Not so long ago, I used to think of the 1980s as a cultural void. In music and cinema, the relative golden era of the 1970s had given way to brainless commercialistic drivel. But then I realised it was actually the golden age of the alternative, the underground, the hard-to-find gems nestled in among the post-Star Wars, post-pop detritus. Suddenly, I connected with music in a new way, listening to The Smiths, New Order, Pixies and R.E.M. And in cinema, I found the birth of independent American cinema (in Alex Cox's Repo Man) as well as a wave of auteurs such as David Lynch and Peter Greenaway.
All of this was an act of profound realisation and also profound ignorance. Ignoring the mess in the English-language, world cinema was as much a source of originality and excellence as ever. Ran, maestro Akira Kurosawa's last epic, is one such example. Shorter than such lengthy epics as Seven Samurai, it is a tale most recognisable to non-Japanese audiences as that of King Lear, transplanted to feudal Japan. A king divides his land between three sons, the youngest of whom calls the decision foolish and is banished. However, it becomes clear that he fears only for his father, and is proved right when civil war breaks out between the other two sons.
The story was initially developed as a twist on the traditional parable of Mōri Motonari, who gave each of his sons an arrow to break, which they did. He then gave them three arrows together, and they were unable to break them, thus demonstrating their united strength. In Ran, the youngest son ably demonstrates that even together the arrows can be snapped.
There is so much that could be written about Ran without ever passing judgement on it. The use of primary colours (one each for the three sons) and their comparison with blood, sunlight and so on; the amazing visual impact of the King losing his mind (and possible comparisons with Kurosawa's own deranged attempt to secure his legacy); the phenomenal, exciting and bloody battle sequences so powerful that their effect is still felt today in, for example, Peter Jackson's The Lord of The Rings trilogy.
Ultimately, it is the final image that most haunts. The war is over, and the Shakespearean tragedy has taken its toll, leaving a blind young man stood on a precipice, uncertain of how to find his way home. You leave the film with a sense of loss that is intangible, but stays with you for days.
5/5
All of this was an act of profound realisation and also profound ignorance. Ignoring the mess in the English-language, world cinema was as much a source of originality and excellence as ever. Ran, maestro Akira Kurosawa's last epic, is one such example. Shorter than such lengthy epics as Seven Samurai, it is a tale most recognisable to non-Japanese audiences as that of King Lear, transplanted to feudal Japan. A king divides his land between three sons, the youngest of whom calls the decision foolish and is banished. However, it becomes clear that he fears only for his father, and is proved right when civil war breaks out between the other two sons.
The story was initially developed as a twist on the traditional parable of Mōri Motonari, who gave each of his sons an arrow to break, which they did. He then gave them three arrows together, and they were unable to break them, thus demonstrating their united strength. In Ran, the youngest son ably demonstrates that even together the arrows can be snapped.
There is so much that could be written about Ran without ever passing judgement on it. The use of primary colours (one each for the three sons) and their comparison with blood, sunlight and so on; the amazing visual impact of the King losing his mind (and possible comparisons with Kurosawa's own deranged attempt to secure his legacy); the phenomenal, exciting and bloody battle sequences so powerful that their effect is still felt today in, for example, Peter Jackson's The Lord of The Rings trilogy.
Ultimately, it is the final image that most haunts. The war is over, and the Shakespearean tragedy has taken its toll, leaving a blind young man stood on a precipice, uncertain of how to find his way home. You leave the film with a sense of loss that is intangible, but stays with you for days.
5/5
2 comments:
That's funny. I tend to think of the eighties as an awakening from the horrible seventies.
Nelson
Yeah that was kind of my point - as a child/teenager it looked like the explosion of popular culture in the late 70s/early 80s killed off everything I liked about music and cinema from the 70s.
Into my twenties now, I've realised that actually it forced the alternative underground, where it was able to innovate and produce films and recording artists that couldn't have flourished in the same way in the 70s, which was really just a decade trying to maintain the 60s ideal of popular culture as a force for change; in reality this had been greatly diluted.
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