Red Beard

Though it may not be as widely seen as the likes of Yojimbo and Rashomon, Akira Kurosawa’s 1965 epic Red Beard is a no less important inclusion in the director’s filmography. This was the work which concluded his working relationship with Toshiro Mifune and as such can be viewed as signalling the end of an era – that golden phase begun in 1948 with Drunken Angel, one which housed all of his finest achievements. Indeed, it would be another five years until his next feature, the disappointment that was Dodes-ka’den, whilst later efforts such as Dersu Uzula, Kagemusha and Ran, though no doubt admirable achievements, never really came close to matching the glories of Ikiru, Throne of Blood, Seven Samurai and the rest.

As such it’s tempting to see Red Beard as a summation of the Mifune years. After almost two decades of service the actor is finally granted a role of true authority. There’s none of the doubt or deep character flaws which had been part of his characters right up until previous collaboration High and Low. Rather he’s now in possession of a certain austerity and it influences the picture as a whole: we can detect it in its mood, its tone and, of course, its epic length. In fact it could be said that Mifune is finally occupying the Takashi Shimura role; after so many years of the being the “son” in their surrogate father-son relationship (see Stray Dog, Seven Samurai, etc.), he has at last graduated to playing the “father”.

Of course, what this means is that, despite occupying the titular role of Red Beard, Mifune also moves away from playing the lead. As was so often the case with Shimura, he’s there to provide the film’s backbone whilst the younger Yuko Kayama attracts much of the plot’s attentions. He plays a young intern, Red Beard being a hospital drama set in the late nineteenth century. The key is that the clinic in question services the poor who can’t afford the services of a physician, and this prompts arrogance in Kayama. He intends to become a Shogunate doctor and so the inevitable clashes with Mifune – and shifts in character – begin.

Ostensibly at least Red Beard could be considered a medical soap opera. The opening scenes provide us with a tour of the clinic, and an introduction to its key characters, and from hereon in it works as a series of episodes, each devoted to an individual case. In fact, it would be easy, given the running time of almost three hours, to split the film into six distinct half hour instalments and have yourself a miniseries akin to ER or Dr. Kildare. Each patient has their own story to tell – one provides a central flashback of an earthquake and doomed love; another involves a twelve-year old girl rescued from a brothel, etc. – and so each eats up their own little helping of screen time.

Yet this episodic nature never becomes a problem simply because Kurosawa chooses to place his central focus elsewhere. These supporting players merely dance in and out of a much grander narrative, one which finds its roots in the hospital’s staff. Primarily this involves Kayama’s intern growing from arrogance to nobility and an investigation of Mifune’s enigmatic title figure, yet there’s also the hard-nosed nurses and the other members of staff to consider. The individual cases may take precedent in small bursts, but it is these characters who provide Red Beard with its glue.

Moreover, the rooting of these little stories also allows for a greater dramatic range. Kurosawa is able to flit between moments of great humour and those of an astonishing intensity, from the occasional heartbreak to a scene of remarkable violence. The cases may serve as vignettes, yet each exists in the same world. Indeed, of all of the director’s period pictures, Red Beard is the one which perhaps feels the most real. Gone are the Noh stylings and highly pitched performances, in their stead we find grandiose sets, authentic props and an overall precision. Everything feels right, from the lighting of individual scenes to the most minor of supporting players – the overall impression being that Kurosawa has treated this film (two years in the making) with the utmost respect. Admittedly, it isn’t quite as arresting a work as Seven Samurai or Rashomon or even The Hidden Fortress - it shares none of their brashness, either in whole or in part – but as a conclusion to his finest filmmaking years, it makes for a fittingly mature end.

The Disc

Red Beard comes with one of the BFI’s best Kurosawa presentations so far. We get the film in its original ’scope ratio, anamorphically enhanced and looking generally fine. The first 20 minutes or so and the concluding scenes are blighted by some moderate damage, but otherwise we’re getting excellent clarity and consistent, seemingly correct contrast levels. Indeed, every snow flake can be seen, every bead of sweat on our doctors’ and nurses’ heads. As for the soundtrack here we find a DD5.0 offering. In the case of the Criterion release, the film came with DD4.0 mix (as is befitting a ’scope film of this period), though the difference between the two is no doubt negligible. For the most part the dialogue is central and effectively mono, only during the earthquake flashback and a few other choice moments to do the surround channels spring – very effectively – to life. Moreover, there are no technical flaws to speak of: background noise is negligible, whilst the score and dialogue remain crisp and clear throughout. The only disappointment is the fact that the English subtitles, though generated by the disc, are non-optional.

Of the extras the main attraction is the introduction by filmmaker Alex Cox (Sid and Nancy, Walker). He begins with an overview of Kurosawa’s career (identical to the ones which appear on the BFI’s Ikiru and Sanjuro discs) before moving on to Red Beard itself. Yet whilst his enthusiasm cannot be denied, in this case he also makes a number of blunders suggesting that he hasn’t actually seen the film in a while. He proclaims it the longest Japanese film made at that time, for example, even though Seven Samurai just pips it, plus his claims about only females being treated by the doctors is similarly untrue. Elsewhere, the disc also finds space for a pair of galleries (one for the film’s poster, another for production stills), onscreen potted bios for both Kurosawa and Mifune and, as ever, liner notes by Philip Kemp.