Kenji Mizoguchi’s Ugetsu: A Haunting Masterpiece Rediscovered
Kenji Mizoguchi stands in the pantheon of cinema’s most revered auteurs, a master whose profound influence continues to resonate through the decades. Particularly dear to critics associated with the groundbreaking “Cahiers du Cinéma” movement in France, his legacy is one of exquisite artistry and unflinching humanism. In 1962, Ugetsu (雨月物語), known also as Ugetsu Monogatari, achieved a significant milestone, sharing the distinguished fourth position with Erich von Stroheim’s monumental Greed in Sight & Sound magazine’s prestigious poll of the greatest films ever made.
Yet, a curious paradox clouds Mizoguchi’s Western reception. Despite his towering critical acclaim, only one of his films, the poignant geisha drama Street of Shame, enjoyed a substantial commercial run in French theaters, lasting a remarkable six months. It’s truly astonishing, then, that Ugetsu – widely considered one of the crowning achievements of his prolific later period – only made its debut on London screens six years after his passing. This belated arrival offered audiences a crucial and long-awaited opportunity to immerse themselves in his singular artistic genius and experience a film that transcends mere storytelling.
A Journey into the Ethereal
Ugetsu is far more than a conventional film; it is an extraordinary cinematic essay, a mystical parable that delves deep into the psyche. From its opening frames, it evokes the primal fears of childhood – the unsettling whistle of wind through forgotten crevices, the ominous creak of a door in the dead of night. The narrative fluidly draws us into a dreamlike, enigmatic realm, where mist-shrouded rivers weave through desolate villages, barren plains stretch into infinity, and ancient castles loom, haunted by unseen presences. In this landscape, nothing is as it seems. It is a land unmapped, shifting and morphing like a phantom within a castle’s walls. Peace remains an elusive mirage, always just beyond reach. Instead, a palpable sense of unease saturates the very air, its fragile tranquility punctuated by the chilling, distant echo of gunfire.
At any given moment, the very earth could betray one’s footing, or distant mountains erupt in terrifying flames. Powerful, almost mythical figures like Shibata and the infamous warlord Nobunaga – vividly described as “that terrible beast” – remain largely unseen, their countenances rarely glimpsed directly. Yet, their formidable presence is constantly felt through their destructive retinues: boorish samurai, ruthless bandits, and marauding pirates who relentlessly ravage both land and sea, violating women and mercilessly pillaging villages. This relentless chaos forms the harrowing backdrop against which the characters’ lives unfold.
The Illusion of Sanctuary
Amidst this nightmarish panorama, a semblance of peace initially exists in a small, unassuming village. Here, two potters, Genjuro and his brother-in-law Tobei, carve out an existence. Their lives are undeniably hard, marked by poverty and ceaseless labor, yet paradoxically, their humble family lives are rich with warmth and genuine comfort. Genjuro shares a profound love with his wife, Miyagi, and their child, while Tobei cherishes his bond with his wife, Ohama. Their arduous labor in the fields yields them meager possessions, just enough to sustain their families.
However, this precious stability is, tragically, an illusion, built upon a natural order that has been violently disrupted by the merciless hand of war. Miyagi, the devoted and insightful wife, possesses an acute understanding of the insidious way war corrodes the very essence of the human spirit. In stark contrast, her husband, Genjuro, begins to succumb to a restless yearning for a different, more prosperous life, a life beyond their current means. With a tender yet firm wisdom, Miyagi implores him to embrace their present situation and find enduring happiness in the dignified simplicity of their work.
In essence, it is Miyagi who eloquently articulates the central, timeless theme that underpins the entire film: the undeniable futility of unbounded human desires and the inevitable disaster that such unchecked ambitions relentlessly lead to. As the narrative inexorably unfolds, every character, save for the prescient Miyagi herself, chases after something just beyond their grasp, ultimately paying a heavy, often devastating price for their consuming ambitions.
Disrupted Order and a River of the Dead
The fragile peace of their home is abruptly shattered when marauders descend, ransacking their humble cottage. The potters’ families are forced to flee, leaving behind only the steadfast kiln. Everything becomes flux; even their homes, once symbols of stability, prove as unstable and fragile as the human spirit itself. Mizoguchi, with his characteristic mastery, depicts the refugees’ exodus from their ravaged village in a series of unforgettable, profoundly affecting scenes. His camera work, as ever, achieves both simplicity and profound impact. First, a static long shot captures the villagers moving stoically from right to left through tall reeds, conveying their quiet desperation. This gives way to a diagonal tracking shot of them huddled precariously on a slope – transitions that, while simple in description, are executed by Mizoguchi with an utterly seamless grace, immersing the viewer in their harrowing plight. After the marauders depart, the potters cautiously return to their devastated homes, a fleeting wave of relief washing over them as they find their crucial kiln miraculously intact.
This passage serves as a silent, yet powerful, commentary on the unfolding plot. By establishing such a pervasive sense of insecurity, Mizoguchi vividly portrays how both the individual soul and the natural world have been thrown into profound disarray. It is the chilling prologue to the ensuing personal dramas. The potters, anxious about their livelihood and eager to sell their wares, confront a daunting question: how can they safely reach the town through the war-torn landscape? Discovering a small dugout canoe, they make the fateful decision to venture onto the treacherous lake.
The subsequent journey across the lake is shrouded in an eerie, almost otherworldly atmosphere. The waters are dark, veiled by an oppressive mist, and ominously foreboding – so much so that the weary travelers might well mistake it for the mythical River Styx, the very river of death itself. It comes as no surprise, then, when a boat drifts towards them through the thick fog that the potters initially assume it to be a ghost ship, its passengers spectral figures.
This powerful sense of irony is a recurring and deliberate motif throughout Ugetsu; nothing is quite as it first appears. The passengers, it turns out, are all too human, having been brutally wounded and violated by pirates. Before their boats tragically separate, these victims issue a chilling warning to the potters: beware of the ruthless pirates who infest these waters. Genjuro, burdened by his ambition, interprets this solely as a literal threat from bandits, urging his wife and child to disembark, while he and Tobei continue to the market with Ohama. He fatally fails to grasp the broader, more profound implication of the warning – that it forebodes not merely a physical attack, but the impending disintegration of his very family.
Parallel Desires and Divergent Destinies
Like the intricate structures of a Jacobean drama, the film’s plot skillfully divides into a compelling main narrative and a potent subplot, with the fates of the two potters interweaving at their respective helms. Both plots, fundamentally, are poignant variations on the same core theme, mirroring each other with a haunting resonance. Broadly speaking, they both illustrate how men, driven by their inner demons, are seduced by idealized yet ultimately hollow visions. They pursue these visions through deception and cunning, only to pay a heavy, often excruciating price for their overweening ambition and inherent dishonesty once the profound falsity of their self-created ideals becomes devastatingly clear.
Tobei’s Warrior Dream and Ohama’s Despair
