ostensibly silent comedians as examples such is the expressiveness of his face. Indeed, you could strip away Ikiru solely to these close-ups and still be left with some moments of exquisite drama.

Of course, what this creates is a film which is ultimately dictated by Shimura and as such plays out at a different pace to Kurosawa’s Toshiro Mifune collaborations. Consider Throne of Blood and Rashomon, or even one of their earlier teamings such as Drunken Angel, and you’ll find films which driven at headlong speeds by the actor’s intense, extrovert performances. With Ikiru, however, we’re faced with a much quieter, far more deliberate approach which, on an initial viewing, can come as something of a culture shock to those used to Kurosawa’s jauntier efforts. Even the scoring – in stark contrast to the immediate themes which populate Seven Samurai, Yojimbo and the like – feels subdued and, at times, even apologetic.

Yet the deliberation is all there for a purpose. It makes us pay more attention to proceedings and the little details, it allows the characters to grow (Odagiri in particular is able to create a charming portrayal and one of the few female characters in a Kurosawa film to possess any genuine warmth, not to mention terrific comic timing), and it makes that bittersweet, oftentimes bleak, edge all the more discernible. Indeed, Ikiru is the director’s standout non-Mifune effort and it genuinely makes you question why his post-1965 efforts (that year being the date of Kurosawa’s final collaboration with the actor, Red Beard), with the exception of Ran perhaps, never again saw anything of its like.

The Disc

In all honesty Ikiru isn’t in the greatest of conditions. The print from which this disc has been taken is in a rather battered condition with numerous scratches and instances of tramlining. However, it would appear that the print used for the Criterion edition was identical and as such leads to the conclusion that this is perhaps the best the BFI had on offer. Indeed, if we can look past the surface damage then it reveals a print of excellent clarity and fine, if occasionally wavering, contrast. Ultimately then, the results aren’t really all that disappointing and, if approached in the correct manner, Ikiru remains watchable throughout.

In a far worse condition is the film’s soundtrack. Here we find the original Japanese mono, yet it’s blighted by a multitude of pops and crackles, plus an overall background noise. Certainly, the dialogue itself and the score remain audible in themselves, yet it’s also true that the damage – even if it couldn’t have been helped – is highly distracting during the quieter moments. (Note also that the English subtitles, though generated by the disc, are non-optional.)

As for extras, the major addition here is an entertaining and lengthy introduction by filmmaker, and former host of the BBC’s Moviedrome, Alex Cox (Repo Man, Highway Patrolman). He’d previously directed a documentary on Kurosawa entitled The Last Emperor and here offers up both a précis of his life from childhood to final feature Not Yet and a more concentrated discussion of Ikiru itself. This first half also appears on Cox’s introductions to Red Beard and Sanjuro (also available from the BFI), but thankfully chapter divisions are present to avoid any repetition for those who have sampled these other pieces. Note also that this shouldn’t really be classed as an introduction if you’ve not yet seen the film given that it contains a number of spoilers. Rounding off the package we also find brief on-screen bios for both Kurosawa and Shimura, plus typically fine sleeve notes by critic Philip Kemp. (As a final note, it’s also worth pointing out that the Cox introduction comes without optional subtitles.)