All language subtitles for My Life in Cinema - Akira Kurosawa - interview_Track03_en

MY LIFE IN CINEMA

AKIRA KUROSAWA, DIRECTOR

Ready!

Action!

FILMS DISCUSSED
IN THIS INTERVIEW:

SANSHIRO SUGATA, THE MEN
WHO TREAD ON THE TIGERS TAIL

DRUNKEN ANGEL,
THE IDIOT

THE HIDDEN FORTRESS,
MADADAYO

SEVEN SAMURAI, DREAMS, I LIVE
IN FEAR, THE BAD SLEEP WELL

KUROSAWA HAD DIRECTED
30 FILMS AS OF 1993.

I've always considered you
KUROSAWA'S HOME, AUGUST 1993

atypical of a Japanese person
in your actions and physique,

as well as in the films
you've made.

Do you have non-Japanese ancestors?
INTERVIEWER: NAGISA OSHIMA

Perhaps I do. I'm not sure.

I've noticed this change in myself,

but when people
in my family turn 80,

their eyes turn bluish.
- Their eyes?

It happened to my father,
and my aunts too.

I used to wonder
why their eyes looked like that.

It seems it happens often
among natives of Tohoku.

I guess there may have been
interbreeding with Russians.

As a child I was puzzled why
so many people had Caucasian features.

But this is all speculation.

Were you very tall even as a child?

Actually, no.

I wasn't particularly tall
in elementary school.

I had a sudden growth spurt
in the ninth grade.

I was a swimmer then,
and I suddenly grew tall and thin.

I was really lanky for a long time.

When I'd visit foreign countries,

people often told me I was skinny
because I wasn't eating enough.

It was after I turned 40
that I gained some bulk.

- You were thin in photos of your youth.
- Wasn't I?

Jackets from my younger days
were only about this wide.

I was that skinny,
though I wasn't starving myself.

What sort of child were you?

I had a reputation
for being a real crybaby.

So you weren't good in sports?

No, but my father wanted
to change that.

I had really pale skin, so he'd give me
money when I acquired a tan.

And he told me to take up swimming.
My brother was a really good swimmer.

So he'd take me along,
and I practiced swimming quite a bit,

as well as Japanese fencing.

My father was concerned
about my weak constitution.

He even told me
to change my name

because the character
had an unlucky number of strokes.

But I refused to change it,
even though he wanted me to.

I guess my being weak worried him.

But your brother, Heigo — I believe
that's the correct reading of his name?

His name is very different from yours,
now that I think about it.

That's true.
But we were very similar.

That's what Musei Tokugawa,
the silent movie narrator, told me.

My brother was also a narrator under
the professional name of Teimei Suda.

Tokugawa asked, when we met, if I was
Suda's brother, since we looked alike.

He also said that, in one sense,
we were completely different:

My brother was like a photographic
negative and I was the positive.

So people mistook me for my brother
when I wasn't with him,

but when we were together,
we were clearly different.

We were unusual as brothers.
We had the exact same measurements.

- He was tall too?
- Yes.

His features were
more chiseled than mine.

We were very different
in that sense.

Did the fact
that your brother was a narrator

motivate you
to get into the film industry?

Not really.

But he would frequently point me
to films that I should see.

My father was in the military,
and it was unusual back in those days

for a military man to attend movies,
since they were deemed unrespectable.

But my father encouraged us
and took us to see movies.

I started going to cinema quite young.
- What was the first film you saw?

The first movie I remember seeing
was something called Cuore.

And I think there was
another one called Zigomar.

I had a vague memory of it
and described it to someone,

and I was told the film was Zigomar.
So that's how far back my memory goes.

- That would be in the early 1910s.
- Yes.

Your illustrations are now famous
all over the world.

Did you like to draw as a child?

Did you like to draw as a child?

I planned to become a painter,
so I studied painting.

But at a certain point,

I realized I couldn't express
some things through pictures alone.

Also...

I felt I didn't have
enough talent as a painter,

and it's almost impossible
to make a living by painting.

When did you start to paint?

It must've been at the end
of the ninth grade.

My first work was shown
at the Nika Exhibition,

and that's when I began
to doubt my talent as a painter,

because I'd complete a piece
very quickly.

Artists like Cézanne,

Ryuzaburo Umehara
and Kazumasa Nakagawa

would work
on their pieces forever.

They'd have a clear picture
of what they wanted to create,

and it would take them a long time
to achieve their goal.

So I thought painting
so quickly may not be good.

Did you go to art school?

Not for long.
Although I took an entrance exam,

I had no intention of going.

- So you're mostly self-taught?
- Yes.

You mentioned Cézanne.
Did you paint in that style?

Yes. The late Impressionist style
was in vogue at the time,

so it must've been
the greatest influence.

Were you also influenced
by the Shirakaba school in Japan?

I liked that style very much.

It's strange,
but when I was painting,

I dreamt of showing my work in Paris.

Later, though I wasn't a painter —
- You had an exhibit in Paris.

My storyboards were shown
at an exhibit.

The painter Umehara
complimented me on them.

The thing is, I'm not trying
to draw or paint well anymore.

I just work freely,

and as a result, I guess
my illustrations have some appeal.

The thought of drawing or painting well
doesn't enter my mind.

Rather, my illustrations are to convey
images in my mind to my crew.

And making illustrations

helps me visualize concrete images,
which you need to direct a film.

I only draw or paint
as a means of visualizing,

without the slightest ambition
to produce fine illustrations.

As I consider different ways
of shooting a film,

I draw images that come to me
using the tools at hand.

- But you still work quickly?
- Yes.

For example, when my crew and I
return to a hotel from scouting locations,

I take a quick shower,
because I don't like baths.

But it takes my crew
from 60 to 90 minutes

to finish bathing and come down
to the dining room.

So as I wait for them,
I sit and draw some illustrations,

and then I show them to my crew
over dinner. So I work quickly.

That puts a lot of pressure
on your crew,

since they have to recreate
what you've illustrated so quickly.

I just want them to get an idea
of what I'm looking for.

I'm not good at explaining things.

[llustrations make it easier
to convey what I want.

In the beginning, though,
I didn't draw a lot.

When you were young,
were you trying to draw well?

I must have been,
looking back on it now,

and I see now that
that mindset worked against me.

By the time you started
in the film industry,

you were relatively old,
in a sense.

Yes, I was 26, the oldest
among the assistant directors.

You hadn't worked until then,
just concentrated on painting?

Yes. Then my brother
committed suicide.

It's strange how things turn out.
According to Japan's family register,

a family line is assumed
by the eldest son.

If the oldest son dies, the second
oldest succeeds, and so on.

So I was my brother's successor.

You became the head
of the Kurosawa family.

It just fell into my lap.

Until then, I often slept
at my brother's place,

and he was very caring
and gave me pocket money.

After my brother's death,
I felt I had to find a job.

Then, by chance, I came across
a want ad for assistant directors

posted by the studio PCL.

I'd already prepared a copy
of my family register to look for a job,

so I applied for the position.

Then I ended up working
in the industry by chance.

Was that the very first ad
for ADs that PCL placed,

or had there been
one before that?

I think it was the first.

Then shortly afterwards,
PCL and Toho merged.

Yes, in order to expand
as a studio.

It was at my interview
that I met Yama-san.

Kajiro Yamamoto?

He was the lead interviewer.
We hit it off and talked a great deal.

So it must've been fate
that we met.

- Had you heard of him before?
- No, never.

I didn't even know where PCL was.
I thought it was in Chiba.

In the picture of the studio,
there seemed to be

palm trees growing
next to a lawn,

so I assumed
it was near a beach.

Although I was instructed to take
a train from Shinjuku,

I still thought it was in Chiba.

After the interview, Yama-san told me
to take a bus heading for Shibuya

because it'd be
quicker than a train.

I thought it was strange
that there was such a bus

and wondered
if I was really in Chiba.

I was that inattentive.

When I checked later,
it wasn't in Chiba at all.

So you had no idea
who Yamamoto was

or what kind of movies PCL made?
- Practically none.

Before taking the job, was there any
film that made an impression on you,

such as Zigomar mentioned earlier?
- There were many.

For example?

The film that made the greatest impression
was La roue by Abel Gance.

It made me think cinema was wonderful.
There were many other films as well.

But my brother told me
I should see it,

and I was excited by what it achieved.
- The Abel Gance film?

Though many other films
come to mind,

that's the one that made me
the most fascinated with the medium.

What fascinated you? The imagery?
It must've been a silent film.

It was. The movie depicts
the life of a locomotive engineer,

and you see locomotives
in key scenes,

and I was fascinated
by the shots of wheels.

I believe the Japanese title for La roue
was Tetsuro no Shirobara.

And you felt it was an expressive
medium different from painting.

Had you thought of writing novels?

No, I never aspired to do that.

The writer Matsutaro Kawaguchi told me
that if I'd written novels,

I'd have become a rich man.

Because there's no money
in writing screenplays.

It's interesting that you met
Yamamoto on your job interview.

That's right. When I got
my first assignment as an AD,

it was so boring working under
that director, whom I won't name.

I wanted to quit,
but my friends persuaded me not to,

saying not all directors
were like that one.

My next assignment
was under Yamamoto,

and I stuck with him after that.

I rarely worked
under other directors.

I worked once for Mikio Naruse,
and also once for Eisuke Takizawa.

How many ADs —

those that started at PCL
and then at Toho — were there then?

Let me see.

I don't remember exactly,
but perhaps about 30.

And you were relatively free
to work with certain people,

say, if you wanted to work
with Yamamoto, and vice versa?

When I first started,
the studio was a start-up.

PCL stood for
Photo Chemical Laboratory,

which originally processed talkies
for other studios.

Then they started making movies,
like the Tadano Bonji series.

So from the time they started
making movies regularly

until they merged with Toho,

they borrowed ADs
from other studios.

But they recognized the need
to train enough of their own,

so they set up
a system to interview applicants.

With this history,
the studio treated ADs very well.

They were placed in a sort of
cadet system, like at military schools.

There were other trainees
in various departments too.

If it were the navy, for example,
there'd be gunnery trainees.

Like trainees
in a photography department?

But training for future officers
in military schools is different,

and the studio adopted
that kind of system for its ADs,

so we had to train in every department,
even film printing.

We rotated through
a series of departments while training.

So they really trained us well.

How long was the assignment
in each department? Six months?

- A few months.
- Did you carry cameras?

I didn't work
with cameras that much,

but I worked in departments
such as props and costumes.

I carried a hammer
slung from my belt at one time,

and I worked
in the print department.

When you starting working,
you began as an AD,

but you always aspired to be a director?
- Of course.

All the ADs had the same aspiration,
and that sort of caused a problem.

There were first ADs
who'd been working there before us.

These old-timers and us newcomers,
with Satsuo Yamamoto as our leader,

had a difference of opinion.

The studio came up
with an interesting offer at one point.

Studio executives had traveled
to America to study Hollywood studios.

First ADs work really hard
in Hollywood studios.

On a set,
you might not notice the director,

but you notice the first AD right away,
because he's the busiest one.

So, impressed by how hard
first ADs worked in Hollywood,

the executives returned
convinced that was how it should be.

They work as career ADs there.
- In Hollywood.

The executives asked if any of us
wanted to become a career AD.

If anyone chose to devote himself
to work in that capacity...

then there'd be a raise.

That was the studio's offer.

We newcomers thought we should
take the offer if it meant a raise.

Eventually the studio would have
to make us directors anyway,

so it'd be smart to take the raise.

But the old-timers disagreed.

They wanted to be promoted
based on seniority.

So we split into two groups
and argued quite a bit.

In the end, the old-timers...

the ADs who'd been there before us,
left the studio.

It became uncomfortable for them.

So we newcomers became
sort of like a new party in power.

The old-timers all ended up leaving,

but they hadn't been
a promising bunch.

They weren't attractive material
for the studio either.

Satsuo Yamamoto was the first
among us to become a director,

followed by Tadashi Imai.

As these promotions occurred,

I guess the old-timers felt
unwelcome and left the studio.

There was that kind of history.

Interestingly, there used to be
a huge sign by a Toho soundstage

that said that the first AD's command
was equal to that of the president's.

There used to be a sign like that,

and other crew members
resented that.

It wasn't easy to overcome
their disgruntlement.

But that's how well the studio
treated its ADs.

The studio was liberal in one sense
and trained its ADs very well.

Very much so. In return,
we had to do all kinds of things.

- Were you made a first AD fairly quickly?
- Yes.

How many years did it take?

Three years, I think.

- Was it on Horse?
- No, it was before that.

And I had to do
all kinds of tasks.

When shooting on location,

I was like a location manager
and had to oversee bills.

Unless you had learned
every aspect of filmmaking,

you couldn't become a first AD.

So a first AD was well-informed.
- Budget, scheduling, etc.?

Yes. For example, how the costume
department operated, and so on.

People were appreciative,

because I knew the inner workings
of every department.

So that's how
I was trained at the studio.

And Yama-san told me

that you couldn't become a director

unless you could
write scripts and edit.

So he had me write scripts,

and he gave me editing assignments
right away on all his films.

And he'd bring me

some writing assignments.

Even if they were for movies
in the “narrative ballad” style,

I made good money
writing scripts for them.

Around the time of Horse, in fact,
I was writing a script for a Daiei film.

It was when Kan Kikuchi
was at Daiei

and wanted to hire me
as a screenwriter.

Daiei's executives had to disclose
to him that I was a Toho employee.

But I made good money, for that time,
with these screenwriting jobs.

Guess what my starting salary was.
- I have no idea.

- Twenty-eight yen.
- Was that low compared to other jobs?

It was definitely low.

Because an AD could really earn
a high salary,

depending on how hard
he trained and applied himself.

In comparison, people working in
the studio offices got better starting pay,

because their salaries
could only go up so high.

Office workers were better paid,
but ADs had the potential to earn big.

Even so, we were paid very little.
But I don't recall feeling the pinch.

Everything at the studio
was handled via vouchers.

We used vouchers
at the cafeteria as well.

So we ate as much
as we wanted.

Then, when payday came,
there was no money in the envelope.

I'd only find used vouchers.
- Deducted from your pay.

So I'd go
to the studio head's office

and ask him to issue
“temporary vouchers.”

These were vouchers
for the following month.

Since I was broke
even as I received my pay,

I'd get by on vouchers
issued in advance.

Although I began
at the studio after the war,

I rarely went home, sleeping instead
at the studio or in a nearby hotel,

and it really felt
like I was working 24 hours a day.

So it was the same
back then too.

My overtime pay was greater
than my salary of 28 yen.

I was paid an additional 30 yen
for overtime and location pay.

So in the end,
I'd generally receive about 50 yen.

But working that much,

it's amazing you still
had time to write scripts.

Well, I tell this to my crew often,

but even if you think
you're too busy to write,

you can write one page a day.

At that rate
you'll have 365 pages in a year.

It can be done,
if you have the will.

So although I was busy
on the production of Horse,

I'd work on scripts after dinner,
in the futon storage room.

I was mostly writing scripts
for other studios, to make extra money.

That's how I worked back then.

Did you receive requests
from other studios to write scripts?

You published some
in film magazines.

Yes, Darumayji-dera no Doitsu-jin,
Shizuka nari and Yuki, for example.

Since they were published,

I was asked to write scripts
toward the end of my AD years.

Before that, when Yama-san
was asked to write but didn't want to,

he'd ask if I wanted to write
for some extra money.

I even wrote for some films
starring Torazo Hirosawa.

I didn't know that.

Just recently I was asked
by a German producer

about possibly making
Darumaji-dera no Doitsu-jin into a film.

So I read the script
and thought it was very good.

But it was written
at that moment in time

when Japan, Germany,
and Italy were allies.

But the script doesn't glorify
militarism at all.

No, but I feel
its time has passed.

I understand, but it's very —
- It's a funny thing.

A script that doesn't get made
in its time doesn't get made.

It seems like it missed its time
to get made.

Once that happens, that's it.

It would've been made
if conditions had been favorable.

For example, Advance Patrol
was written

when the captain
of the Tatekawa reconnaissance unit

was an ambassador to Russia.
He was a lieutenant general in the army.

He said he'd cooperate
with us completely.

Back then, many White Army soldiers
were stationed in Harbin.

There were Cossacks too,
and military uniforms were available,

so it all worked out favorably
for the movie.

I remember the name Tatekawa.

He was an ambassador to Russia
at the time the movie was made.

He offered to cooperate with us fully,
SO it was a great opportunity.

The producer Morita,
who nurtured me —

Nobuyoshi Morita?

Shortly before he passed on,
he said,

“I made the greatest mistake of my life

when I didn't let you make
Advance Patrol.

You wanted to make
your directorial debut with it,

but I couldn't let a first-time director
tackle such a big project.

It was a prudent decision but also
the greatest mistake of my life.”

I think that movie
could've only been made then.

You wrote the script with the idea
of making it your directorial debut?

I expressed my wish to direct it.

So even from the beginning,
you were confident that —

No, it wasn't like that.
I just wrote the script.

I have notebooks from my AD days,
and I looked at one the other day.

I found a note saying that Japanese
cinema needed to be more dynamic.

Japanese films back then
tended to be rather static.

So I guess I wrote the note
as a reminder

that we needed to find ways
to get more action into them.

I must've written it
for that reason.

There was an overall pattern
evident in movies made back then,

even by Shochiku.

For example, many films
would begin with a scene

where a messenger comes up a slope
and enters a gate as he says hello.

There were no scripts
that would open a story with a bang,

right in the middle
of something exciting.

But what if a movie opened
with a character shouting a response

in an action scene?
- Making it more dynamic.

I was thinking about
something along that line.

What inspired that idea?

Well, when I compared
foreign films with Japanese films,

Japanese films
were extremely tame.

They do open rather statically.

Yes, that was the overall trend.
And everyone followed it.

Though Sadao Yamanaka
was an exception.

So as you worked
as an AD at Toho,

you had this sense of dissatisfaction,
a desire to make something different.

I guess those feelings
gradually built up inside me.

But it's interesting
how Toho changed after the war.

At Shochiku's Ofuna studio then,
I had to do all kinds of tasks,

just as you related earlier,

from being a location manager
to overseeing bills.

And when I'd see a Toho AD
of that time, such as Hideo Onchi,

I'd get the impression Toho's ADs
only had to do certain tasks.

But when you were an AD,
you truly had to do all kinds of tasks.

I tell people
that's the right way.

It seems they've become specialized
in the kinds of tasks they do.

But that's not good.

So Toho changed its system
after the war?

Yes, it did around that time.

Every department was put
under tighter supervision?

From around that time
after the war...

the studio changed its course
from one of developing ADs

to a more profit-oriented

and business-minded course.
- That must've been a big shift.

In order to successfully run
a movie studio these days,

you must nurture ADs
as directors of the future.

I feel that I myself benefited
from the cadet system,

so I strongly agree with you.

ADs in my current crew

are submissive for the most part,
and they don't voice their opinions.

They just do their jobs mechanically.
I tell them to get more involved,

but it seems to be an overall trend
nowadays to hold back.

We used to speak our minds
freely to directors.

Senkichi Taniguchi was merciless.
One day he said, “Yama-san,

you're a first-rate screenwriter
but a second-rate director.”

I thought that was rude.

Then he continued,
“So you should listen to our opinions.”

Yama-san just laughed,
but he valued our opinions.

In that regard,
the way things are now makes me worry

for the future generation
of directors.

Was there a consensus at Toho

that you would become
a full-fledged director?

Yes.

You mentioned
Advance Patrol earlier,

but did you suggest Sanshiro Sugata

as a film to make
your directorial debut?

I had three other scripts rejected
by the Interior Department's censors.

Maybe more than three.

You had to have your script
approved by censors first.

As you were trying to direct
your first film,

what were the scripts
that were rejected?

One was called Mori no Sen-Ichiya,
among several others.

But they were all rejected.
- All were your original scripts?

Yes, so I bore a deep grudge
against the censors.

Censors were
such a formidable presence,

taking advantage
of their borrowed authority.

I wrote about this in my book,
but for Sanshiro Sugata's review —

The Internal Department
used to interview directors.

Yama-san couldn't come with me
due to other business,

but he said not to worry
because he'd asked Ozu to help.

At the censors' office,
Tomotaka Tasaka said

that the way characters
addressed each other,

or a kissing scene on a staircase,
suggested Western influence.

Meanwhile,
sitting behind the table facing me

were censors, and even
office boys, drinking coffee.

I sat all by myself,
like a criminal in court.

As all these objectionable parts
were read aloud,

I reached my tipping point
and was about to storm out.

Then Ozu stood up and said,
“Congratulations.

Your movie is worth
120 out of 100 points.”

Thanks to Ozu,
the movie was approved.

- Was it the movie itself or the script?
- The movie.

They made me wait five hours
and didn't even offer a cup of tea.

And it was obvious the office boys
had been allowed to watch the film

because they were playing
in the corridor, shouting a line from it.

It was such a despicable place.

You had to go through that process
every time you made a film?

Luckily, when Japan lost the war,
that changed overnight.

The first thing the Americans did
was get rid of the censors.

I was impressed by that.

- You had to constantly fight before.
- Yes.

It's scary when bureaucrats
like those censors

gain authority
through a greater power behind them.

They become this dreadful presence

making unreasonable demands.

They were more keen
to display their power

than to actually review
the content of a film?

I guess they came
to feel that way.

When I made
The Men Who Tread on the Tiger's Tall,

by then the Japanese censors
had been fired,

but I got summoned.

I used to get into fights
everywhere I went...

so lwao Mori, the studio head,
usually advised me to control myself.

But when the summons came,

he got angry and said the censors
no longer had authority

and encouraged me
to pick a fight with them.

So I presented myself
to the censors.

They said,
“What's this script?

It's defiling
a Kabuki play called Kanyjincho,

thereby tarnishing Japan's
classical performing art itself.”

I responded, “Kabuki's Kanjincho
is a reworking of the Noh play Afaka.

Don't you know that?

In my view, the Kabuki version
is an adaptation of the Noh play.

It's odd to suggest that my script
has greatly altered Kanyincho,

when, in fact, my script is closer
in spirit to the original Noh version.”

Then this young censor said,

“In any case, this is worthless.”

I retaliated, “If a worthless guy
calls it worthless,

it must be a good script.”

After that, the guy kept quiet.

But they didn't report the script
to General Headquarters,

SO we were shooting
without proper approval.

And Conde, the GHQ censor,
decided against allowing its release.

Mori said that Toho was partly
at fault for the mix-up,

and he felt sorry for me.

We were already shooting
when we found out.

But Mori allowed me to complete
the film the way I wanted to.

He felt really sorry for me.

Even though the film was completed,
we obviously couldn't release it.

Then Gercke replaced Conde.

He saw the film,
found nothing objectionable,

and gave us his blessing
to release it at last.

It seems Conde
was a very peculiar man.

Well, he was a leftist.

So as a young man,
you were quick to get into a fight.

Did you fight with the studio a lot?
- I did indeed.

Who was the studio head
back in those days?

It was Mori at first, followed
by a number of different people.

But you were mostly able to work
on the projects you wanted to.

You pitched your projects, right?

Yes, I foresaw that there could be
a problem in the future,

since the ownership of a film's
copyright was rather hazy,

as it is even today.

So I decided that there
shouldn't be any dispute

if I pitched the project,
wrote the script,

and directed and edited
all by myself.

I've stuck to that principle
on all my films.

How many scripts did you write
before becoming a director?

They must really add up.

I've written lots.

I said this earlier,
but it's amazing you had time to write.

You must've liked drinking sake
back then too, right?

I did. So it was like
when I ran out of pocket money,

I'd write a script.

After I'd been first AD
for Yama-san for about two years,

he said I didn't have to come
to the set every day.

I only had to help
when a second unit was shooting.

He said I could help him edit,
but I didn't have be on the set.

So I had extra time
on my hands.

When I wrote a script, I'd be paid —
It wasn't a lot of money even then,

but Daiei, for instance,
paid me about 300 yen.

With that
I'd take my friends out to drink.

- You spent it on drinks?
- Yes.

Then, when I ran out of money,
I'd write another script.

It was like I was writing scripts
to earn drinking money.

- Where did you write?
- At home or anywhere.

For Yuki, though,
I received 2,000 yen.

2,000 yen was big money back then.
It lasted a long time.

- Yuki won some kind of a competition.
- Yes, the Information Agency's.

I earned 300 yen for Shizuka nar.

Toho rarely paid me
300 yen for a script.

Having written numerous scripts,
how did you feel

directing your first film,
Sanshiro Sugata?

When you were shooting it,

did you feel writing and directing
were two different things?

In my case
they're not different,

as long as I'm working
from my own script.

But when I'd write a script
for someone else to direct,

unexpected things
sometimes happened,

because the director
would misinterpret the script.

You've written many scripts
since becoming a director,

like The Portrait for Kinoshita.

Sometimes I'd find a crucial scene
had been cut from a film.

It may have been Kinoshita whom
I asked, “Why did you cut this scene?”

He said, “It was unnecessary.”
So I explained its significance.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he said.
So that kind of thing happened.

When you hand over your script
to someone else,

it seems a gap exists
between the writer and the director

in understanding
the script's true intention.

I guess that kind of
misinterpretation can occur

when you're not involved
in the writing.

Why do you think a script
gets misinterpreted like that?

Well, it must be
people's different ways of thinking

that cause things
like that to happen.

I've seen some inconceivable
interpretations of my scripts.

You've also made films with scripts
written by other screenwriters.

In those cases, do you rewrite
the script before shooting it?

Yes. I wrote scripts
with other writers,

because when I wrote by myself,
my biases tended to show strongly.

As a group, everyone
would write the same scene,

and we'd gather what we wrote
at the end of the day.

Then we'd select
the usable parts.

So in the end, I was rearranging
those parts into one whole script.

I reminisce
about this sometimes,

but at one time, there were all these
A-list directors working at Toho.

They used to sit on the studio's
front lawn and chat.

There were people like Mizoguchi,
Naruse, Yamanaka, and Itami.

These great directors
were all working there,

each busy on a soundstage.
Yasuijiro Shimazu was there too.

When I was done for the day,
I'd generally visit

one of the soundstages
where these directors were working.

Shimazu once said to me,
“Kuro-chan,

you'll be a director soon,

but don't make yourself
pull all-nighters.

You may feel
you've worked hard,

but you won't get good results.”

He gave me various tips like that.

It was really —

But many directors
who came from Kyoto

would only work in the evening.

It was hard on the crew.

But those directors for some reason
couldn't function during the day.

Many of them had that habit.

A studio was a good place to work,
with soundstages and space,

people bustling about,
projects being born.

Fights erupted,
and love bloomed as well.

Most of us were moving at a run
when off the set,

because we were so busy.

Toei's employees were known for
always running, and similarly at Toho.

Yes, we were always
on the run.

Did you serve in the war?

I wrote about this in my book
Something Like an Autobiography.

My father was
an army instructor.

At the physical examination
for draftees,

when I stood
in front of this inspector,

he asked,
“Are you Isamu Kurosawa's son?”

I said I was.

Then he asked,
“Is your father well?”

I replied, “Yes.”

“Well, you look frail,” he continued,

and he advised me to do
certain exercises.

Then he said military service
wasn't the only way to serve the nation.

My brother had been injured
in the cavalry unit.

The man said, “I'm sorry
about your brother's injury.

I want you to serve the nation

in other ways
than being in the military.”

Then, when I reached
the last clerk, he said,

“You're exempted
from military service.”

The first man had arranged
the exemption for me.

So I didn't serve
in the war at all.

There wasn't even
a roll call at the end.

Near the end of the war,
after the air raid over Tokyo,

it was the day of the Yokohama air raid
that I was summoned to a roll call.

When I responded
to the summons,

I found myself
among all these handicapped people.

The man must've classified me
into that group.

I was placed
in this special classification

with the seriously ill
and handicapped.

So I was spared
military service.

But my friends joked that
I was rejected due to my height.

- There wasn't a uniform in your size.
- Right. They teased me like that.

So I didn't serve in the war.

If you had, there might have been
different kinds of Kurosawa films.

Right. When I reflect on it,

I don't feel confident enough
to make a war movie.

Having Ishiro Honda,
who served in the war, as a friend...

it feels rather —

I'd feel odd
making a war movie.

I don't know
the reality of battle.

But some have made
war movies without the experience.

Did your house burn
during the Tokyo air raid?

Yes, it did.

I was living in Ebisu at the time,

and studio people told me to move,
because Ebisu might get attacked.

The studio lent me
a truck to move

to my father's house in Horikawa,
because it was to become vacant.

So I moved there in a hurry.

Then, the following night,
Ebisu burned.

Areas of Tokyo near here,
like Soshigaya and Seijo, were spared.

Did you think
Japan would lose the war?

I did. And Honda and I agreed
it would be a disaster if Japan won.

If the incompetents in the military
stayed in power —

Honda said this too,
but what we'd most hate

was to see those military guys
have their own way if we won the war

and drive the country
into a deeper mess.

So when you heard
the announcement of Japan's defeat,

you were relieved
and felt a certain joy?

Where were you living at the time?
- Soshigaya.

On the day
of the announcement...

the studio told us to —

We knew Japan had lost the war,
because the studio had informed us

that atomic bombs had been dropped
on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

The government called them
“special bombs.”

On the day
of the emperor's announcement,

we were told to come to the studio
to hear the declaration.

As I walked towards the studio
along the Soshigaya highway,

I noticed certain tradesmen,
like fish dealers and grocers,

staring
at their unsheathed swords.

They had this maniacal look,
and I feared what they might do.

They might get violent,
even if the emperor announced defeat.

Then, when I saw them
on the way home,

the same guys were smiling
and sweeping their storefronts.

I thought then that the Japanese
have great flexibility for coping.

But if the emperor had ordered them
to fight, they would have.

When the war was over, what changes
did you think would happen?

It was more a matter
of witnessing how hard

the GHQ
was trying to rebuild Japan.

We couldn't go back
to making movies right away,

so I wrote a one-act play
for Kawaguchi's troupe.

During the war, the Japanese
couldn't speak their minds,

and the play is about everyone
suddenly speaking freely.

It takes place
at a fish dealer's house.

He was a staunch
Tojo worshipper,

and he'd been a family tyrant.

But now the war is over,
his family can finally confront him,

and they shower him
with all their pent-up grievances.

Well, the GHQ summoned me
because of the play.

An American theater professional
at the GHQ liked the play

and wanted to know
how each scene would be played.

In ways like this, the GHQ made
a great effort to rebuild Japan.

- Quite different from Japanese censors.
- Completely.

I was summoned
for The Quiet Duel as well.

I thought they opposed it
because it was about syphilis,

but that wasn't the case.

They said that the Japanese view
syphilis as a frightening disease,

and, if diagnosed with it,
tend to give up on their lives,

but it can be cured when combated
with proper medical treatment.

They wanted me to put
that message in the film.

And they told me
I should consult

with a certain doctor
specializing in the treatment

and where I could find him.

An American doctor?

And this doctor helped me
wholeheartedly.

They weren't like
the Japanese censors at all.

Their attitude was so different.

They respected cinema
and film professionals.

It's still the same.

We're treated like VIPs overseas,
but in Japan we're seen as tramps.

That's an exaggeration,
but actually I feel the same way.

I feel respected
when I visit foreign countries.

It's because the general public there
respects filmmakers.

After the war,

seeing America's power,
and the world changing around you,

did you feel
that your style of film

fit in well with the new world?

Well, I didn't know why,

but people responded to my films.

I found it puzzling.
In the case of Madadayo, for example,

I thought people overseas
wouldn't understand it,

but it got a great response.

Yes, I went to Montreal recently
and heard stories about it.

They understand some parts of it
better than the Japanese audience.

For instance, they thought
the professor's wife was wonderful

because she truly cared
for her husband.

The teacher-student
relationship in Japan

seems to have elicited great interest.

And the wife.

Women were especially touched
by the character.

They said they really understood
how much she loved her husband.

The response surprised me.

I went to Montreal thinking people
overseas wouldn't understand it,

but I was wrong.

I received a letter
from Montreal yesterday

that called Madadayo
one of my masterpieces.

A response like that
takes me by surprise.

I don't know why people
respond to my films.

But I think what appeals most
to the foreign audience

is the fact I'm not seeking
to please them.

You can sense
that kind of movie right away.

If you try to add appeal

by playing up Japanese qualities

and depict a story
that Westerners will find exotic,

they react very negatively.

But if you, as a Japanese person,
just tell a story

about the concerns
of Japanese people,

it will appeal to people worldwide,
as every country has similar concerns.

I guess that's what people find
most appealing about my films.

It's no good to try to cater
to the overseas market.

I've been asked if I make
special concessions

to appeal to foreign audiences.

It's precisely because I do nothing
of the sort that they appeal to them.

I've never entertained
the thought, in fact.

As I said at the start
of this interview,

you are somewhat
atypical of Japanese people.

What you've just said proves that.
But you've always been that way.

You've never emphasized
the Japanese aspect of things,

nor have you tried to cater
to overseas audiences.

Even the movies
you made soon after the war

were very different
from typical Japanese films.

I recall seeing them as a child.

I don't see my films
as being different.

In the case of Sanshiro Sugata,
I was forced to insert a certain line.

I had to insert the line, “Loyalty
and filial piety are the ways of man.”

I didn't have any choice.
- You had to comply.

I think most directors
go through this experience,

but in the beginning, you're just
caught up in making movies.

Then at some point,
you become aware

that you're
a certain kind of director.

That is, there comes a time
when you discover

that you want to make
a particular kind of movie.

Which of the films
you made after the war

did you feel was the kind
of direction you wanted to take?

In my earlier films,
it felt like I was putting in

everything I'd learned.

But with Drunken Angel,
I suddenly felt sort of liberated.

It felt like I got bolder.

I didn't hold myself back
even when writing it.

That was the film
where I began to feel that.

Other than that, I've never thought
about discovering my direction.

What concerns me most
is being natural.

I always remain natural
and follow my instincts when I work.

I don't do things
in any particularly strategic way.

That's how I approach
characters in my films.

Even with human relationships —

When you read Dostoyevsky's
novels, for example,

it's mind-boggling how thoroughly
he depicts human relationships.

I read quite a few
of his novels when I was young,

and it must be
filtering out into my films,

though I haven't come close
to Dostoyevsky's heights.

Only through literature
can you tackle something on that scale.

I made 7he Idiot and it wasn't
at all a successful adaptation.

Still, having taken on
the challenge of a work like that,

I think I learned a lot
from the experience.

Once I began working on it,

the immensity of the project
dawned on me.

I thought to myself,
“What was I thinking?”

I felt the weight of Dostoyevsky
on my shoulders.

There's one scene...

where the idiot, played by Masayuki Mori,
comes to Setsuko Hara's party...

and says,
“You are a nice person by nature.

You really are a nice person.”

Hara asked me,
“What expression should I use?”

I was sort of taken aback.

I asked Nomura, my first AD,
to get a copy of the novel.

I looked up the scene, and it said
that Nastasia smiled “crookedly.”

She must've smiled that way
because the idiot was right.

But I hadn't really read
the passage that closely.

It was only because Hara asked

that I noticed the description
of Nastasia's smile.

So I said to Hara,
“Smile crookedly.”

When we did a test shot,
with her smiling crookedly,

Mori reacted with amazement and
exclaimed, “That was great direction!”

I said, “It wasn't me.
It's what Dostoyevsky wrote.”

So when you tackle
a great work of literature,

you make
some amazing discoveries.

I love War and Peace
and have read it countless times,

but every time, I find something
I hadn't noticed before.

It's fascinating
each time I read it.

A simple line in a piece
of literature can be brilliant,

but a lot of times,
you read on without noticing it.

What it expresses
is just superb.

You've mentioned how thoroughly
literature can depict human beings.

In Dostoyevsky's novels, it's as though
he's experimenting in a laboratory,

having one “human atom”
clashing with another.

I've been reading novels like that
since childhood.

When you come up with an idea
for a script or theme,

do you first imagine characters?

Well...

Do characters come to you first,
before the story?

It's more like I run with an idea
that I find it interesting.

That's the most important thing,
of course.

Critics may read
whatever they like into my films,

but I don't make movies
as deliberately as they think.

Whatever they see in my films is there
as a part of what I found interesting.

If I'd tried to depict
those things critics see,

don't you think it'd be
tiresome to watch?

I make films about things
that I really find fascinating.

In doing so, I may end up
examining human nature.

But if you try to present
some kind of theory in your film,

you'll fail to depict anything.

It's very difficult to find
the right balance.

So a study of human nature results
from depicting what you find interesting.

I think so.

What I really find interesting —

As I depict what fascinates me,
a human portrait unfolds.

What's interesting
varies from person to person.

It's based on individual taste.
- That's right.

Among those things that interest you,
it seems you always incorporate

a portrayal of human beings
pushed to the limit.

I believe so.

I'm not sure how that happens.
I don't have the brain to work that out.

- You're being modest.
- No, really.

I can deal with things
in a concrete way.

But when something
is described in abstractions,

I have no idea
how to depict it.

If the way a character smiled
or an action he took

is described in concrete terms,
I can deal with that.

Like Nastasia's crooked smile
that you described earlier.

At one point, you often wrote
scripts with other writers.

When working that way,
did you read what others wrote,

sort out the inferior writing
and have them rewrite it?

We'd write around a table
until 5:00 p.m.

Then we'd collect
what we wrote into a pile.

I'd sort out what was no good.
Only the usable parts would be left.

We'd all write the same scene.
Then I'd weed out any subpar writing.

I heard that when you wrote
with Taniguchi,

you tore up his pages
right in front of him.

Well, I felt guilty doing that sometimes.

Everyone wrote
diligently until dusk,

and then I'd tear up pages
that were unacceptable.

- You'd rip them up, just like that?
- Yes.

But you didn't mean
to hurt their feelings.

No, and my writing partners
were used to it,

though it must've
angered them at first.

And after tearing up their writing,
you'd have dinner together?

Yes. One time, though,
I tore up pages that I needed.

I was gathering all the selected pages
and noticed two pages missing.

Just then, the proprietress of the inn
came to inquire about our dinner.

“Not now!” I yelled at her,
irritated over the missing pages.

All of us searched the room and
found them among the ripped-up pages.

I mended the two ripped-up pages
and had them copied,

and finally that day's work
was done.

Then I opened the door
to call the proprietress

and found her sitting
on the floor outside our room.

She'd been waiting there
the whole time.

I felt bad.
I'd completely forgotten about her.

So there was that kind of blunder.

Depending on the writer —

Oguni is one
of the more interesting writers.

He's really good at Japanese chess.
- Hideo Oguni?

Oguni once played two of us
blindfolded and still won.

He's extremely insightful.

When we'd get stuck
on a particularly difficult passage,

he'd often come up
with a solution.

I once read somewhere
how you described Oguni.

You stated that people think you value
Oguni for his technical skills,

but that he actually provides
a spiritual backbone for your writing team.

I was very impressed
by that statement.

He studied under
Saneatsu Mushanokoji, the novelist.

That's his background.

So he provides a consistent view
of morals and human beings?

Yes, and he's also very perceptive.

Say he leaves on an assignment
while we work on a script.

He returns, reads what
we've written in his absence,

and says, “The story's
veering off in the wrong direction.”

He shows us that it won't do
to take the easy way out.

You shouldn't steer the story in
the direction you're comfortable with.

“The story should go this way,
but it's veering off like this,” he says.

He has that knack for accurately
assessing the problem.

I always valued
that ability of his.

There's a scene where the protagonists
need to pass through a checkpoint.

That was —

I heard that one team of writers
wrote from the protagonists' POV,

and another
from that of the guards.

We struggled over that scene
for about a week.

One of us would suggest crossing
the river, and I'd turn that idea down.

Then other ideas were rejected
one after another.

One writer said,
“There's no way to get through.”

I said, “There's gotta be a way!”

Oguni sat quietly like this
the whole time.

Day after day,
he just sat like this.

Then at last he said,
“I've got an idea!”

It was to have one of the protagonists
intentionally report to the guards

that he'd found a piece of firewood
with gold concealed inside.

Normally you'd want
to conceal that.

By reporting it, he causes
a commotion among the guards.

Then, when he asks them
to return it to him,

they ignore him
and tell him to get lost.

Oguni came up with that idea.

I's not easy
to hit upon an idea like that.

But Oguni would come through
with an inspired solution,

something unexpected.

You wouldn't think
of something like that,

to reveal the very thing
that should be hidden.

To do the complete opposite.

I's easy to say it,
but you don't hit upon it so easily.

In hindsight, it's a simple idea
to do the reverse of the normal.

But it's not easy to think of it.
We tend to see things in a certain way.

So you're quite insistent
that your writers and crews

come up with solutions?
- Yes, I am.

come up with solutions?
- Yes, I am.

I work really quickly, though everyone
seems to think otherwise.

The thing is, I take plenty of time
for thorough preparation.

I'm sure you've made
difficult demands on your whole crew,

but who's had
to bear them the most?

My crew members
are all used to my demands,

and they don't seem
to find them particularly difficult.

You mentioned you spend
the most time on preparation.

When you prepare thoroughly,

you don't waste time on the set.

So a day of shooting starts
at 9:00 a.m. and ends at 3:00 p.m.

I usually have two or three cameras
rolling at the same time.

For shooting the scene
of the Maadha kai,

that is, the first gathering
of the Maadha kai, in Madadayo,

the production team and ADs
estimated it would take one month.

To shoot that one very long scene
of the Maadha kai.

But I shot it in six days,
and everyone was amazed.

It was because I shot
the entire scene in a single take.

For instance, the scene where they sing
“One-two, Mr. Pharmacist”

was shot in a rectangular room.

First I'd shoot the scene
from this side using three cameras.

I'd shoot the entire sequence
that way once.

Then I'd shoot again with lenses
and camera positions changed a little.

I did that three times from each
of the four sides of the room,

so there was a total of —

- Twelve different shots.
- No.

Three cameras were rolling,
so there were nine shots per angle.

So four times nine
makes 36 shots.

- You're right.
- That's a lot of footage.

Everyone said it'd be
an ordeal to edit,

but I started at 9:00 a.m.
and was done by 3:00 p.m.

I threw out whatever didn't look
interesting, one piece at a time.

I weeded out parts I didn't want,
so I'd only have the footage I needed.

Then I simply had
to piece together the good parts.

So I work quickly
with that kind of task.

Before the camera starts rolling,

do you spend
a great deal of time on rehearsal?

Well...

I don't spend
a particularly long time.

Before rehearsing, though,
I give instructions on what I want.

So you direct where to position
the cameras before entering the set.

No, actually,
I give instructions to the actors.

I emphasize what kind of acting
I want from them.

Camera positions
are not their concern.

I see.

On my set, actors don't know
which camera is trained on them,

so they have to act naturally
and not play to a camera.

Say there were three cameras
shooting a scene.

Camera A would usually shoot
the establishing shot,

focusing on the center of the action
and panning a little.

Another would shoot close-ups.

That camera would be
the furthest from the actors.

That way, there's no way
for actors to play just to the camera.

They have to give
a fully rounded performance

and forget about
performing to the camera.

The best thing I gained
from setting up the cameras that way

is that actors stopped
playing to them.

They have to perform
from every angle,

because they have no idea
which camera is shooting them or how.

Your use of multiple camera setup
has become legendary.

I believe you first used it
on Seven Samurar.

We had to because of the rain scene,
with the horrendously muddy ground.

Otherwise, we couldn't make
the action look continuous,

even if we tried.

So we resorted
to shooting the scene

with all three cameras rolling
at the same time.

The result was very interesting.

That's how it came about.

You've employed it since
for interior shots as well.

Earlier you talked about capturing
the depths of human nature.

By drawing out naturalistic acting
from actors through the camera setup,

are you aiming for realism
rather than make-believe?

It's more like —

What the camera reveals most
is an actor's self-consciousness,

which would turn the viewers off.

To eliminate that self-consciousness is
the most difficult task for the director,

as well as for the actors.

But the multiple camera setup

automatically eliminates
the actors' self-consciousness.

The longest shot I've filmed
is the tunnel segment in Dreams.

It's 16 minutes long,
which wouldn't fit on one reel.

So we made use of the part
where the actors do an about-face.

On each actor's backpack
was a lightbulb

to light the face
of the person behind.

Since we couldn't use regular
lighting equipment for that shot,

the lightbulb on each backpack
lit the face of the next actor.

But as the actors did an about-face,
the lightbulbs would be revealed.

So we needed to intercut
just before that happened.

I gave the following instructions:

“The lighting crew will remove
the lightbulbs as soon as I say ‘stop.'

Meanwhile, the camera crew
will change magazines.

Then, when I say ‘action!'
we'll resume shooting.”

All that time, the actors
were to stay perfectly still.

As a result,
we got that 16-minute scene.

We rehearsed on the set,
and it was initially 20 minutes long.

Then, as we rehearsed
further on the set

and on the actual location,
everything became condensed.

The scene improved greatly because
it gained this condensed energy.

And it made the scene shorter.

When you employ a cutback shot
like that, it generally slackens the scene.

But with tightly controlled shooting,
the scene's energy intensifies.

I think Mizoguchi's films
have that kind of energy.

It makes the film
more powerful too.

It definitely shortens a scene.

And it improves the scene.

So condensing like that
shortens shooting time?

Yes. Generally one scene
will be shot in a single take.

This hasn't changed even today,

but when Japanese cinema
was at its peak,

you had the cream of the crop
of Japanese actors in your films.

Did you always keep
a sharp eye out for the right actors?

Yes, of course.

That's why I've made shrewd use
of Shochiku actors

such as Reikichi Kawamura
and Shinichi Himori.

When you like a certain actor's work,
it stays in your mind.

So I watch television quite a bit

to find actors who interest me,
as was the case with Joji Tokoro.

I watch television fairly often
for that purpose.

The other day, I read an interview
in which you said

that Japanese people
look different today,

and modern actors don't have
the right faces for period roles.

I feel that way when it comes
to actors in period dramas.

In olden times, a 20-year old
used to be a real adult.

In the Meiji era —
What was his name? Kogoro Katsura?

He later changed his name
to Takayoshi Kido.

The movers behind
the Meiji restoration were in their 20s.

Many government ministers
of that era were in their 20s.

Today it's a different story.

Nobunaga Oda and Shingen Takeda
did amazing things while still young.

But young actors today don't have
the right look to play those roles.

The men of olden times managed
impressive feats at a young age.

Only one piece of Yoshitsune's
writing remains today.

Done in his 20s...

it exudes a maturity
beyond his age.

So you can't cast an actor
to play Yoshitsune

just because he's the same age
as Yoshitsune was.

He'll have to undergo
proper training to play the character.

I don't think it's possible anymore
for an actor in the right age category

to play a historical figure.

This is a serious challenge
in making period dramas today.

At one point you made
a lot of period films,

such as Throne of Blood
and Seven Samurai.

Had you seen many Japanese
period films in the past?

Yes.

But you aspired to make
a different kind of period film.

One of my first assignments as an AD

was on Takizawa's film,
Saga of the Vagabonds.

I was 26 at the time.

Takizawa was directing —

Back then, there were lots of horses
in Gotenba, in peasants' stables.

We had armor
and other equipment for the film

stored in the homes
of peasants working as extras.

In the morning, as the film crew
drove up Mount Fuji,

the doors of the peasants'
stables would open,

and out would come the armor-clad
peasants, leading their horses.

It was very picturesque.

As our cars advanced,
they'd follow us at a trot.

When we'd arrive on the set,

they'd have bonfires going, just like
bandits might, among the cedars.

But Takizawa didn't shoot
any of those images.

He'd just stick to the status quo.
- In the conventional style of the time.

When a northerly wind blew,

these peasant-bandits would turn
the horses' rumps toward the wind,

and the horses would
hang their heads down

as the clouds swept by above them.

It was all so beautiful...

and evocative of a song lyric
from the film:

“Far away is the homeland,
and one's heart yearns for it.”

But Takizawa didn't bother
to capture those images.

So I hoped one day to make
a film capturing those things.

They were making stock
period films back in those days,

and I wondered why they didn't make
good use of those beautiful images.

Period dramas were made
in a certain established mode back then.

Yes, but it wasn't
a realistic rendering.

If that were the case,
those films would've looked different.

Period dramas were stuck in a mold
invented by the film industry.

That's why
they weren't inspiring.

If you try to recreate how things
really were in a certain era,

it's a very challenging task.

In the case of Seven Samurai,
even the peasants' wigs were different.

Usually, the top hairline comes up
to here, but ours came much lower,

so a special lining was used
for the top part of the wigs.

- So you prepared all new wigs?
- Yes, we did.

Someone drew sketches of them?

No, the hair stylist, Yamada,
who has since passed away,

was passionate about his work
and wanted to do them that way.

But it was Seison Maeda
who first said —

The painter?

He said the topknot hairstyle
seen in films looked odd,

because the top of the head
is shaved only down to here,

while where the hair ends is set
like a bar of solid seaweed jelly.

He drew a sketch
to show how it should look,

explaining how far the top is shaved
and the position of the topknot.

Yamada listened intently and worked
hard to recreate what he'd heard.

Unless you put in
that kind of effort,

you can't break away from convention

and create something new.

On that film, Maeda advised us
on kimonos and everything else,

and his apprentice
provided us with sketches.

And you've been constantly trying
new things like that in your films.

A helmet worn by one of the bandits
was actually a national treasure,

and Maeda chided me for it.

“Don't you know
that's a national treasure?”

I think what you did was okay.

Moving on to a different subject,

I've heard you're very picky
about your film music,

that you have a very clear idea
of what you want,

and that you ask the composer
for scores conveying that.

Was that the case
from the beginning?

I don't think I'm especially picky.

But Fumio Hayasaka understood

that film music is different
from regular music.

He firmly believed that film music
is in a special category by itself.

That's why our collaboration
was so successful.

But his life was cut short
prematurely.

It was a great loss.

We would've collaborated
On many more projects.

Musicians demand that a piece
of music be able to stand on its own.

But it's different with film music.
Even if something is lacking,

it works together with images
on the screen to form an expression.

But musicians have difficulty
grasping that.

They insist that a piece of music —
- Stand in its own right.

I understand where
they're coming from as musicians,

but Hayasaka was different.

When music accompanies
an image on the screen,

it may work better
if it's lacking a certain something.

It may be more effective that way.

But it's hard for musicians
to get that.

- Yet Hayasaka did from the beginning?
- Yes.

How did you first meet him?

He was at Toho from the beginning,
but he was stubborn, and so was I,

so the studio didn't pair us at first,
fearing there'd be trouble.

But when they did,
we worked great together.

- What project was that on?
- We first collaborated on...

Drunken Angel, I think it was.

The music for that film
was very memorable.

Your collaboration continued
up through / Live in Fear.

So you didn't work together
for very long, actually,

but he contributed
greatly to your films.

You wrote a piece on the film
for a laserdisc edition.

I was moved
by what you wrote.

He was really
a very close friend. Irreplaceable.

We were in a crazed state
as we shot the film,

especially the fire scene.

We shot it after Hayasaka's funeral,
and my crew was very shaken,

because they all loved him too.

I guess our state of mind infused
that scene with a sort of eerie energy.

The theme of the film
was actually inspired by Hayasaka.

He visited me one day
and said he couldn't work.

I asked him why,

and he said he couldn't work
when he thought

about hydrogen bombs
and where the world was headed.

“Let's make a film about that,” I said,
and I began writing the script.

But Hayasaka died
during production...

and I think as a result the film
is charged with a particular energy.

We were in a strange state
when we shot.

When asked to write about it,
I found myself in a very difficult spot,

but somehow I came up
with some insights for the piece.

The film really shows,
probably more than any other,

that cinema stands on images
above all, not on story alone.

And I couldn't help feeling
that your recent films

show some similarities
with / Live in Fear.

Well, Kashiko Kawakita said

she wanted to reintroduce that film
to the whole world.

She said that my films
were ahead of their time.

When the film was released —

It's the only film of mine
that lost money.

The Japanese audience didn't care for it.
They didn't want to look at reality.

At the premiere...

Umekichi Nakamura, who later
became education minister, said,

“It's stupid to make a big fuss
over atomic bombs.”

I wanted Toho to get his comment
printed in the papers,

but they didn't.

This is a studio that wouldn't even sue
the guy who slashed its movie screen.

I guess Toho is suing after all, though.
- Yes, it seems so.

It's really embarrassing
how Toho handled that.

I wanted to experiment more
with Hayasaka.

He really understood film music.

He'd turn other jobs down
when he was working on a film.

He'd devote himself
to a project.

When you worked with him,
did you tell him what you wanted,

and did he bring his own input to it?

Most of the time
he'd score a film at the piano.

For Seven Samurai,

there were musical themes
for the samurai, the bandits,

Kikuchiyo and Shino,
to name the main ones.

When he told me he'd written
some possible themes for the samurai,

it was a stack this high.
- He prepared a lot.

He played them one by one,

and I said no
to every one of them.

He hung his head like this.
Then he said he had one more.

It was in a wastebasket.

It had been torn up,
so he taped it together and played it.

“That's it!” I said.

The scrapped piece
was the good one.

So that's how we'd start
working on a project.

He'd compose diligently
as filming progressed.

That way...

You'd have music more or less
to your satisfaction.

Yes, by the time the music
was ready to lay down.

Lately you've used existing music
for some scenes in your films,

Lately you've used existing music
for some scenes in your films,

such as ‘Heidenréslein”
in Rhapsody in August.

Yes, a member of my crew
actually suggested that.

There's all kinds of music
in the world.

I'd pick what went with certain scenes
and have it recorded on CD.

Then I'd play it in synch to the scenes
as I showed my crew the rushes,

and I'd get a great response.

If I were to have original scores made —
This may make musicians angry.

You wouldn't get as good a score
by trying to emulate the original.

No, you wouldn't.

My crew tells me original scores
aren't as moving, and it's true.

But it's also true that new scores
work beautifully for some scenes.

A director like Tarkovsky

shows the name of the composer
whose music he's using.

If it was Bach, he'd indicate
which Bach piece he was using.

That's one way of doing it.

I once asked John Gillett,
the well-known British film critic,

about using famous music for
a sound track the way Tarkovsky does.

He said there's a certain problem
that goes along with that.

John Gillett said that?

For example, if you hear Mahler
in a certain scene,

you're very aware
that it's Mahler,

and that works against the scene.

He does have a point.

I used a piece by Vivaldi in Madaadayo,
but Vivaldi wrote so many pieces

that most people
wouldn't notice it.

With that kind of piece,
you wouldn't be distracted

by noticing that it was
a Vivaldi piece.

Another way of using famous music
is to do what Tarkovsky does,

to indicate it clearly
at the beginning.

To plainly show that you're using
certain music

is one way of dealing with it.

I have reservations

about having the entire sound track
newly scored by a musician,

though you do need new music
for some scenes, of course.

I think there are different approaches
you can take for film music.

Whether it's selecting music
for your films,

or selecting a literary work
such as Shakespeare to adapt,

you always seem to be aiming

to take on

the top of the lot, the very best.

I don't do it intentionally.
I don't consciously set out to do that.

But you gravitate toward the best.

It's puzzling to me too.
Hayasaka was often befuddled.

You hear the “Cuckoo Waltz” in the scene
where Mifune is walking dejectedly.

I said that the “Cuckoo Waltz”
would work for the scene.

So we recorded the piece

and paired it with the edited footage,
and they matched perfectly in length.

I somehow knew
they'd be the same length.

I have an uncanny ability to do that,
which amazed even Hattori.

Both cinema and music
are art forms involving time,

so they could be perfectly
matched in length.

The “Stabat Mater” in
Rhapsody in August, for instance,

was a piece I heard somewhere,

and I felt it was absolutely
necessary for the film.

And when I actually used it,
it was a perfect match.

And that piece...

as well as the Vivaldi piece,

were played by the uncle
of an Italian AD named Vittorio

who was working
as part of my crew.

His uncle had been saying
that he wanted to work on my film,

so when I contacted him,
he was happy to oblige.

You seem to connect
with people worldwide

because you're on
the same wavelength with them.

I don't know about that.
I'm just being myself.

It's puzzling, though,
that I have this instinct for music.

A piece I choose fits perfectly
in length with a given piece of footage.

I must be measuring it
on some unconscious level.

Moving on to the next subject,
you've been working as director

as well as screenwriter
and producer of your films.

You must've had difficulties
in dealing with producers or studios.

Could you share
your experience in that regard?

Well, let's see.

I formed my own production
company as a result

of unexpectedly going over schedule
on The Hidden Fortress.

The shooting went well
until close to the end.

We only had a location shoot
on Mount Fuji left to do.

It was to take a week or ten days,
but it took 100 days instead.

Three typhoon attacks plagued us,
and even if it was sunny in Gotenba,

it would be raining
where we set up our location set.

We were just stuck there.

The studio was angry,
because it was sunny in Tokyo,

and when Fujimoto the producer came
to Gotenba, the sun was out there too.

He said, “What's going on?”

So I drove him up to the set,
where the weather was just awful.

But even after that,
the studio remained unconvinced

and was sure the delay
was due to my ego.

Naruse often used to say,
“The studio thinks delays are our fault,

but it's the director who'd most wish
to wrap up the shooting quickly.”

He was right. When shooting
doesn't progress as it should,

there's a reason for it.

But the studio
doesn't understand that.

So after that incident, Toho told me
to start my own production company.

They thought when I had to deal
with getting money to produce films,

I would compromise
and stop pushing so hard.

My production company's first film
was The Bad Sleep Well.

- Did it cost a lot?
- It did.

But I didn't want to disgrace myself
by turning stingy

just because I'd set up
my own production company.

Instead, I decided to make a film
that posed the greatest challenge.

Having your own production company
and claiming the rights to your films

are necessary in dealing with
Japanese as well as foreign studios.

I's important
to do those things.

The Japanese film industry's
worst custom has been

that directors worked for the studios

and therefore had this feeling

of being at the mercy
of the studios to make films.

That belief is wrong, since studios
made money off their films.

But directors felt indebted
to the studios

and didn't even bother drawing up
contracts for their services.

The problem...

is that they've been working
with this studio-employee mentality.

And that has continued until today.

The studios still don't
understand the problem,

so their employees don't either.

When David Putnam
set up a new movie studio,

the first thing that Japanese
filmmakers needed to learn

was the meaning
of the word “contract.”

Japanese filmmakers
had to learn such a basic thing.

For Japanese cinema
to really grow from now on,

it's important to establish clearly
the rights and claims of directors.

In that regard, I've been asking
Jun Norisugi, the lawyer,

to focus his practice
on copyright law,

because there are
no copyright lawyers in Japan.

In America
there are all kinds of lawyers.

Norisugi helped me with my film
Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence,

but his services
didn't come cheap.

No, lawyers' fees are high,
especially with American lawyers.

Thirty minutes of time can cost —
- An arm and a leg,

because they charge by the hour
- That's right.

They're worth it, though.

They do a thorough job.

Besides, they make their money
by earning profit for their client.

So with Seven Samurai,
for instance,

you secured the copyright for yourself
as well as the other screenwriters?

- Of course.
- You represented the others?

Yes, and I pass on to each one
his share.

Oguni is living off royalties
from one such instance.

So when I get an offer
to remake my films,

I try to be
as accommodating as possible

to help those among us
who aren't doing so well these days.

If a remake is made, I can pass on
their share of the royalties.

Your recent film, for example,
Madadayo,

was a coproduction between Daiei
and your production company,

and when the film
is distributed overseas,

your company makes money
from that, of course?

My son Hisao
oversees that closely.

He works hard to raise money
from various sources.

He has a difficult job
as president of the company.

- That's for sure.
- He's told me about his worries.

He says it'd be best
if I stopped working,

because it's hell when I work.

I say this all the time,
but cinema is like a public square.

Up on the screen,

you see lives of people
living in different countries.

As you watch,

you cry, you laugh, you get angry,
becoming one with those people,

and you come to understand them.

It's a truly valuable means
of connecting people,

including in a political sense.

In order for Japanese cinema

to genuinely rebuild itself
to what it was at its height,

the government needs
to support it more.

The French government does that,
though French cinema is still struggling.

That government
is relatively supportive.

In foreign countries, politicians
take a great interest in cinema,

and they see
quite a lot of movies.

What needs to be done
about Japanese cinema?

If you have any advice
for Japanese filmmakers,

I'd be very interested
in hearing it.

First of all, Japanese filmmakers
need to have confidence in their work.

And they need to stand up
for their rights.

These missing elements aren't helping
gain support for Japanese cinema.

They should make films
they really care about.

John Gillett said this to me,
and I may have related it before,

but at one point in time,

Japan produced a continuous stream
of superb directors and brilliant films.

This phenomenon has never
been seen anywhere else.

He wanted to know how that occurred,
or what made it possible.

He said he wanted
to interview me on that subject

before an audience
at the Royal National Theatre.

I agreed to do it,
and so he asked the question.

My answer to him was this:

“It occurred simply

because studios gave free rein
to directors back in those days.

There was no such thing
as a producer then,

and studios let directors make
the films they wanted to make

without interfering.

That's all there was to it.”

Everyone in the theater was shocked.

This period you speak of —
when does it start and end?

The years that Naruse was at his peak

and Mizoguchi and Ozu were working.

They only made films
they cared about.

Naruse made quite a few films
requested by the studios,

so they made those kinds of films too,
but only a few.

Generally, they chose
their own projects.

But it's different today.

So it's the period —
excluding the war years —

from 1937 or 1938

through the last half of the 1950s?

That sounds about right.

When the producer system
was introduced —

Japanese producers
are not the real thing, though.

They don't raise money for the film.

American producers work hard

because they're putting
their money into a film.

Japanese producers aren't like that.

Producers should put their money
into it but stay out of the filmmaking.

But Japan's producers
are just the opposite.

I's no wonder
Japanese cinema isn't improving.

Especially nowadays,

control in Japan's film industry
lies with the sales department.

You can't expect a good product when
the creative side doesn't have control.

These days, the so-called studios
aren't really making movies anymore.

Right, they're not.

They lack the talent for it,

because only those without talent
remained in the studios.

So to put it simply,

I think that period produced
so many great filmmakers

because the studios let them
make films they really cared about,

so each film was made
with attention and care.

That's the simplest way to make a film,
but it's rarely practiced.

It's important that filmmakers
make films they really care about.

But for example, my son said

that next I should make something
with a little more mass appeal,

a crowd-pleaser
that would be a big hit.

You can't do it, though,
when you're asked to like that.

Hisao related
that story to me too!

I said, “I can't make movies at all
when you say something like that.”

To tell you the truth, I can only
make films that I care about.

I just can't help it.

But working
within those parameters,

I made films
like Seven Samurai and Yojimbo,

though it was by chance
that I made those crowd-pleasers.

It's not possible
to make films like that

just because you're asked to,
unfortunately.

I agree with you.
Films are funny that way.

The real problem we have —

I wish the Japanese audience today
would turn out more

for the kind of films
I've been making recently.

More people would've seen them
in the old days.

My most recent film
is currently doing well overseas.

The most difficult thing

is to raise the level
of the audience's appreciation of film.

That's a tremendous thing
to pull off.

It's easy to lower it,
and that's what has happened.

Movie theaters are playing
only the awful stuff,

and audiences today are apt
to actually believe that that's cinema.

So it's necessary to raise
their awareness of what cinema really is.

And educating people
in that regard

is an enormously difficult
and challenging task.

I'd like you
to send out a message

to Japan's younger
generation of directors

and aspiring directors,
who are really quite numerous,

to wrap up this interview,

if there's any advice
you can give them.

The thing I stress most

to the aspiring directors who often
come knocking at my door is this:

“It costs a great deal of money
to make a film these days,

and it's hard
to become a director.

You must learn and experience
various things to become a director,

and it's not
so easily accomplished.

But if you genuinely want
to make films,

then write screenplays.

All you need to write a script
is paper and pencil.

It's only through writing scripts

that you learn specifics
about the structure of film

and what cinema is.”

That's what I tell them,

but they still won't write.

They find writing too hard.

And it is.
Writing scripts is a hard job.

Still...

Balzac said that for writers,
including novelists,

the most essential and necessary thing

is the forbearance to face

the dull task
of writing one word at a time.

That is the first requirement
for any writer.

When you consider Balzac's
body of work with that in mind,

it's just staggering,

because he produced
a volume of written work

that we couldn't finish reading
in our lifetimes.

Do you know how he wrote?

It's very interesting.

He'd scribble along and then send
it off to the printer right away.

One page would be printed
on a sheet of paper this big.

When he got the printed pages back,
he'd make revisions in the margin

until very little
of the original writing remained.

Then he'd send those revisions
to the printer.

That's a good way to work,

though it may be hard
on the printer.

He was able to produce so much
because of that method.

That may have been
one ingredient,

but the most essential thing
was to have the patience

to write one word at a time

until you reach
the required length.

Too many people lack
that patience.

Once you get used to it,

you'll be able to write
with no trouble.

You only need paper and pencil
to write a screenplay.

When Naruse and I
were staying in an inn to write,

I used to visit him in his room.

He'd have writing paper
and a pencil on the table.

As we talked, he'd write
something down now and then.

That writing would turn
into one of his wonderful scripts.

This is a funny story,

but I asked to see what he was writing,
and he just chuckled.

He'd written
that such and such characters

were in a room doing something.

Just “something”!
Nothing specific?

For Naruse, that description was enough,
because he'd be directing.

He didn't need to be specific.

But that “something” was funny.

But the tedious task of writing

has to become second nature to you.

If you sit down and write quietly
the whole day,

you'll have written
at least two or three pages,

even if it's a struggle.

And if you keep at it, you'll eventually
have a couple hundred pages.

I think young people today
don't know the trick of it.

They start and want to get
to the end right away.

When you go mountain climbing,
the first thing you're told

is not to look at the peak

but to keep your eyes
on the ground as you climb.

You just keep climbing patiently
one step at a time.

If you keep looking at the top,
you'll get frustrated.

I think writing is similar.

You need to get used
to the task of writing.

You must make an effort
to learn to regard it

not as something painful
but as routine.

But most people
tend to give up halfway.

I tell my ADs that if
they give up once, then that'll be it,

because that becomes habit, and they'll
give up as soon as it gets hard.

I tell them to write all the way
to the end no matter what,

until they get
to some sort of end.

I say, “Don't ever quit,
even if it gets hard midway.”

But when the going gets tough,
they just give up.

Also, young people today
don't read books.

I don't think any of them
are widely read in Russian literature.

It's important that they at least
do a certain amount of reading.

Unless you have a rich reserve within,
you can't create anything.

That's why I often say
that creating comes from memory.

Memory is the source for your creation.

You can't create
something out of nothing.

Whether it's from reading

or from your own
real-life experience,

you can't create unless you have
something inside yourself.

In that sense, it's important
to always read a variety of things.

Current novels are fine,

but I think people should
read the classics too.

So if a film school was set up,

it would be important
to stress reading.

Thank you for the great stories.

Supervised by SHIZUO SATO

OF THE DIRECTORS GUILD OF JAPAN,
COMMITTEE OF CULTURAL AFFAIRS

Produced by
THE DIRECTORS GUILD OF JAPAN

THIS INTERVIEW WAS EDITED

WITH SUPPORT FROM THE
COMMUNICATIONS CULTURE FUND