The Aesthetics of Shadow: Lighting and Japanese Cinema 9780822399667

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The AesTheTics of

s​ h A d o w

The AesTheTics of

s​ h A d o w Lighting and Japanese Cinema

D a i s u k e ​ M i ya o

Duke​University​Press Durham​and​London 2013

©​2013​Duke​University​Press All​rights​reserved Printed​in​the​United​States​of​America​on​acid-​free​paper​♾ Designed​by​Heather​Hensley Typeset​in​Arno​Pro​by​Tseng​Information​Systems,​Inc. Library​of​Congress​Cataloging-​in-​Publication​Data​appear​ on​the​last​printed​page​of​this​book.

For Dica

Contents

Acknowledgments​

ix

IntroductIon

What​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW? ​

1

​1.​Lighting​anD​capitaList-​i nDustriaL​ MoDernity: ​Shochiku and Hollywood​

15

​2.​fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star:​ Shochiku and Jidaigeki​

67

​3.​street​fiLMs:​ Shochiku and Germany​

119

​4.​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW:​ Shochiku, Toho, and Japan​

173

conclusIon

the​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo ​

255

notes​

283

BIBlIogrAphy​

329

Index​

365

AC k n ow l e d g m e n t s

I​am​eternally​grateful​to​the​late​Robert​Sklar,​my​mentor.​I​had​ countless​joyful​moments​with​him​when​we​talked​about​films​ and​ books.​ With​ his​ generosity,​ patience,​ and​ continuous​ encouragement,​I​have​been​able​to​transform​myself​from​a​naïve​ student​from​ Japan​who​knew​very​little​ about​ the​practice​of​ cinema​studies​into​a​little​more​articulate​film​historian.​Thank​ you​so​very​much,​Professor​Sklar. ​ I​owe​so​much​to​the​big​heart​of​the​late​Keiko​I.​McDonald.​ It​was​my​great​pleasure​to​report​the​progress​of​my​research​to​ her​at​annual​conferences.​Our​meetings​were​always​after​her​ daily​ten-​mile​run,​and​she​always​amazed​me​with​her​positive​ energy.​I​am​sorry​that​I​did​not​have​a​chance​to​run​the​historic​ Hayward​Field​with​Keiko-​sensei,​who​was​a​University​of​Oregon​alumna. ​ Special​thanks​go​to​Ken​Wissoker​of​Duke​University​Press.​ Ken​was​the​very​first​person​who​listened​to​my​initial​rough​ idea​about​writing​a​transnational​history​of​cinematic​lighting.​ It​was​in​Chicago​in​2007​when​my​book​on​Sessue​Hayakawa​ came​out.​He​has​been​enthusiastic​about​this​project​ever​since​ and​guided​me​through​a​long​and​winding​road.​This​book​is​a​ collaboration​between​Ken​and​me. ​ As​my​project​involved​extensive​research​both​in​the​United​ States​ and​ Japan,​ I​ have​ been​ very​ fortunate​ to​ be​ assisted​ by​ many​institutions.​I​thank​above​all​Charles​Silver​at​the​Museum​ of​Modern​Art,​Film​Study​Center​in​New​York;​Okajima​Hisa-

shi,​Okada​Hidenori,​Tochigi​Akira,​Irie​Yoshiro,​and​Itakura​Fumiaki​at​the​ National​Film​Center,​the​National​Museum​of​Modern​Art,​Tokyo;​Wachi​ Yukiko,​Fukuda​Atsuko,​and​staff​members​at​Kawakita​Memorial​Film​Institute;​Moriwaki​Kiyotaka​at​the​Museum​of​Kyoto;​Yasui​Yoshio​at​Kobe​ Planet​Eiga​Shiryokan;​Barbara​Hall​at​the​Margaret​Herrick​Library​of​the​ Center​for​Motion​Picture​Study;​Mona​Nagai​and​Jason​Sanders​at​the​ Pacific​Film​Archive;​John​Mhiripiri​at​the​Anthology​Film​Archive;​and​ staff​members​at​the​University​of​Oregon​Knight​Library’s​Interlibrary​ Loan​Office.​I​have​also​benefited​greatly​from​my​visits​to​the​New​York​ Public​Library​for​Performing​Arts,​ucLa​Department​of​Special​Collections,​Tsubouchi​Memorial​Theater​Museum​at​Waseda​University,​the​National​Diet​Library,​and​Shochiku​Otani​Library. ​ An​acLs/ssrc/neh​Fellowship,​Center​for​the​Study​of​Women​in​ Society​Research​Grant,​Oregon​Humanities​Center​Research​Fellowship,​ Richard​A.​Bray​Faculty​Fellowship,​and​other​internal​research​grants​at​ the​University​of​Oregon​provided​me​with​precious​time​and​funding​to​ complete​this​book. ​ Kotani​Eiichi,​Kurita​Toyomichi,​Miyagawa​Jiro,​Okada​Mariko,​Wakao​ Ayako,​and​Yoshida​Kiju​shared​precious​stories​of​Japanese​filmmaking​ with​me. ​ I​am​deeply​grateful​to​Steven​Brown,​Rebecca​Fowler,​Hideaki​Fujiki,​ Tom​Gunning,​Elise​Hansen,​Abé​Markus​Nornes,​and​Yomota​Inuhiko,​ who​kindly​read​sections​of​this​book​at​various​stages​and​gave​me​valuable​comments​and​encouragements. ​ Cheers​to​Kathleen​Karlyn,​Mike​Aronson,​Priscilla​Peña​Ovalle,​Sangita​Gopal,​Katharina​Lowe,​Kate​Mondloch,​Audra​Mahoney,​and​the​faculty​and​the​staff​of​the​Cinema​Studies​Program​at​the​University​of​Oregon.​I​am​honored​to​share​the​love​of​cinema​with​you. ​ Among​ many​ friends,​ colleagues,​ and​ mentors​ on​ both​ sides​ of​ the​ Pacific​who​have​provided​invaluable​professional​and​emotional​support,​ I​would​like​to​particularly​thank​Charles​Affron,​Dudley​Andrew,​Chris​ Arnold,​ Keri​ Aronson,​ Kathryn​ Barton,​ Jennifer​ M.​ Bean,​ Betty​ Chen,​ Stephen​Durrant,​Maram​Epstein,​Robert​Felsing,​Funatsu​Akiko,​Aaron​ Gerow,​ Carol​ Gluck,​ Frances​ Guerin,​ Heidi​ Johnson,​ Patrick​ Keating,​ Chika​Kinoshita,​Hiroshi​Kitamura,​Colleen​Laird,​Tom​LaMarre,​Jean​Ma,​ Matsudo​Makoto​(Pinewood​Company),​Matsui​Jun​(Heibonsha),​Shannon​McLachlan,​Mizuno​Sachiko,​Shogan​Naidoo​and​the​yMca​marathon​ x  acknoWLeDgMents

group​in​Eugene​(for​keeping​me​fit​physically​and​mentally),​Miwako​Okigami,​Ota​Yoneo​(Toy​Film​Project),​Misa​Oyama,​Augusta​Lee​Palmer,​ Michael​ Raine,​ Donald​ Richie,​ Saito​ Ayako,​ Tze-​lan​ Sang,​ Miryam​ Sas,​ Shibata​Motoyuki,​Irina​Shport,​William​G.​Simon,​Ben​Singer,​Takeuchi​ Shigehiro​(Eiga​shiryo​no​kobeya),​Alan​Tansman,​Patrick​Terry,​Noboru​ Tomonari,​ Mitsuyo​ Wada-​Marciano,​ Akiko​ and​ Glynne​ Walley,​ Kristen​ Whissel,​Linda​Williams,​Mari​Yoshihara,​Mitsuhiro​Yoshimoto,​and​Zhang​ Zhen. ​ Leigh​Barnwell​and​Liz​Smith​at​Duke​University​Press​have​patiently​ guided​me​through​the​book’s​editorial​and​production​processes. ​ I​also​thank​enthusiastic​audiences​of​my​talks​at​the​University​of​California,​Berkeley;​Carleton​College;​the​University​of​Maryland;​Stanford​ University;​the​Association​for​Asian​Studies;​Kinema​Club;​and​the​Society​for​Cinema​and​Media​Studies. ​ I​would​like​to​sincerely​thank​Nishimura​Taro,​Matsumoto​Toshio,​Tatsumi​Takayuki,​and​the​faculty​of​letters​at​Keio​University,​and​Notoji​ Masako,​Kunishige​Junji,​and​the​faculty​of​American​studies​at​the​University​of​Tokyo,​Komaba,​for​their​tremendous​kindness. ​ I​ am​ very​ grateful​ to​ my​ parents,​ Miyao​ Shunsuke​ and​ Masami,​ for​ always​believing​in​me,​and​to​my​parents-​in-​law,​Akagi​Sadao​and​Kimiko. ​ Lastly,​very,​very​special​thanks​go​to​the​loves​of​my​life:​Yoko,​Dica​ (who​is​at​Rainbow​Bridge),​Dot,​and​Hoku.​Without​you,​I​will​be​lost​in​ the​shadow.​With​you,​I​can​be​bright​and​cheerful.

acknoWLeDgMents  xi

IntroductIon

What​is​the​aesthetics​ ​ of​shaDoW?

“‘The​aesthetics​of​shadow’​[kage no bigaku]​that​Japanese​people​ created​over​a​long​period​of​time​throughout​long​years​stays​ deep​inside​of​ourselves​no​matter​how​much​social​tendencies​ change.​We​want​to​bring​out​‘the​aesthetics​of​shadow’​from​its​ hidden​place,​understand​it​correctly,​and​do​our​best​to​create​ Japanese​cinema.”​So​wrote​Yoshino​Nobutaka,​a​production​designer​at​Shochiku,​one​of​the​major​film​companies​in​Japan,​in​ the​journal​Eiga Shomei​in​1979.1​Cinema​is​a​medium​of​light​and​ shadow.​Cinema​does​not​exist​without​the​electrical​light​beam​ that​passes​through​the​celluloid​strip​to​throw​a​shadow​image​ onto​a​screen​before​a​viewer.2​Even​before​the​process​of​projection,​the​production​of​moving​photographic​images​is​a​construction​in​light​and​shadow.​Even​digital​cameras​need​light​to​ input​information​to​be​transformed​into​data.​It​is​therefore​no​ surprise​that​the​Japanese​production​designer​particularly​noted​ lighting​in​Japanese​cinema.​What​attracts​me​in​Yoshino’s​words,​ though,​is​his​strong​emphasis​on​shadow.​What​is​“the​aesthetics​of​shadow”​that​he​believed​to​be​very​important​in​Japanese​ cinema? ​ In​ fact,​ Yoshino’s​ claim​ faithfully​ replicated​ the​ well-​known​ writing​ by​ renowned​ novelist​ Tanizaki​ Jun’ichiro,​ In Praise of Shadows​(“Inei​raisan,”​December​1933–January​1934).​In​his​discussion​of​Japanese​architecture,​Tanizaki​writes,​“Ultimately,​it​

is​the​magic​of​shadows.​Were​the​shadows​to​be​banished​from​the​corners,​the​alcove​[in​a​Japanese​room]​would​in​that​instant​revert​to​mere​ void.​This​was​the​genius​of​our​[Japanese]​ancestors—that​by​cutting​off​ the​light​from​this​empty​space​they​imparted​to​the​world​of​shadows​that​ formed​there​a​quality​of​mystery​and​depth​superior​to​that​of​any​wall​ painting​or​ornament.”3​In Praise of Shadows​has​been​one​of​the​most​influential​writings​that​explain​Japanese​aesthetics.​In​1940,​quoting​Tanizaki’s​ discussion​ extensively,​ Midorikawa​ Michio,​ the​ head​ of​ the​ Nipponese​ Society​for​Cinematographers​(Nihon​Eiga​Kameraman​Kyokai),​stated,​ “We​should​observe​the​beauty​of​shadows,​which​appears​gracefully​in​ the​harmony​of​[Japanese]​ architecture​ and​lights.”4​Midorikawa​ urged​ cinematographers​in​Japan​to​use​lighting​that​would​achieve​“the​beauty​ of​shadows.”​For​instance,​the​Nipponese​Society​for​Cinematographers​ decided​on​The Battle of Kawanakajima​(Kawanakajima kassen,​Kinugasa​ Teinosuke,​1941),​a​war​film​set​in​sixteenth-​century​Japan,​as​having​the​ best​cinematography​for​a​dramatic​film​of​the​year​mainly​because​of​“the​ attraction​of​black​that​fills​the​entire​film.”5​The​notion​that​Yoshino​called​ “the​aesthetics​of​shadow”​had​already​been​widely​shared​among​Japanese​ cinematographers​by​the​early​1940s. ​ Curiously,​however,​the​expressivity​of​shadows​had​not​been​emphasized​in​the​dominant​mode​of​film​lighting​in​Japan​before​Tanizaki​wrote​ In Praise of Shadows.​The​slogan​in​the​first​decades​of​filmmaking​in​Japan​ was​“Clarity​first,​story​second”​(Ichi nuke, ni suji),​which​Makino​Shozo,​ “the​father​of​Japanese​cinema,”​had​introduced​in​the​1910s.6​As​the​term​ nuke​(clarity)​suggests,​what​early​Japanese​filmmakers​emphasized​was​ not​the​beauty​of​darkness,​but​brightness​that​would​make​images​visible​ even​in​worn-​out​prints​screened​at​theaters​not​equipped​with​bright​light​ bulbs​ for​ projection.​ Shochiku​ inherited​ such​ an​ emphasis​ on​ clarity​ in​ lighting​ when​ they​ adopted​ their​ slogan​ “Bright​ and​ cheerful​ Shochiku​ cinema”​(akaruku tanoshi Shochiku eiga)​in​the​1920s. ​ More​curiously,​when​Tanizaki​wrote​In Praise of Shadows​and​Japanese​ cinematographers​widely​agreed​with​him​about​the​beauty​of​shadows,​ Japan​ was​ leading​ the​ world​ in​ the​ vogue​ of​ neon​ signs.7​ The​ appreciation​of​shadow​emerged​in​the​midst​of​a​flourishing​culture​of​electrical​ light.​The​acclaimed​Hollywood​filmmaker​Josef​von​Sternberg​was​very​ impressed​by​the​coexistence​between​light​and​shadow​in​Japan​when​he​ visited​in​1936.​Emphasizing​in​particular​the​simultaneous​thriving​of​light​ 2  introDuction

and​shadow,​Sternberg​related​his​fascination​with​the​Japanese​landscape​ to​Ono​Shichiro,​a​reporter​for​the​newly​established​Nihon Eiga​journal: The​entertainment​districts​in​Japan​are​good,​especially​at​night.​The​ lines​of​various​objects​rise​to​the​surface​in​colorful​neon​and​all​other​ things​are​mysteriously​hidden​in​darkness.​.​.​.​Japanese​landscape​is​as​ monochrome​as​ink​paintings,​but​the​colors​in​the​entertainment​districts​are​gaudily​gorgeous.​There​is​a​street​vendor​selling​exotic​autumn​ insects​right​in​front​of​an​American-​style​jazz​café.​Corn​is​being​barbecued​right​next​to​ice​cream​being​sold​at​an​American-​style​parlor.​ Wearing​geta​[wooden​clogs]​on​her​bare​feet,​a​woman​with​a​Japanese​ hairstyle​walks​along​that​street.​It​is​a​superb​mysterious​view​that​combines​old​and​new​cultures.​If​I​photograph​this,​it​must​be​Technicolor.8 Sternberg​was​arguably​the​filmmaker​most​respected​by​Japanese​cinematographers​in​the​early​to​mid-​1930s.​This​respect​was​a​result​of​the​cinematography​in​those​films​of​Sternberg’s​that​made​a​star​of​Marlene​Dietrich​in​Hollywood.​As​stated​in​his​autobiography,​Sternberg’s​theory​of​ cinematic​lighting​resided​in​a​creative​contrast​between​light​and​shadow.​ In​a​chapter​entirely​devoted​to​explaining​his​thoughts​on​cinematic​lighting,​Sternberg​confidently​stated,​“Each​light​furnishes​its​own​shadow,​and​ where​a​shadow​is​seen​there​must​be​a​light.​Shadow​is​mystery​and​light​ is​clarity.​Shadow​conceals,​light​reveals.​(To​know​what​to​reveal​and​what​ to​conceal​and​in​what​degree​and​how​to​do​this​is​all​there​is​to​art.)​A​ shadow​is​as​important​in​photography​as​the​light.​One​cannot​exist​without​the​other.”9​The​coexistence​between​light​and​shadow​that​he​emphasized​here​corresponded​to​his​response​to​the​Japanese​landscape​in​1936. ​ Contrary​to​Sternberg’s​emphasis​on​the​innate​balance​between​light​ and​shadow​in​cinematic​lighting,​what​Japanese​cinematographers​and​ critics​ who​ specialized​ in​ film​ technologies​ particularly​ noted​ was​ his​ “crafty​ emphasis​ on​ shadows,”​ according​ to​ the​ cinematographer​ Miura​ Mitsuo,​who​had​witnessed​Sternberg’s​filmmaking​in​Hollywood​in​1928​ and​had​photographed​The Battle of Kawanakajima​in​1941.10​The​critic​Takii​ Koji​ selected​ Sternberg’s​ Shanghai Express​ and​ Blonde Venus​ as​ the​ best​ American​ films​ of​ 1932​ in​ terms​ of​ cinematography.​ In​ particular,​ Takii​ praised​the​cinematographic​achievement​in​“low-​key​tones”​that​“enhance​ the​atmosphere​and​express​the​drama.”11​Focusing​on​the​distinctive​use​of​ shadows​in​these​films,​Takii​claimed,​“The​low-​key​lighting​is​the​highest​ What​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW?  3

achievement​of​photographic​technique.​.​.​.​It​is​not​simply​about​invisible​ darkness.”12 ​ Why​ did​ Tanizaki​ and​ Japanese​ cinematographers​ start​ emphasizing​ shadows​in​the​1930s​when​Japan​was​in​the​midst​of​the​flourishing​culture​ of​electric​light?​Why​did​they​need​the​concept​if​the​dominant​mode​of​ Japanese​filmmaking​since​the​1910s​had​been​brightness​in​lighting?​Were​ there​no​attempts​to​challenge​the​“clarity​first”​slogan​by​way​of​shadow​ before​the​1930s?​Or​did​the​switch​occur​in​an​unprecedented​manner?​ What​were​the​sociopolitical,​economic,​or​cultural​contexts​behind​this​ tendency​to​value​shadows​highly?​Why​did​Tanizaki​and​Japanese​cinematographers​need​to​stress​the​significance​of​shadows​in​the​name​of​Japanese​culture?​Was​there​anything​they​needed​to​defend​or​justify?​And​ how​was​the​appreciation​of​shadow​naturalized​as​the​essence​of​Japanese​ cultural​identity,​as​seen​in​Yoshino’s​claim,​if​it​did​not​appear​until​the​ 1930s? ​ In​this​ book,​ I​ bring​ out​“‘the​ aesthetics​ of​shadow’​from​ its​hidden​ place”​and​find​a​way​to​“understand​it​correctly.”​You​will​read​how​and​ why​the​notion​that​Yoshino​called​“the​aesthetics​of​shadow”​was​formulated​in​the​history​of​Japanese​cinema.​To​be​more​specific,​I​tell​a​story​ about​the​tension-​ridden​process​of​how​technologies​of​lighting​developed​and​how​discourses​on​lighting​were​constructed​in​the​formative​ decades​of​cinema​in​Japan.​My​story​often​crosses​national​borders​because​the​discussion​of​“the​aesthetics​of​shadow”​in​such​close​connection​ with​Japanese​cultural​tradition​must​have​been​a​result​of​complicated​ international​or​transnational​conflicts​over​lighting​technologies.​In​this​ sense,​I​narrate​a​transnational​“history​of​entanglement​that​traces​actual​ interconnections”​of​films,​film​technologies,​filmmakers,​and​film​criticism​ around​light​and​shadow,​to​use​the​film​scholar​Miriam​Hansen’s​terms.13 ​ This​book​is​a​recasting​of​Japanese​film​history​through​the​trope​of​ light​and​shadow.14​Lighting​has​played​a​significant​role​not​only​in​distinguishing​the​styles​of​Japanese​film​from​those​of​American​and​European​ film,​but​also​in​identifying,​or​inventing,​a​coherent​Japanese​cultural​tradition.​Implicitly​or​explicitly,​such​questions​as​what is Japanese cinema?,​ what roles should cinema play in Japanese society?,​and​what is Japanese?​have​ been​examined​in​the​practice​and​discourse​of​lighting​techniques​and​ technologies.​How​could​the​light​and​lighting​be​used​as​a​lens​for​insight​ into​Japanese​identity?​How​were​cinematography​and​lighting​practiced,​ 4  introDuction

conceptualized,​and​theorized​in​the​heterogeneous​fields​of​Japanese​film?​ I​argue​that​lighting​technology​in​cinema​has​been​structured​by​the​conflicts​ of​ modernity​ in​ Japan,​ including​ the​ struggles​ over​ how​ to​ define​ cinema,​subjectivity,​and​nationhood.15 ​ I​discuss​the​unique​history​of​Japanese​cinema​but​I​do​not​presuppose​an​ahistorically​unified​Japaneseness.​Influenced​by​structuralist​and​ poststructuralist​theory,​the​film​theorist​Noël​Burch​insists​on​“the​Japanese​difference,​in​both​Heian​literature​and​modern​film​practice.”16​Even​ though​Burch​emphasizes​the​“presence of the context”​in​Japanese​cultural​ production,​what​he​seems​to​suggest​is​the​presence​of​the​historically​ unchanging​tradition​of​intertextuality,​ in​which​texts​do​not​hide​their​ reference​to​other​texts.17​According​to​Burch,​Japanese​cinema​is​“presentational”​because​ it​relies​on​Japanese​ tradition,​ the​fundamental​ Other​ to​that​of​the​West,​while​the​Western​counterpart​has​“representational”​ conventions,​in​which​the​process​of​cultural​production​is​supposed​to​be​ hidden.18​There​is​no​doubt​that​Japanese​cinema​is​intertextual.​Lighting​is​ clear​evidence​of​this,​especially​when​Shochiku,​one​of​the​major​film​companies,​standardized​its​product​at​its​film​studio​and​referred​to​Kabuki-​ style​lighting.​However,​that​was​not​the​result​of​an​unchanging​presence​ of​Japanese​tradition​but​rather​of​a​socioeconomic​choice​made​for​local​ needs—invention​ of​ tradition​ in​ the​ process​ of​ modernization.​ When​ I​ argue​that​a​certain​cinematic​style​was​deployed​in​a​Japanese​manner,​I​ make​the​case​within​the​historical​context​of​Japanese​​modernity. ​ Even​though​the​focus​of​this​book​is​on​Japanese​cinema,​I​situate​Japanese​cinema​within​the​broader​fields​of​transnational​film​history.​Takamura​Kurataro,​the​former​head​of​the​Nipponese​Society​for​Cinematographers,​once​wrote​that​the​essence​of​filmmaking​was​“how​to​control​ broad​and​diverse​technological​maneuvers​from​photographing​(stabilizing​light​from​lenses​onto​films)​to​projection​(exhibiting​images​recorded​ on​film​onto​screens​by​using​lights).”19​Takamura’s​claim​indicates​that​ technological​and​artistic​“maneuvers”​of​light​do​not​presuppose​any​cultural​or​national​conflict​in​nature.​Experiments​with​technological​lighting​ in​cinema​should​be​located​within​the​transnational​discursive​and​practical​network​of​a​preoccupation​with​and​representation​of​technological​ modernity. ​ At​the​same​time,​in​Japanese​reality,​cinematic​lighting​has​historically​ been​stabilized​and​exhibited​in​close​relation​to​Japan’s​cultural​and​naWhat​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW?  5

tional​identity​politics.20​Japanese​filmmaking​has​been​an​international​affair.​After​1897,​when​Konishi​Camera​Store​purchased​a​Baxter​and​Wray​ camera​from​the​United​Kingdom​and​Asano​Shiro​became​the​first​Japanese​cinematographer​who​used​the​camera​and​photographed​landscapes​ of​Nihonbashi​and​Asakusa​of​Tokyo,​Japanese​film​companies​imported​ most​ of​ the​ cameras,​ lighting​ equipment,​ projectors,​ and​ raw​ film​ from​ Europe​and​the​United​States.21​All​of​those​imported​materials​were​continuously​in​short​supply.​In​1919,​the​pioneer​cinematographer​Edamasa​ Yoshiro​ insisted,​ “Both​ directors​ and​ cinematographers​ know​ very​ well​ that​it​is​impossible​to​have​good​results​in​filmmaking​with​weak​beams​of​ light.​.​.​.​[However,]​currently,​equipment​for​using​artificial​lighting​is​not​ complete.​We​cannot​help​depending​only​on​the​sunlight.​It​is​the​most​ urgent​issue​for​us​to​have​proper​equipment​for​artificial​lighting.”22 ​ There​has​historically​been​an​unequal​geopolitical​relationship,​or​an​ imbalance​ of​ power,​ between​ Japan​ and​ the​ United​ States.​ There​ is​ no​ doubt​that​Hollywood​has​played​a​ubiquitous​role​in​the​development​ of​lighting​technology​in​Japan.​Yet​the​relationship​between​Hollywood​ and​ Japanese​ cinema​ has​ not​ simply​ been​ a​ binary​ opposition​ between​ the​ production​ and​ distribution​ center​ and​ periphery,​ between​ cultural​ dominance​and​resistance,​or​between​global​and​local.​The​film​scholar​ David​Bordwell​claims​that​all​the​world’s​mass-​market​cinemas​might​have​ been​based​on​the​standard​continuity​style​pioneered​by​classical​Hollywood,​ as​ the​ ground​ against​ which​ the​ stylistic​ accomplishments​ of​ indigenous​filmmakers​can​be​analyzed.23​But,​as​Miriam​Hansen​suggests,​ that​does​not​make​the​world’s​mass-​market​cinemas​“simply​variants​of​a​ dominant​style.”24​Hansen​argues,​“If​filmmakers​in​China​and​Japan​confronted​Hollywood​hegemony​in​both​its​enabling​and​destructive​effects,​ their​efforts​to​forge​idioms​of​their​own​were​crucially​inflected​by​a​larger​ vernacular-​modernist​culture​at once​cosmopolitan​and​local.”25 ​ Bearing​in​mind​such​tension​in​the​geopolitical​perspective​between​ a​transnationality​and​a​nationality,​I​draw​on​the​historian​Harry​Harootunian’s​concept​of​“co-​eval​modernity,”​which​suggests​the​narrative​of​ modernity​in​Japan​to​be​“contemporaneity​yet​the​possibility​of​difference,”​without​ignoring​the​complex​global​power​relations.26​Harootunian​ regards​a​“doubling”​as​“a​unique​emblem​of​Japan’s​modern​experience”;​ fascination​with​the​new​uncertainty​and​fixation​of​such​temporality​and​ resistance​to​the​culture​of​capitalism;​or​“the​recognition​of​a​vast​field​ 6  introDuction

of​economic​and​cultural​unevenness​that​it​[doubling]​sought​to​resolve,​ overcome,​ and​ even​ repress.”27​ Following​ Harootunian’s​ idea​ of​ a​ doubling,​this​book​regards​the​idea​of​Japanese​modernity​as​fragmentary​and​ provisional,​in​which​kindaishugi​(the​ideology​of​modernization,​industrialization,​rationalization,​and​scientific​progress,​modeled​upon​the​West)​ and​modanizumu​(discourses​of​newness​in​everyday​life​and​materials​of​ consumer​culture)​existed​in​an​ambivalent​manner. ​ The​ aesthetics​ of​ shadow​ emerged​ in​ a​ process​ of​ transnational​ and​ cross-​cultural​ negotiation​ in​ Japanese​ modernity.​ When​ I​ use​ the​ term​ negotiation,​I​have​Stuart​Hall’s​influential​essay​“Encoding/Decoding”​in​ mind.​Hall​proposes​three​decoding​strategies​in​practices​of​reading​and​ making​sense​of​cultural​texts.28​Negotiated​reading​is​more​ambivalent​ than​dominant​reading,​which​would​presume​no​active​intervention​at​all​ on​the​part​of​the​decoder,​or​oppositional​reading,​which​would​assume​no​ identification​at​all​with​the​structures​of​interpellation​of​the​text.​As​the​ film​scholar​Judith​Mayne​suggests,​while​the​model​of​negotiation​“posits​ both​the​activity​of​the​reader/viewer​and​the​heterogeneity​of​the​different​elements​of​social​formations”​and​“conceives​of​a​variety​of​reading,”​ there​is​“a​tendency”​in​cultural​studies​of​regarding​such​heterogeneity​ and​activity​as​an​indication​of​“a​resistance​to​dominant​ideology.”29​Such​ a​tendency​eventually​maintains​the​binary​structure​between​the​dominant​versus​the​oppositional.​I​do​not​consider​the​notion​of​negotiation​ to​be​a​form​of​resistance.​I​am​more​concerned​about​historically​specific​struggles​and​conflicts​among​groups​of​people.​Some​of​them​could​ be​in​politically​or​economically​dominant​positions​and​others​in​receptive​ones,​but​such​relationships​were​by​no​means​unchanging.​An​audience​of​a​popular​star​could​be​extremely​passive​to​the​presumed​ideal​ of​capitalist​ideology​and​tremendously​active​at​the​same​time.​Such​an​ audience​ could​ be​ cooperative​ in​ reinforcing​ the​dominant​ ideology​ by​ not​passively​but​consciously​participating​in​the​construction​of​the​star’s​ official​ image.​ Simultaneously,​ his​ or​ her​ perception—or​ the​ affect—of​ the​onscreen​image​of​the​star​was​direct​and​physical​and​diminished​the​ distance​between​the​actor​and​himself​or​herself.​To​me,​the​notion​of​ negotiation​grasps​such​simultaneity,​coexistence,​and​dialogism​without​ ignoring​the​power​relations—global​power​relations—among​groups​of​ people.​Negotiation​is​not​limited​to​the​issue​of​spectatorial​positions​but​ those​of​industrial​production,​social​criticism,​and​cultural​tradition. What​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW?  7

​ With​such​a​notion​of​negotiation​in​mind,​I​describe​the​historical​process​of​how​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​has​been​invented,​developed,​naturalized,​and​publicized​in​the​discourse​of​modernity​in​Japan.​My​focus​ on​lighting​technologies​and​techniques​in​the​history​of​Japanese​cinema​ illustrates​the​following: ​

1.​The​struggles​over​the​definition​of​cinema​for​the​masses,​within​the​ capitalist-​industrial​modernization​of​Shochiku,​between​the​classical​ style​of​Kabuki​and​Hollywood. ​ 2.​The​conflicts​in​shaping​new​(especially​female)​spectatorial​subjectivity​within​that​capitalist-​industrial​modernity,​along​with​the​emergence​of​a​new​genre​of​period​drama,​and​a​new​star,​arguably​the​ most​ popular​ star​ in​ Japanese​ film​ history,​ Hayashi​ Chojiro​ (later​ Hasegawa​Kazuo),​whose​films​were​a​specifically​sensorial-​affective​ form. ​ 3.​The​ambivalent​relationship​between​the​new​forms​of​social​relations—primacy​of​vision,​to​be​specific—and​cinema​as​a​new​visual​ medium. ​ 4.​The​attempt​of​conceptualizing​cultural​authenticity​in​the​struggles​ between​ the​ ceaseless​ fascination​ with​ the​ novel​ technologies​ of​ Hollywood​lighting​and​the​defense​of​cultural​spirit​(bunka seishin). Chapter​1​is​a​historical​analysis​of​the​formation​of​the​film​industry​and​ mode​of​production​from​1910​through​the​1920s​from​the​perspective​of​ light.​As​a​result​of​World​War​I,​Japan​was​transformed​into​an​industrial​ power.​ Especially​ during​ the​ reconstruction​ from​ the​ Great​ Kanto​ Earthquake​of​1923,​Tokyo​became​a​large​industrial​center,​recruiting​its​ labor​force​from​the​countryside,​as​well​as​center​of​mass​consumption.​ Shochiku,​the​company​that​originally​owned​and​operated​Kabuki​theaters,​entered​the​film​business​in​1920​and​established​itself​in​the​midst​ of​such​developing​modern​life.​The​protagonist​of​this​chapter​is​cinematographer​Henry​Kotani,​who​started​his​career​in​Hollywood​around​ 1915​and​returned​to​Japan​to​join​Shochiku​Company’s​Kamata​studio​in​ 1920​but​was​fired​a​few​years​later.​In​the​clash​of​lighting​techniques​between​Kotani​and​Shochiku,​we​can​observe​the​struggling​experience​of​ capitalist-​industrial​modernity​and​modernization​in​Japan.​I​argue​that​ lighting​was​conceived​by​Japanese​filmmakers​and​critics​in​relation​to​ Hollywood​cinema​and​Japanese​theatrical​conventions​during​the​forma8  introDuction

tive​years​of​the​film​industry.​The​key​terms​are​visibility​and​expressivity.​ Comparison​is​made​between​Kotani’s​still-​extant​Hollywood​and​Japanese​works,​along​with​criticism​of​his​and​other​Japanese-​made​films​of​ the​period.​Comparison​between​Sternberg’s​Docks of New York​(1928)​and​ its​Japanese​adaptation,​First Step Ashore​(Joriku daiippo,​Shimazu​Yasujiro,​1932)​demonstrates​that​Shochiku’s​filmmaking​priority​was​not​the​ expressivity​ of​ lighting,​ no​ matter​ how​ highly​ Sternberg’s​ lighting​ techniques​were​regarded​by​Japanese​cinematographers​at​that​time.​Shochiku​ Kamata​films,​from​a​perspective​of​lighting,​achieved​dominant​status​in​ Japanese​filmmaking​during​the​period​of​modern​life​not​because​of​the​ imitation​of​Hollywood​but​because​of​the​capitalist​tactics​that​effectively​ combined​rationalized​production​processes,​the​star​system,​and​conventionalized​theatrical​style. ​ Chapter​ 2​ historically​ combines​ genre​ studies,​ star​ studies,​ and​ spectatorship​studies​by​way​of​the​practice​of​lighting.​The​main​focuses​ are​on​jidaigeki​(period​drama),​the​unique​genre​of​Japanese​cinema​that​ was​rapidly​popularized​in​the​latter​half​of​the​1920s,​and​Hayashi​Chojiro,​ the​most​popular​male​star​in​Japan​from​the​late​1920s​until​the​1940s.​In​ the​late​1920s,​jidaigeki​challenged​the​prevailing​dominance​of​the​Shochiku​Kamata​film​through​spectacular​sword-​fighting​scenes.​Jidaigeki​incorporated​lighting​and​technology​in​a​distinctive​manner.​The​flash​of​ the​sword​was​the​definitive​element​of​the​new​genre.​In​order​to​achieve​ the​flash​in​an​expressive​manner,​jidaigeki​mixed​Hollywood​style​with​another​theatrical​convention​in​Japan,​shinkokugeki​(new​national​theater),​ which​was​notable​for​sword​fights​that​were​more​realistic​than​Kabuki.​In​ other​words,​a​localized​product​of​Hollywood​(Shochiku​Kamata​films)​ was​ challenged​ by​ another​ localized​ product​ of​ Hollywood​ (jidaigeki).​ Making​things​more​complicated,​Shochiku​challenged​back​at​jidaigeki​ with​ its​ brand​ new​ star,​ Hayashi​ Chojiro.​ Shochiku’s​ counterattack​ was​ achieved​by​its​own​innovative​lighting​techniques—“movable​light,”​onobashi​(extension),​ and​nagashi-me​(sensual​sidelong​glance)—that​ were​ exclusively​ invented​ for​ Hayashi​ by​ craftily​ combining​ the​ Hollywood-​ style​ three-​point​ lighting​ with​ Kabuki​ techniques.​ With​ the​ flash​ of​ the​ star—his​face​and​eyes,​in​particular—Shochiku​eventually​won​the​fight​ against​the​flash​of​the​sword​and​succeeded​in​maintaining​its​financial​ and​stylistic​dominance​in​the​Japanese​film​industry​at​least​until​the​late​ 1930s.​Moreover,​with​Hayashi’s​stardom,​a​film​fan​culture​that​targeted​ What​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW?  9

the​female​audience​was​born.​Hayashi’s​stardom​also​marked​the​emergence​of​a​modern​viewing​subject​in​Japanese​cinema​who​actively​participated​in​consuming​products​prepared​and​publicized​by​a​capitalist​ industry.​Hayashi​fans​were​physically​susceptible​to​the​effect​of​cinema​ as​a​modern​technology,​but​they​were​simultaneously​conscious​that​they​ were​consumers​of​the​star​image. ​ Through​ investigating​ the​ social​ demographics​ of​ the​ American​ city​ and​ the​ audiences​ of​ melodrama,​ the​ film​ historian​ Ben​ Singer​ shows​ that​ the​ urban​ working​ class​ and​ the​ white-​collar​ lower​ middle​ class— both​products​of​modern​capitalism’s​great​bureaucratic​expansion—were​ the​ main​ participatory​ spectators​ and​ consumers​ of​ the​ “manufactured​ stimulus”​offered​by​sensational​amusements​such​as​melodrama​on​stage​ and​screen.30​Both​the​sword​fighting​in​jidaigeki​and​the​physicality​of​ Hayashi​Chojiro​offered​such​a​manufactured​stimulus.​Specific​lighting​ schemes​played​a​significant​role​in​both​cases​and​enhanced​sensation​of​ the​amusements.​While​visibility​was​crucial​to​the​construction​of​narrative​clarity​and​brightness​in​the​dominant​mode​of​filmmaking​in​Japan​ in​the​early​decades​of​the​twentieth​century​and​was​standardized​in​Shochiku​Kamata​films,​jidaigeki​emphasized​the​spectacular​visual​delight​of​ the​sword​in​motion.​If​the​sword​in​jidaigeki​amplified​the​discourse​of​ lighting​in​Japanese​cinema,​it​was​also​the​lighting​that​deprived​jidaigeki​ of​the​initial​shock.​Because​of​a​new​lighting​scheme,​jidaigeki​was​transformed​into​a​glamorous​attraction​of​a​star—a​different​type​of​manufactured​stimulus.​The​flash​of​the​sword​was​a​contested​field​in​the​Japanese​ film​culture​of​the​late​1920s. ​ Chapter​3​is​a​close​textual​analysis​of​two​critically​successful​films,​ which​I​call​“street​films,”​and​I​discuss​the​use​of​lighting​in​them​in​terms​ of​social​criticism​and​aesthetic​modernism.​One​is​Crossways​(Jujiro,​a.k.a.​ Crossroads​ and​ Shadows of the Yoshiwara),​ a​ jidaigeki​ film​ from​ 1928​ directed​by​Kinugasa​Teinosuke,​and​the​other​is​That Night’s Wife​(Sono yo no tsuma),​a​contemporary​crime​melodrama​from​1930​directed​by​Ozu​ Yasujiro.​Burch​highly​rates​That Night’s Wife​in​his​groundbreaking​work​ on​Japanese​cinema,​To the Distant Observer: Form and Meaning in the Japanese Cinema​(1979),​as​“fascinating​evidence​of​the​impact​which​American​films​and​Western​culture​had,​not​only​upon​Ozu​but​upon​a​sizable​ portion​of​the​Japanese​middle​and​lower​middle​classes.”31​Crossways​has​ often​been​regarded​as​an​imitation​of​German​expressionist​film.​Yet​by​ 10  introDuction

closely​examining​lighting​in​these​two​films,​this​chapter​focuses​less​on​ explication​of​the​relation​of​influence​or​impact​between​East​and​West​ and​more​on​the​depiction​of​what​the​literary​critic​Thomas​LaMarre​calls​ the​“cinematic​materiality”​that​is​“dynamic.”32​LaMarre​has​raised​insightful​questions​regarding​this​dichotomy​between​Japan​and​the​West:​“Does​ the​use​of​a​Western​form​or​medium​(cinema)​in​Japan​force​Japan​into​ Western​development​and​history?​Or​do​Japanese​traditions​transform​ Western​cinema?​Does​cinema​‘westernize’​Japan,​or​does​Japan​‘japanify’​cinema?”​LaMarre​argues​that​the​problem​with​such​questions​is​that​ they​suppose​an​insurmountable​contradiction​or​incommensurable​difference​ between​ Westernization​ and​ “Japanization.”33​ According​ to​ LaMarre,​though,​modernity,​“as​the​condensation​of​a​number​of​different​ processes​and​histories,​is​not​a​linear​process​within​the​West​or​in​relation​to​the​West.”34​LaMarre​argues​that​the​dynamic​materiality​of​cinema​ can​ open​ up​ new​ and​ constantly​ divergent​ “unperceived​ modes​ of​ sensory​perception​and​experience,​thereby​suggesting​a​different​organization​of​daily​life.”35​The​materiality​enhanced​by​the​lighting​in​Crossways​ and​That Night’s Wife​deviates​from​the​simple​dichotomy​of​East/West​ or​the​geopolitical​hierarchy​and​structural​hegemony​of​center/periphery​ and​places​itself​in​the​sensory​network​of​global​film​culture.​In​particular,​these​two​films​are​representatives​of​the​coevally​modern​phenomenon​of​street​films,​in​which​the​city​is​the​protagonist​that​captures​the​ rhythms​and​tone​of​modern​life:​cinema​revisualizes​the​modern​technological​world.36​My​textual​analysis​is​less​in​an​interpretive​manner​of​a​ narrative​structure​and​more​in​a​closely​observatory​way​to​capture​subtle​ nuances​and​functions​of​light​and​shadow.​Lighting​in​these​street​films​ offers​insightful​visions​into​the​reconfigurations​of​urban​space,​the​effect​ of​sociopolitical​and​socioeconomic​power​relations,​and​the​discourse​on​ the​sense​of​vision​from​the​late​1920s​to​early​1930s.​In​this​manner,​despite​ being​produced​within​Shochiku’s​commercial​strategy,​these​two​films​internally​challenged,​or​diversified,​the​dominant​modes​of​film​production​ that​corresponded​to​the​company’s​slogan,​“Bright​and​cheerful​Shochiku​ cinema.” ​ Chapter​4​is​a​comprehensive​discourse​analysis​on​cinematic​lighting​ from​the​late​1930s​to​1945.​A​“discursive​history​of​cinema”​is​proposed​by​ the​film​scholar​Aaron​Gerow.37​In​his​proposal,​Gerow​asks​these​questions:​“Who​spoke,​and​with​what​authority?​Where​or​in​what​socioecoWhat​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW?  11

nomic​conditions​was​cinematic​discourse​being​spoken,​and​to​whom​was​ it​directed?​What​relations​of​power​were​imbricated​in​the​relations​between​discourses?​What​were​statements​being​made​against,​ and​what​ was​their​concrete​political​import?​What​was​assumed​or​left​unsaid​in​ these​enunciations?​How​were​they​articulating​not​just​cinema​but​also​ those​whom​discourse​was​speaking​of​and​the​modern​culture​they​inhabited?”38​Dealing​with​most​of​these​questions,​I​focus​on​how​and​why​the​ aesthetics​of​shadow,​arguably​the​most​significant​manifestation​on​lighting​in​Japanese​cinema,​emerged​in​the​late​1930s​to​1940s.​In​these​periods​we​can​observe​an​obvious​change​in​the​appearance​of​popular​films,​ most​notably​in​the​star​vehicles​of​Hasegawa​Kazuo​(formerly​known​as​ Hayashi​Chojiro)​produced​at​the​newly​established​Toho​studio​and​in​the​ criticism​on​cinematic​lighting​in​film​magazines. ​ In​the​mid-​to​late​1930s,​Japanese​aesthetics​was​widely​discussed​in​the​ context​of​Japanese​imperialist​war​efforts.​The​aesthetics​of​shadow,​which​ appreciated​darkness​in​Japanese​architecture​and​landscape​in​opposition​ to​electricity​and​bright​lighting​in​Western​culture,​emerged​within​this​ trend.​Filmmakers​and​critics​started​to​discuss​a​shift​to​realism​and​the​ integration​of​a​documentary​style​in​cinematography.​However,​I​argue​ that​the​emergence​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​was​in​fact​an​embodiment​ of​an​ambivalent​attitude​toward​technologies​of​cinema.​It​was​a​complicated​mix​of​adoration​of​the​Hollywood-​style​low-​key​lighting​and​despair​ about​the​limited​material​conditions​in​Japan.​It​was​an​attempt​to​justify​ the​conflict​in​the​name​of​documentary​and​Japanese​cultural​tradition​ under​certain​historical​and​material​conditions.​Using​the​lens​of​lighting​ and​technology,​I​bring​out​a​new​light​on​the​historical​discourses​on​Japanese​aesthetics​and​the​invention​of​Japanese​cultural​tradition. ​ The​film​historian​Abé​Mark​Nornes​describes​the​contradictory​conditions​in​Japanese​society​and​cinema​of​this​period.​On​one​hand,​the​ “gradual​militarization​of​film​culture​is​undeniable,”​given​that​cinema​is​ such​a​capital-​intensive​and​collaborative​form​of​art.39​On​the​other​hand,​ Nornes​suggests,​“all​the​way​up​to​World​War​II,​one​can​find​plenty​of​ jazzy,​colorful​advertisements​for​Hollywood​films​next​to​deadly​serious​ celebrations​of​war​heroics​[on​the​pages​of​film​magazines].​Examined​ from​ this​ perspective,​ this​ so-​called​ dark​ valley​ in​ Japanese​ history​ was​ also​an​exciting​time​for​filmmaking​that​had​more​to​do​with​the​thrill​of​ modernity​than​with​the​war​in​China.”40​The​discursive​tendency​of​the​ 12  introDuction

aesthetics​of​shadow​was​meant​to​synthesize​these​apparently​contradictory​trends.​The​ostensible​goal​was​to​highly​value​the​Japanese​spirit​that​ should​be​represented​in​Japanese​aesthetics.​Yet​the​hidden​motive​behind​ that​goal​was​a​desperate​search​for​ways​to​overcome​material​and​technological​limitations​and​to​accomplish​spectacles​that​would​equal​the​glamour​of​Hollywood​cinema—in​a​different​but​equally​gripping​manner.​If​I​ use​LaMarre’s​terms,​this​was​“a​form​of​colonial​ambivalence,​a​structure​ of​disavowal​and​displacement,​which​entails​a​repeating,​reprising,​or​redirecting​of​Western​hierarchies​based​on​whiteness,​sex​appeal,​and​industriousness.”41​Such​terms​as​the attraction of blackness​or​beauty of darkness​were​invented​and​conceptualized​in​close​relation​to​documentary​ and​realism​to​conceal​but​simultaneously​imply​the​aspiration​for​more​ glamour.​Compared​to​the​key​terms​of​chapter​1,​which​are​visibility​versus​ expressivity,​those​in​this​chapter​would​be​invisibility​equals​expressivity. ​ As​a​case​study​of​such​an​ambivalently​dialogic​relationship​between​ Hollywood​and​Japan,​I​closely​analyze​the​work​of​the​cinematographer​ Harry​Mimura,​a​former​colleague​of​the​cinematographer​Gregg​Toland​ in​ Hollywood.​ I​ conduct​ comparative​ analyses​ of​ films​ and​ discourses​ on​lighting,​not​presupposing​the​binary​contrasts​between​Western​and​ non-​Western​ cinema​ or​ the​ Hollywood​ dominant—because​ I​ believe​ it​is​impossible​to​distinguish​them​clearly​in​any​way—but​to​examine​ the​conditions​of​Japanese​cinema​that​were​rife​with​what​Gerow​calls​ “contradictions”​and​“crisscrossed​by​transnational​vectors.”42 ​ This​book​concludes​with​an​auteurist​analysis,​but​with​a​little​twist.​I​ do​not​concentrate​on​the​work​of​a​great​director​but​that​of​a​cinematographer,​one​who​worked​with​such​famous​directors​as​Kurosawa​Akira,​ Mizoguchi​Kenji,​and​Ozu​Yasujiro,​who​have​been​regarded​as​auteurs​by​ critics​and​historians.​This​chapter​is​a​challenge​to​the​entrenched​model​ of​the​canonized​auteur,​or​master​director,​especially​prevalent​in​Japanese​ film​studies.43​Most​academic​works​on​Japanese​cinema​have​focused​on​ either​a​historical​survey​of​popular​films​or​canonized​auteur​directors.​ The​assumption​of​auteur​theory​is​that​films​directed​by​a​particular​auteur​ can​be​analyzed​to​uncover​recurrent​themes​and​aesthetic​patterns​that​ demonstrate​the​cohesion​of​his​or​her​vision​of​the​world.​This​approach​ is​insufficient​to​address​filmmaking.​What​is​most​lacking​in​existing​academic​works​on​Japanese​films​is​a​perspective​that​considers​films​to​be​ the​products​of​collaboration​that​exist​beyond​auteur​directors’​authority.​ What​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW?  13

There​are​technicians​behind​the​camera​in​addition​to​the​directors.​I​discuss​the​films​of​famous​directors​such​as​Kurosawa,​Mizoguchi,​Ichikawa​ Kon,​and​Masumura​Yasuzo,​but​my​emphasis​is​not​upon​discovering​or​ reaffirming​the​coherence​of​their​work;​rather,​I​indicate​the​collaborative​ nature​of​cinema​and​the​industrial​structure​that​defines​it. ​ The​focus​of​this​concluding​chapter​is​on​the​conflicts​and​negotiations​between​the​trend​that​attempted​to​naturalize​the​discourse​of​the​ aesthetics​ of​ shadow​ as​ the​ essence​ of​ Japanese​ culture​ to​ suit​ the​ new​ sociopolitical​and​socioeconomic​ends​of​Japan​in​the​post–World​War​II​ period​and​the​filmmakers​who​challenged​such​a​trend​by​critically​engaging​with​the​practice​of​lighting.​The​protagonist​is​the​cinematographer​ Miyagawa​Kazuo,​whose​works,​such​as​Rashomon​(Kurosawa,​1950)​and​ Ugetsu​(Ugetsu monogatari,​Mizoguchi,​1953),​continuously​received​international​prizes.​Obviously,​Miyagawa​was​an​active​agency​in​inventing​traditions​and​reimagining​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​as​the​Japanese​aesthetic​ in​the​postwar​period.​But​at​the​same​time,​Miyagawa’s​work,​especially​its​ hyperbolic​focus​on​the​contrasts​between​light​and​shadow​and​the​clarity​ of​images​in​deep​focus,​was​not​easily​contained​within​such​a​discourse​of​ Japanese​beauty.​Being​attentive​to​both​the​history​of​lighting​techniques​ and​the​innovation​of​lighting​technology​in​and​outside​Japan,​Miyagawa’s​ cinematography​diversified​the​meaning​of​realism​in​cinema.

14  introDuction

chApter 1

Lighting​anD​ ​ capitaList-​i nDustriaL​ ​ MoDernity Shochiku and Hollywood

the man from Hollywood

On​July​19,​1920,​a​sophisticated-​looking​man​from​Hollywood​ arrived​ at​ a​ newly​ established​ film​ studio​ in​ Japan.​ Emerging​ from​a​luxurious​car,​the​man​passed​by​an​ongoing​film​shoot​ by​director​Kako​Zanmu​at​an​open​set.​He​picked​up​a​reflector​ from​an​assistant​of​the​veteran​cinematographer​Taizumi​Yasunao,​climbed​up​to​the​top​of​a​high​wall​of​the​set,​and​raised​the​ reflector​high.​All​of​a​sudden,​the​reflection​of​a​bright​and​shiny​ light​beam​ran​around​the​rectangular​set​and​created​a​clearly​ three-​dimensional​statue​of​the​main​actor​of​the​scene.​Everyone​on​the​set​was​astonished​at​the​effect.1 ​ This​is​the​legendary​“enlightening”​tale​about​the​day​of​the​ arrival​of​“Henry”​Kotani​Soichi​at​the​Kamata​studio​of​Shochiku​Company​(Shochiku​Kinema​Gomei​Gaisha)​on​the​outskirts​of​Tokyo.2​According​to​the​legend,​Kotani​brought​effects​ lighting​of​depth​from​Hollywood​to​Japan,​where​flat​lighting​ had​been​dominant.​Even​though​reflectors,​with​white​cloth​or​ tin​plates,​had​already​been​used​in​Japan​after​1918,​they​only​had​ been​placed​near​the​floor​or​on​the​ground,​and​only​to​make​the​ major​objects​and​background​of​the​set​look​brighter.3

​ Kotani​worked​as​a​cinematographer​in​Hollywood​in​the​1910s​under​ the​renowned​filmmaker​Cecil​B.​DeMille.​In​1920,​eagerly​pursued​by​the​ representatives​of​Shochiku​and​highly​recommended​by​DeMille,​Kotani​ returned​to​Japan.​Shochiku,​a​company​that​originally​owned​and​operated​Kabuki​theaters​ in​Kyoto,​Osaka,​and​Tokyo,​ was​about​ to​expand​ its​business​to​film.​Otani​Takejiro,​who​established​Shochiku​in​1895​and​ would​become​the​president​of​Shochiku​in​1921,​claimed​in​February​1920,​ “We​are​engaged​in​artistic​business,​and​so​we​need​to​be​fully​ashamed​ that​our​films​are​inferior​to​and​less​artistic​than​foreign​films.”4​Otani​ was​most​concerned​about​“foreign​films”​from​Hollywood​from​his​perspective​ as​ a​businessman.​ Hollywood​ films​ dominated​ the​ film​ market​ when​World​War​I​prevented​the​export​of​European​films.​Otani​quoted​ the​author​“Paul​Brune”​and​wrote,​“It​is​motion​pictures​that​occupy​the​ fifth-​largest​industry​in​the​United​States​of​America.​The​industry​reaches​ every​corner​of​the​world.​It​comforts​billions​of​people.​It​shows​the​way​ of​living​to​many​people.​It​is​fated​to​become​one​of​the​largest​organizations​that​combine​entertainment​with​education.”5​Otani​declared​that​ Shochiku​would​produce​“artistic​films”​so​it​could​“improve​motion​pictures​in​Japan”​and​“introduce​the​truth​of​our​lives​in​Japan​to​foreign​ countries.”6​Shochiku,​aspiring​to​catch​up​with​the​standard​of​foreign​ films,​make​its​own​products​exportable,​and​become​competitive​with​the​ Hollywood​ film​ industry,​ was​ preordained​ to​ adopt​ the​ American-​style​ capitalist-​industrial​modernity​and​the​Hollywood​production​process,​including​ filmmaking​ techniques​ and​ technologies,​ distribution​ practices,​ and​the​star​system. ​ In​this​sense,​the​desire​for​publicity​drove​Shochiku​to​hire​Kotani​from​ Hollywood​with​an​unprecedented​salary​of​1,500​yen​a​week.7​In​addition​ to​Kotani,​Shochiku​invited​other​prominent​figures​to​its​studio,​such​as​ George​Chapman,​the​set​designer​for​Douglas​Fairbanks​Sr.’s​films,​including​The Mark of Zorro​(Fred​Niblo,​1920),​and​“Edward”​Tanaka​Kaneyuki,​ from​Fairbanks’s​management​staff.​Shochiku​also​relied​on​new​technologies—Bell​and​Howell,​Mitchell,​Akeley,​and​Eyemo​cameras;​American​ lighting​fixtures;​and​Eastman​raw​film​stock,​both​negative​and​positive.8​ The​ studio​ executives​ Tamaki​ Chonosuke​ and​ Taguchi​ Oson​ were​ sent​ to​Los​Angeles​to​observe​production​methods.​Scenarists​were​urged​to​ study​Hollywood​scripts,​and​cinematographers​counted​and​timed​shots​

16  chapter​1

as​they​watched​American​films.9​Shochiku’s​attempt​to​modernize​Japanese​filmmaking​thus​originally​imitated​the​Hollywood​film​industry. ​ Under​ such​ conditions,​ Kotani’s​ impact​ should​ have​ been​ as​ large​ as​ the​ legendary​ tale​ relates.10​ Pedagogically,​ the​ influence​ that​ Kotani’s​ Hollywood-​trained​work​had​upon​Japanese​cinematographers​was​a​typical​example​of​the​“liberatory​impulses”​of​classical​Hollywood​cinema​that​ Miriam​Hansen​pointed​out.11​According​to​the​cinematographer​Miyajima​Yoshio,​there​was​a​“feudalist​system”​among​film​technicians​in​Japan;​ any​knowledge​of​lenses,​focus,​lighting,​angles,​compositions,​and​chemicals​was​secretly​taught​by​masters​to​disciples​only​or​was​completely​hidden​from​assistants.12​Even​in​1929,​nine​years​after​Shochiku​entered​film​ business,​the​cinematographer​Aoshima​Junichiro​of​Nikkatsu​Company​ (Nihon​Katsudo​Shashin​Kabushiki​Gaisha),​Shochiku’s​main​rival,​said​in​ a​film​journal’s​discussion​of​Skyscrapers​(Matenro,​Murata​Minoru,​1929),​ “I​cannot​tell​you​what​my​new​devices​are​because​they​are​my​secrets.”13 ​ Kotani​opposed​such​secretive​conditions,​viewing​them​as​obsolete.​In​ 1924,​Kotani​wrote​an​essay,​“How​to​Become​a​Mature​Cinematographer”​ (“Ichininmae​no​satsuei​gishi​ni​naru​made”),​and​insisted​that​cinematographers​“must​be​familiar​with​all​the​knowledge​about​tinting,​developing,​ and​exposing.​.​.​.​With​all​of​this​knowledge,”​a​mature​cinematographer​ “is​capable​of​freely​capturing​any​scenes​with​his​camera​that​any​director​ wants.”14​Kotani​was​prepared​to​deliver​all​of​this​knowledge​to​his​colleagues​in​Japan.​The​cinematographer​Miki​Shigeru​wrote​in​a​chapter​for​ Cinematography Reader​(Eiga satsueigaku dokuhon;​1940),​a​textbook​published​by​the​Nipponese​Society​for​Cinematographers,​“Particularly,​the​ influence​ of​ cinematographic​ techniques​ that​ Henry​ Kotani,​ a​ Japanese​ cinematographer​who​had​worked​successfully​in​the​United​States,​taught​ to​his​disciples​was​tremendous.”15 ​ There​are​numerous​confessions​from​Shochiku​filmmakers​on​the​significance​of​Kotani​on​their​early​careers.​Ushihara​Kiyohiko,​a​popular​ director​during​the​1920s​and​1930s​who​started​his​career​as​a​cinematographer​at​Shochiku,​stated,​“I​learned​most​of​the​technical​things​from​ Mr.​Henry​Kotani​(Soichi)​when​I​was​studying​filmmaking.​.​.​.​I​always​ participated​in​Kotani’s​seminars​and​ruthlessly​absorbed​new​information​ from​Hollywood,​particularly​theories​and​techniques​of​editing.”16​Ushihara​also​wrote​for​Eiga Hyoron’s​special​issue​on​film​technologies​in​1933:​

Lighting​anD​MoDernity  17

“We​should​remember​that​the​return​of​Mr.​Kotani​Henry​to​Japan​made​ it​possible​for​the​first​time​to​educate​and​develop​numerous​cinematographic​ technicians.”17​ Similarly,​ Saito​ Torajiro,​ the​ acclaimed​ director​ who​specialized​in​nonsensical​slapstick​comedy​at​Shochiku,​recollected,​ “Mr.​Henry​Kotani,​returned​from​America,​was​in​charge​of​cinematography​[for​the​film​Father​(Otosan,​a.k.a.​Chichi,​1923)]​and​taught​us​the​ American​techniques.​His​mentoring​was​so​effective​that​it​was​as​if​we​ all​had​gone​to​an​American​studio​to​study​for​a​year.”18​Nomura​Hiroshi,​ another​ director​ at​ Shochiku,​ said,​ “I​ was​ Mr.​ Henry’s​ assistant​ for​ four​months.​.​.​.​During​the​shooting​of​Woman of the Island​[Shima no onna,​Kimura​Kinka​or​Matsui​Shoyo,​1920],​he​taught​me​how​to​use​reflectors​in​detail.”19​The​cinematographer​Mochida​Yonehiko​also​wrote,​ “[Kotani’s]​genuinely​trained​camerawork​absolutely​shone​and​informed​ an​epoch​of​film​technology​in​Japan.​We​learned​a​lot​from​him,​including​how​to​freely​operate​cameras,​from​long​shots​to​close-​ups​and​how​ to​effectively​use​reflectors.”20​Kotani​also​standardized​the​sixteen-​frames-​ per-​second​camera​speed​while​Japanese​filmmakers​previously​had​used​ only​twelve​or​thirteen,​or​even​eight,​frames​per​second​to​reduce​cost.21 ​ However,​even​with​such​unanimous​applause​from​his​disciples​for​his​ Hollywood-​style​techniques,​styles,​and​attitude,​Kotani​had​to​leave​the​ Shochiku​Kamata​studio​as​early​as​1922,​less​than​two​years​after​his​arrival.​Then,​after​producing​two​films​at​Henry​Kotani​Production,​his​own​ company​in​Japan,​Kotani​was​rehired​at​Shochiku’s​Shimokamo​studio​in​ Kyoto,​the​other​center​of​filmmaking​in​Japan,​which​arose​after​the​Great​ Kanto​ Earthquake​ of​ 1923​ caused​ considerable​ damage​ to​ the​ Kamata​ studio.​Kotani​directed​and​photographed​seven​films​at​Shimokamo​in​ 1924,​and​he​designed​a​new​building​for​the​photo-​developing​department​ there,​but​he​left​the​studio​within​a​year.22​According​to​Taguchi​Oson,​ Kotani’s​initial​contract​with​Shochiku​was​for​two​years.23​If​Kotani​preferred​to​make​a​contract​with​another​company​after​the​first​two​years,​ Kotani​had​to​ask​Shochiku​for​his​release​in​advance.​In​other​words,​if​ there​were​competition,​Shochiku​would​hold​the​first​option.​Obviously,​ Shochiku​did​not​extend​its​contract​with​Kotani.​Ironically,​a​contract​was​ a​modern​form​of​labor​management​that​Shochiku​adopted​from​Hollywood.​Kotani​was​hired​and​fired​by​Shochiku​in​a​modern​capitalist​manner,​just​like​in​Hollywood. ​ This​abrupt​departure​raises​numerous​questions.24​Otani​Takejiro​in18  chapter​1

sisted​that​cinematographers​ at​the​Kamata​studio​mastered​everything​ that​Kotani​had​brought​from​Hollywood​within​a​few​years.25​It​might​ have​been​a​financial​choice​for​Otani​to​fire​Kotani​once​the​other​cinematographers​ became​ as​ capable;​ he​ was​ earning​ a​ much​ higher​ salary​ than​everybody​else​at​a​time​when​Shochiku​films​were​not​earning​much​ profit.26​In​this​sense,​Kotani​might​have​been​treated​as​an​oyatoi gaikokujin​(hired​foreigner)​from​America,​whom​the​Meiji​government​typically​ used​for​pedagogical​purposes,​hired​with​a​high​salary​but​for​a​very​limited​period​in​order​to​jumpstart​Japan’s​modernization​after​the​long​feudalist​rule​by​the​Tokugawa​shogunate​that​ended​in​1867.​Indeed,​Kotani’s​ Americanness​was​reported​in​film​magazines​incessantly​and​sometimes​ sarcastically.​A​report​in​Kinema Junpo​described​Kotani’s​characteristics​as​ “simple​and​open,”​from​being​raised​in​the​United​States.​Kurishima​Sumiko,​a​female​star​at​Shochiku,​was​“bashful”​when​Kotani​lifted​her​body​ without​hesitation​to​prevent​her​feet​from​getting​wet​in​a​puddle.27 ​ Or​Shochiku​realized​that​Kotani’s​films​were​too​scandalous​for​the​ Japanese​standard.​The​Tokyo​police​had​censored​two​films​that​he​directed​and​photographed​in​1921.28​The​first,​The Electrician and His Wife​ (Denko to sono tsuma),​ was​ questioned​ for​ its​ content​ of​ adultery,​ and​ Kotani​was​forced​to​revise​it.29​Its​release​date​was​delayed​from​April​15​to​ May​6.​The​second,​Trunk​(Toranku),​also​written​by​Kotani,​was​praised​by​ the​critic​Furukawa​Roppa​as​“fabulous​comedy”​with​“the​best​car​chase​ ever​in​Japan.”30​Yet​the​crime​comedy​was​banned​from​release​in​Tokyo​ because​it​“might​tempt​people​into​committing​crimes”​and​was​released​ only​in​Osaka,​where​censorship​was​less​severe​in​this​case,​on​June​21.​ Only​three​Japanese​films​were​censored​in​1921,​and​two​of​them​were​directed​or​written​by​Kotani.31​Because​of​these​incidents,​Shochiku​might​ have​ become​ cautious​ in​ its​ treatment​ of​ Kotani.​ However,​ contrary​ to​ Otani’s​ claim​ and​ despite​ the​ censorship​ problems,​ Kotani’s​ techniques​ were​ highly​ valued​ by​ critics​ even​ in​ his​ post-​Kamata​ films​ of​ 1922–23.​ A​report​in​Kinema Junpo​stated,​“Nobody​else​could​catch​up​with​him​ [Kotani]​ after​ all.”32​ Another​ report​ in​ the​ same​ magazine​ noted,​ “His​ [Kotani’s]​skill​as​a​cinematographer​is​far​beyond​any​criticism​in​the​current​conditions​of​Japanese​cinema.”33 ​ If​his​cinematography​was​superior​to​that​of​anyone​in​Japan,​then​why​ was​Kotani​thrown​out​of​Shochiku​so​quickly?​Curiously,​according​to​the​ cinematographer​Shirai​Shigeru’s​recollection,​Kotani’s​films​at​Shochiku​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  19

did​not​look​as​beautiful​as​those​photographed​in​Hollywood.34​If​there​ were​differences​in​Kotani’s​works​as​Shirai​claimed,​did​Shochiku​reject​ what​Kotani​brought​from​Hollywood?​If​so,​what​were​the​reasons?​Didn’t​ Shochiku​intend​to​install​the​practices​of​Hollywood-​style​technologies​ and​techniques​as​a​part​of​its​production​system?​Kotani’s​sudden​exit​ from​Shochiku​was​a​significant​indication​of​the​complexity​of​modernity​ and​modernization​that​Japanese​cinema​was​facing​when​the​film​industry​ was​being​established​in​the​1920s. ​ The​ film​ historian​ Mitsuyo​ Wada-​Marciano​ claims​ that​ Shochiku​ emerged​within​the​stability​of​the​film​industry​as​a​“fully​functional​capitalist​enterprise.”35​Shochiku​Kinema​Company​and​its​Kamata​studio​appeared​to​represent​what​Hansen​describes​as​“an​at​once​aesthetic​and​ public​ horizon​ for​ the​ experience​ of​ capitalist-​industrial​ modernity​ and​ modernization”​ that​ “the​ worldwide​ success​ of​ Hollywood”​ provided.36​ Shochiku’s​ incorporation​ of​ the​ Hollywood​ system,​ including​ the​ latest​ film​ technologies​ and​ techniques,​ contract​ practices,​ and​ star-​making​ methods,​was​supposed​to​initiate​the​first​industrial​effort​to​produce​pure​ cinema​after​the​period​of​filmmaking​and​film​exhibition​that​was​under​ the​strong​influence​of​Kabuki​and​shinpa​(new​school,​or​modern​drama​ influenced​by​traditional​Kabuki​styles).37​In​the​first​decades​of​the​twentieth​century,​cinema​was​not​clearly​separate​from​preexisting​theatrical​ entertainment​in​Japan.​Even​though​the​Denkikan,​the​first​permanent​ movie​theater​in​Japan,​was​established​in​the​Asakusa​district​of​Tokyo​in​ 1903,​film​screenings​were​often​conducted​at​theaters​that​showed​Kabuki​ and​shinpa.​In​terms​of​production,​a​certain​variation​in​framing,​camera​ distance,​and​editing​were​observable​in​existing​films​beginning​in​1910.​ And​in​terms​of​exhibition,​cinema​was​not​immediately​inserted​into​the​ traditional​ theatrical​ framework.​ Cinema​ did​ attract​ audiences​ though,​ not​only​because​of​the​newness​but​because​of​“the​thrill​of​experiencing​ what​was​known​not​to​be​theater​become​like​theater,”​like​other​forms​ of​misemono​(sideshow)​entertainment,​such​as​gento​(magic​lantern)​and​ ikiningyo​(living​dolls),​as​Aaron​Gerow​puts​it.38​Gerow​persuasively​argues​that​there​was​“flexibility”​both​on​the​levels​of​style​and​reception​of​ these​early​films​in​Japan​that​would​render​it​difficult​to​claim​that​these​ films​were​merely​reproduced​theater.39​Yet,​as​Gerow​suggests,​there​were​ “combinations​and​mixtures”​of​the​theatrical​and​the​cinematic.​This​mixing​was​identified​as​“one​of​the​main​problems​of​cinema”​by​some​Japa20  chapter​1

nese​intellectuals,​ranging​from​film​critics​and​filmmakers​to​government​ officials,​who​would​initiate​the​pure​film​movement​(jun’eigageki undo).40 ​ Shochiku’s​entry​into​the​film​business,​with​its​strong​initial​inclination​toward​Hollywood,​could​have​been​an​attempt​at​what​Gerow​calls​ “a​modernism​of​differentiation,”​or​creating​a​clear​separation​between​old​ and​new​by​modernizing​the​production​and​exhibition​practices​of​motion​pictures​in​order​to​take​control​of​both​theater​and​cinema​in​an​efficient​manner.41​Shochiku​was​meant​to​be​the​first​capitalist​effort​aimed​ at​establishing​the​film​industry​in​Japan.​According​to​the​film​historian​ Eric​Cazdyn,​the​emphasis​of​the​first​phase​of​capitalism​under​the​Meiji​ government​was​placed​on​“the​labor-​intensive​production​of​consumer​ goods​.​.​.​combined​with​a​low-​wage​system​.​.​.​that​was​under​constant​ pressure​to​avoid​demand-​side​problems​by​exporting​what​the​domestic​ market​could​not​absorb.”42​Then,​as​Cazdyn​claims,​the​economic​crisis​of​ the​late​1920s​generated​an​immense​campaign​of​government-​sponsored​ exports​that,​assisted​by​a​rapid​depreciation​of​the​yen,​sanctioned​the​ great​cartels​and​sent​a​flood​of​Japanese​goods​into​foreign​markets,​which​ almost​doubled​exports​by​1936.43​Shochiku​embodied​this​phase​of​Japanese​capitalism​that​moved​into​a​commodity​mode​of​production.​Even​ when​mass​production​was​not​the​reality​in​the​initial​period​of​Japanese​ filmmaking,​production​of​consumer​goods​(films)​was​labor​intensive​and​ often​offered​low​wages,​as​many​stories​printed​in​early​film​magazines​indicated. ​ Moreover,​Gerow​stresses​that​the​“engine”​of​the​pure​film​movement​ was​“the​dream​of​export”​of​Japanese-​made​films​to​the​world​mass​market.​As​Otani​suggested,​Shochiku’s​initial​goal​was​to​expand​its​business​ beyond​the​national​border.44​Even​though​Shochiku’s​initial​attempts​at​ export​failed,​the​Japanese​film​industry​looked​for​foreign​markets​in​the​ 1930s,​especially​in​China,​Manchuria,​and​Korea.​In​particular,​the​pure​ film​advocates​were​well​aware​of​the​international​popularity​of​films​that​ depicted​such​stereotypical​Japanese​aspects​of​culture​and​landscape​as​ geisha​girls,​hara-​kiri,​cherry​blossoms,​and​Mt.​Fuji​in​“tales​of​honor,​revenge,​self-​sacrifice,​and​unrequited​love”​in​the​Madame Butterfly​style.45​ These​intellectuals​not​only​felt​uncomfortable​with​the​inaccurate​depiction​of​Japan​in​these​films​but​were​also​offended​by​the​fact​that​Japanese​ landscape​and​culture,​about​which​Japanese​filmmakers​should​be​making​ films​and​making​profits,​were​stolen​by​foreign​filmmakers.46​An​editorial​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  21

in​Katsudo Shashin Zasshi​claimed,​“Even​scenic​films​of​[Japanese]​landscape​were​made​by​foreigners​and​introduced​as​‘authentic’​Japan,”​and​it​ insisted​that​“the​Monroe​Doctrine​should​be​applied​to​motion​pictures”​ and​“Japanese​films​must​be​made​by​Japanese​people”​and​“expand​[Japanese​films’]​market​share​in​the​world.”47​Otani​shared​the​ambition​of​a​ global​market​economy​with​the​pure​film​advocates. ​ Separation​of​the​theatrical​and​the​cinematic​that​would​eliminate​the​ “unique​mixtures​found​in​local​film​culture”​was​the​key​for​such​a​“dream​ of​export.”48​According​to​the​pure​film​advocates,​the​“unique​characteristics​of​motion​pictures​distinguished​[them]​from​theatrical​dramas​or​ dances,”​and​“the​attainment​of​an​internationally​viable​level​of​narrational​ clarity​for​films”​would​make​Japanese​films​fight​back​against​the​pressure​that​the​Hollywood​market​put​on​the​home​front​and​would​regain​ the​ profits​ in​ international​ markets.49​ The​ pure​ film​ movement​ claimed​ that​the​only​way​Japanese-​made​films​would​become​exportable​to​foreign​ markets​was​to​imitate​the​forms​and​styles​of​foreign​films,​and​the​movement​insisted​on​the​use​of​formal​and​narrative​techniques,​such​as​spoken​titles​(dialogue​intertitles),​more​varied​and​complex​camera​work​(in​ particular,​close-​up​shots​and​moving-​camera​techniques),​artificial​lighting,​continuity​editing,​and​a​more​natural​style​of​acting.​In​contrast,​the​ advocates​criticized​Japanese​motion​pictures,​which​had​appealed​only​to​ mass​audiences​because,​for​the​most​part,​they​were​merely​reproducing​ stage​repertories​of​kyugeki​(period​drama​of​Kabuki​style)​and​shinpa​and​ were​“uncinematic.” ​ Shochiku​openly​supported​such​pure​filmmaking​practices.​With​the​ success​of​the​Japanese​release​of​D.​W.​Griffith’s​Intolerance​(1915)​in​1919,​ Shochiku​appointed​Osanai​Kaoru,​the​pioneer​of​shingeki​(a​European-​ influenced​form​of​realist​theater)​and​a​supporter​of​the​pure​film​movement,​ to​ lead​ the​ Shochiku​ Cinema​ Institute​ (Shochiku​ Kinema​ Kenkyujo)​in​October​1920.​Osanai​supervised​the​production​of​Souls on the Road​(Rojo no reikon,​directed​by​Murata​Minoru,​1921),​the​film​that​directly​referred​to​the​styles​of​Hollywood​films.​Souls on the Road​used​the​ same​crosscutting​technique​as​Intolerance​and​a​similar​representation​of​ female​stars.​For​example,​Hanabusa​Yuriko,​the​heroine,​imitates​Mary​ Pickford​in​hairstyle,​costume,​and​acting​style.50​As​a​result,​the​film​historian​Isolde​Standish​argues​that​a​“stylistic​shift”​occurred​at​the​Shochiku​ Kamata​studio,​especially​after​the​Great​Kanto​Earthquake​of​1923,​which​ 22  chapter​1

can​be​attributed​to​“a​backlash​against​the​shinpa-​derived​.​.​.​melodramatic​traditions​of​filmmaking.”51​A​contemporaneous​film​critic,​Otsuka​ Kyoichi,​similarly​wrote​about​a​stylistic​shift​at​Shochiku​Kamata​in​his​description​of​the​popular​Shochiku​director​Shimazu​Yasujiro:​“Shimazu​Yasujiro​is​the​representative​filmmaker​for​the​Shochiku​Kamata-​style​films,​ especially​ when​ Shochiku​ refined​ the​ archaic​ form​ of​ Japanese​ cinema​ such​as​shinpa​film​unto​a​contemporary​film​form.”52​Many​Japanese​historians​have​indicated​that​the​earthquake​caused​far-​reaching​historical,​ economic,​and​cultural​divisions,​which​facilitated​the​attempt​at​separation​of​the​old​and​the​new​by​the​Japanese​film​industry. ​ Aaron​Gerow’s​argument​is​much​more​carefully​defined.​He​avoids​the​ teleological​assumptions​on​transformations​in​film​style​that​are​observable​in​the​claims​by​these​historians.​Vigilantly​analyzing​a​discourse​that​ constituted​ a​ new​ object​ of​ knowledge,​ “cinema,”​ Gerow​ contends​ that​ Japanese​film​culture​from​the​early​1910s​to​the​1920s​witnessed​a​“major​ shift”​of​“narrative,​the​spectator,​understanding,​textuality,​semiosis,​the​ screenplay,​criticism,​exhibition,​and​production,​and​even​of​the​image​ and​the​world.”53 ​ However,​I​would​argue​that​such​a​major​shift​was​not​witnessed​so​ clearly​in​the​styles​of​Shochiku​cinema,​especially​in​its​use​of​lighting​ technologies​and​techniques.​Instead​of​making​a​differentiation​between​ theatrical​and​cinematic,​old​and​new,​Shochiku​reinforced​the​mixture​in​ film​styles​in​Japan.​With​Shochiku’s​participation​in​the​film​business,​the​ Japanese​film​industry​entered​a​phase​of​“fully​functional​capitalist​enterprise,”​but​it​was​not​simply​the​“experience​of​capitalist-​industrial​modernity​and​modernization”​that​Hollywood​provided. ​ Gerow​claims,​“Much​of​what​the​[pure​film]​Movement​proposed​had​ become​industry​practice​by​the​end​of​the​1920s.​.​.​.​Most​important,​many​ of​ the​ aspects​ of​ film​ style​ that​ reformers​ had​ advocated—the​ close-​up,​ parallel​editing,​and​so​on—were​firmly​a​part​of​common​film​practice​as​ first​Shochiku​in​the​1920s​and​then​Toho​in​the​1930s​gained​a​reputation​ for​having​a​more​Americanized​film​style.”54​Through​focusing​on​lighting​technologies​and​techniques​of​Shochiku​cinema​by​way​of​the​career​ of​Henry​Kotani,​I​want​to​complicate​the​relationship​between​the​pure​ film​movement​and​Shochiku.​The​process​behind​the​formation​of​such​a​ “common​film​practice”​was​much​more​complex.​Rather​than​clarifying​the​ purity​of​the​cinematic​medium,​filmmaking​in​Japan​in​the​1920s​and​1930s​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  23

was​still​in​the​conditions​of​“combinations​and​mixtures,”​by​which​Gerow​ defines​filmmaking​in​Japan​before​and​during​the​pure​film​movement.​Referring​to​Pierre​Bourdieu’s​sociology​of​culture,​Gerow​convincingly​argues​ that​the​field​of​cinema​in​the​1910s​and​through​the​early​1920s​was​“a​site​ of​struggle,​in​which​what​was​at​stake​was​the​definition​of​cinema​and​the​ restriction​of​who​could​speak​about​the​medium.”55​Even​after​the​establishment​of​the​Shochiku​Kamata​studio​as​an​apparent​forerunner​of​the​capitalist​film​industry,​the​struggle​over​the​definition​and​the​practices​of​cinematic​styles​there​were​too​complex​and​mixed​to​be​called​a​major​shift.56 ​ Such​a​struggle​was​not​simply​the​cultural​dominance-​resistance​relationship​between​Hollywood​and​Japan.​It​was​a​mixture​of​such​conflicts​as​ profitability​and​the​accessibility​of​cinema​as​a​commodity;​the​textuality​ of​cinema​between​artistic​modernism​and​classicism;​and​the​local​power​ structure​among​producers,​exhibitors,​and​spectators.​Despite​its​goal​of​ rationalizing​the​industry,​it​was​impossible​to​claim​or​dismiss​Shochiku’s​ strategy​as​the​Hollywood​model.​Hansen​argues​that​the​question​is​“how​ filmmakers​have​appropriated​Hollywood​(along​with​other​foreign​cinemas​as​well​as​their​own​cultural​pasts)​in​creative,​eclectic,​and​revisionist​ways​to​forge​aesthetic​idioms,​and​to​respond​to​social​conflicts​and​ political​pressures,​closer​to​home.”57​Indeed,​people​at​Shochiku​undertook​“creative,​eclectic,​and​revisionist​ways​to​forge​aesthetic​idioms”​to​ distinguish​their​own​cinema.​Shochiku’s​strategies​appeared​to​follow​the​ liberal​market​model​of​Hollywood,​especially​when​the​studio​sought​to​ appeal​to​the​growing​market​of​female​consumers​socializing​outside​the​ home.58​While​Shochiku​adored​and​appropriated​Hollywood’s​marketing​ strategy,​it​was​not​simply​imitating​the​transhistorical​Hollywood​mode​of​ narration.​The​company​was​not​aiming​to​reinforce​“old-​time​values”​so​as​ to​resist​Hollywood’s​domination​either.59​Shochiku​struggled​over​how​to​ formulate​its​cinematic​styles​for​the​Japanese​masses. ​ A​result​of​negotiation​was​a​combination​of​visibility​and​expressivity:​ a​ mixture​ of​ flat​ lighting​ and​ expressive​ mise-​en-​scène.​ In​ Kabuki,​ flat​ frontal​lighting​is​used​almost​exclusively,​in​order​to​flatly​illuminate​the​ entire​stage,​eliminate​shadow​as​much​as​possible,​and​make​onstage​acts​ visible​ to​ the​ spectator,​ while​ the​ expressive​ style​ of​ lighting​ was​ introduced​from​Hollywood.​Noël​Burch​claims​that​in​the​1910s​and​1920s​the​ “pertinent​visual​traits​of​kabuki”​appeared​“constantly​on​the​screen.”60​ While​Burch​considers​the​continuation​of​the​Kabuki​style​to​be​Japanese​ 24  chapter​1

filmmakers’​rejection​of​the​“ideology​of​‘realism’”​in​the​“cinema​of​the​ West”​in​favor​of​a​conventionalized​“mode​of​presentation,”​the​choice— at​least​the​choice​of​lighting—was​based​on​Shochiku’s​rationalization​ policy​as​a​leading​company​of​the​modernizing​capitalist​industry.61​Shochiku​was​constructing​a​new​tradition​for​contemporary​industrial​practice​and​for​modern​mass​audiences.​As​Raymond​Williams​argues,​“It​[tradition]​is​always​more​than​an​inert​historicized​segment;​indeed​it​is​the​ most​powerful​practical​means​of​incorporation.​What​we​have​to​see​is​not​ just​‘a​tradition’​but​a​selective tradition:​an​intentionally​selective​version​of​ a​shaping​past​and​a​preshaped​present,​which​is​then​powerfully​operative​ in​the​process​of​social​and​cultural​definition​and​identification.”62​In​fact,​ Shochiku​used​lighting​technologies​that​would​go​beyond​the​visual​traits​ of​Kabuki​when​it​came​to​the​promotion​of​stars—especially​female​stars,​ inconceivable​in​Kabuki,​which​was​only​performed​by​male​actors. ​ Gerow​cautions​that​focusing​only​on​individual​biographies​like​that​ of​Kotani,​whose​fame​did​not​last​long,​could​lead​one​to​mistakenly​believe​that​this​is​evidence​that​the​“Westernized”​pure​film​movement​failed​ in​the​face​of​different​Japanese​tastes.​But​I​think​if​such​a​biography​is​ contextualized​within​a​history​of​the​film​industry​and​the​discourse​surrounding​it,​the​biography​would​provide​an​enlightening​perspective​to​ the​understanding​of​Japanese​film​culture​in​the​1920s. the kamata tone and the Paramount tone: From lasky lighting to three-Point lighting

Kamata-cho​(Kamata​tone)​flourished​in​the​films​produced​at​the​Shochiku​Kamata​studio​from​1920​to​1936.​According​to​the​Oxford English Dictionary,​the​term​tone​usually​refers​to​a​musical​or​vocal​sound​considered​with​reference​to​its​quality.​The​meaning​of​the​term​extends​to​ a​special​or​characteristic​style​or​tendency​of​thought,​feeling,​behavior,​ and​so​on.​The​term​also​signifies​a​prevailing​effect​of​the​combination​of​ light​and​shade.​The​Japanese​word​cho​has​basically​the​same​meaning.​ The​Kamata​tone​usually​refers​to​a​sophisticated​style​of​comedy​with​a​ bright​and​cheerful​feeling,​which​conspicuously​displays​images​of​everyday​lives​ and​experiences​ in​modernizing​ metropolitan​Tokyo.​The​goal​ of​Shochiku’s​film​production​at​Kamata​was​suggested​in​the​company’s​ slogan,​“Bright​and​cheerful​Shochiku​cinema”​(akaruku tanoshi Shochiku eiga).63​Kido​Shiro,​at​the​time​of​his​appointment​as​head​of​the​Shochiku​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  25

Kamata​studio​in​July​1924,​was​reported​to​have​said:​“It​is​uninteresting​ to​ make​ films​ for​audiences​ who​ happily​come​along​ to​ the​ cinema​ clutching​their​hankies​to​watch​tragedies.​Entertainment​must​be​bright​ and​healthy;​while​laughing​at​society’s​ironies​and​contradictions,​we​can​ study​life.”64​In​May​1929,​Kido​clearly​addressed​this​policy​in​the​studio’s​ journal,​Kamata Shuho:​“Kamata’s​modern​dramas​represent​modern​dramas​in​Japan.​In​order​to​develop​our​modern​dramas​further​and​make​ them​available​in​the​world,​the​contents​must​be​better,​which​means​they​ must​be​‘brighter​and​clearer,’​in​particular.​They​must​always​make​the​ audience​feel​cheerful​and​never​make​them​experience​anything​dark​and​ depressed.​.​.​.​This​is​our​precious​mission.”65 ​ In​ addition​ to​ the​ bright​ and​ cheerful​ feeling,​ the​ photographer​ and​ critic​Tanaka​Toshio​claims​that​the​Kamata​tone​also​meant​its​“brightness”​ in​ cinematography.66​ The​ legendary​ tale​ of​ Kotani’s​ arrival​ at​ the​ Kamata​studio​confirms​Shochiku’s​aspiration​for​brightness​and​clarity​in​ its​films.67​In​fact,​Kotani’s​cinematography​in​Hollywood​films​had​been​ praised​ by​ Japanese​ spectators​ mainly​ for​ the​ “vivid​ cinematography”​ whose​“beautiful​brightness​contributes​greatly​to​a​good​atmosphere.”68​ The​ acclaimed​ director​ Ito​ Daisuke,​ who​ started​ his​ career​ at​ Shochiku​ and​wrote​screenplays​of​A New Life​(Shinsei,​direction​and​photography​ by​Kotani,​1920)​and​The Secret of the Mine​(Kozan no himitsu,​direction​by​ Edward​Tanaka,​photography​by​Kotani,​1920),​claimed,​“[Shochiku]​regarded​cinematography​as​the​least​developed​area​in​Japan​and​brought​in​ Mr.​Henry​Kotani​from​Hollywood.​.​.​.​I​was​really​amazed​at​the​beautiful​ and​bright​tones​of​Henry’s​cinematography.”69​In​this​regard,​Shochiku​ expected​Kotani​to​be​the​appropriate​person​to​set​the​“bright​and​cheerful”​Kamata​tone. ​ However,​Kotani’s​seemingly​premature​departure​from​Shochiku​indicated​certain​conflicts​in​the​course​of​reconfiguring​the​techniques​of​ cinematography​and​lighting.​The​Hollywood-​trained​cinematographer​did​ not​seem​to​fully​establish​the​aesthetic​norms​and​modes​of​the​Kamata​ tone​ in​ his​ brief​ tenure​ with​ Shochiku.​ Tanaka​ Toshio​ argues​ that​ the​ Kamata​tone​followed​the​Paramount tone,​the​term​that​the​technical​staff​ at​Kamata​studio​used​first.70​The​term​was​not​normally​used​in​Hollywood,​but​it​signified​an​ideal​cinematic​tone​of​a​Hollywood​studio​that​ the​staff​of​Kamata​as​well​as​cinematographers​at​other​studios​aspired​ to​follow.71​Nagahama​Keizo,​cinematographer​at​Makino​Production,​re26  chapter​1

called​that​in​the​early​1920s​Paramount​films​were​“famous​for​beautiful​ images​that​film​technicians​aimed​at.”72​Nagahama​argued,​“Paramount​ films​were​second​to​none​in​their​fluent​images​and​beauty​of​light.​.​.​.​ We​understand​that​they​use​immense​lighting​for​the​key,​with​effective​ use​of​supporting​light.”73​In​fact,​the​dark​stage​at​Kamata​imitated​that​of​ Paramount.74​Shochiku​and​Paramount​were​even​business​partners​who​ owned​major​movie​theaters​ in​Tokyo.75​Contrary​ to​the​shared​images​ among​Japanese​filmmakers​of​beautiful​and​immense​high-​key​lighting,​ the​actual​tones​of​Paramount​films​were​not​simply​bright.​Instead,​they​ often​ contained​ artistically​ low-​key​ lighting​ effects.76​ Lighting​ in​ Paramount​films​even​meant​contrastive​photography,​at​least​for​several​years​ when​Kotani​worked​there.77 ​ According​to​David​Bordwell,​during​the​second​decade​of​the​twentieth​century​the​adoption​of​carbon-​arc​equipment,​such​as​Kliegl​spotlights​(called​klieg​lights),​“moved​American​film​lighting​practice​away​ from​a​dominant​use​of​diffused,​overall​illumination​toward​a​concentration​on​‘effects’​lighting.”78​In​particular,​Bordwell​argues,​“a​great​shift​in​ American​lighting​practice​started​in​1915,”​when​Cecil​B.​DeMille​and​his​ cinematographer,​Alvin​Wyckoff,​“used​spotlights​provided​by​art​director​Wilfred​Buckland​to​produce​low-​key​lighting​effects​in​several​productions.”79​ Between​ the​ years​ 1915​ and​ 1916,​ DeMille​ “sought​ to​ bring​ more​dramatic​and​realistic​lighting​to​the​screen,”​and​Wyckoff​helped​ him​achieve​the​effects​DeMille​desired—the​so-​called​Rembrandt​chiaroscuro.80​What​DeMille​and​Wyckoff​visualized​was​called​Lasky​lighting,​ named​after​the​Jesse​L.​Lasky​Feature​Play​Company​where​they​worked,​ whose​films​were​distributed​by​Paramount.​The​film​historian​Lea​Jacobs​ defines​ Lasky​ lighting​ as​ “confined​ and​ shallow​ areas​ of​ illumination,​ sharp-​edged​shadows​and​a​palpable​sense​of​the​directionality​of​light.”81​ According​to​Jacobs,​Lasky​lighting​was​more​directly​derived​from​Belasco​ lighting​in​the​theater.​David​Belasco​followed​Rembrandt’s​treatment​of​ light​that​“emphasizes​source​lighting​from​windows,​lamps,​and​fires​and​ successfully​creates​a​dark,​moody​look.”82 ​ Bordwell​ claims​ that​ effects​ lighting​ with​ “such​ extreme​ contrasts​ of​ light​and​dark”​as​Lasky​lighting​did​not​become​“the​standard​way​of​creating​a​selective​lighting​set-​up”​in​Hollywood.83​By​1920,​most​Hollywood​ filmmakers​had​adopted​the​three-​point​lighting​style,​which​mixed​key​ and​fill,​often​adding​a​touch​of​backlight.84​Jacobs​argues​that​with​three-​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  27

figure​1.1  Henry​Kotani​(right)​sitting​next​to​Alvin​Wyckoff.​Courtesy​of​Henry​ Kotani​Production.

point​lighting,​“light​works​as​a​neutral​element​of​the​mise-en-scène​for​ most​ of​ the​ time”​ without​ an​ obvious​ “signifying​ function.”85​ However,​ as​the​film​historian​Patrick​Keating​argues,​the​three-​point​lighting​style​ was​in​fact​“a​flexible​system​which​combined​the​aesthetic​advantages​of​ the​Soft-​Key​Style​with​the​dramatic​advantages​of​the​Effects​Lighting​ Style.”86​ In​ other​ words,​ the​ three-​point​ lighting​ system​ did​ not​ simply​ abandon​DeMille​and​Wyckoff’s​selective​lighting​but​incorporated​its​self-​ conscious​narrative​functions​in​a​subtler​manner. ​ When​Kotani​worked​under​DeMille,​he​was​“one​of​the​best”​assistants​to​Wyckoff.87​In​a​photograph​of​cameramen​at​the​company,​Wyckoff​and​Kotani​sit​next​to​each​other​and​smile​(fig.​1.1).​The​photo​shows​ how​close​Kotani​was​to​Wyckoff.​By​March​1918,​Kotani​was​one​of​four​ “camera​men”​at​the​Famous​Players-​Lasky​Corporation​and​was​earning​ thirty​dollars​a​week​while​the​ace​cameraman​Wyckoff​was​earning​one​ hundred.88​When​Kotani​worked​as​a​cinematographer​in​Hollywood,​he​ experienced​the​drastic​transition​of​cinematic​lighting​that​was​under​way:​ the​advent​of​effects​lighting​and​the​shift​to​three-​point​lighting.​What​influenced​Kotani​most​was​the​effects​lighting—under​the​direct​instruction​ of​his​mentor,​Wyckoff.​Kotani’s​inclination​to​use​effects​lighting​is​indi28  chapter​1

cated​in​his​statement​on​backlighting.​In​February​1919,​still​working​in​ Hollywood,​Kotani​was​interviewed​for​a​Japanese​film​magazine,​Katsudo Shashin Zasshi:​“The​only​thing​that​cinematographers​have​to​study​carefully​is​how​to​use​beams​of​light​artistically.​I​am​currently​working​on​ how​to​apply​backlight.​So​far,​cinematographers​tend​to​stand​in​front​of​ the​sunlight​to​have​frontal​light​on​actors​and​sets,​which​always​creates​ inartistic,​unnatural,​simplistic,​banal,​and​flat​images.​I​am​trying​to​drastically​break​through​this​poor​convention,​resist​the​direct​sunlight,​and​ use​it​selectively​to​create​artistically​complicated​scenes.”89​What​Kotani​ specified​was​the​significant​effect​of​backlighting​in​opposition​to​the​visibility​of​actors​and​sets.​The​Hollywood​magnate​Adolph​Zukor​once​commented​on​Kotani’s​obsession​with​backlighting​that​often​leaves​half​of​ actors’​faces​in​shadows:​“Henry,​this​is​wonderfully​artistic.​But​the​people​ who​come​to​theaters​want​to​watch​actors’​faces.​It​may​go​against​your​ taste,​but​try​to​show​actors’​faces​more​clearly​from​now​on.”90 ​ Backlighting​ was​ extensively​ used​ in​ such​ Lasky​ films​ as​ Joan the Woman​(Cecil​B.​DeMille,​1917,​production​began​on​June​19,​1916),​starring​Geraldine​Farrar.​Kotani​said​that​he​worked​with​Wyckoff​in​Joan the Woman​for​the​first​time​and​insisted​that​the​film​should​be​listed​first​ in​his​filmography​as​a​cinematographer,​even​if​no​official​record​exists​ that​lists​Kotani​as​the​film’s​cinematographer.91​Joan the Woman​displays​ Kotani’s​preference​of​backlighting​as​effects​lighting.​Even​though​“low-​ key​‘contrasty’​lighting”​is​employed​only​“on​occasion”​in​this​film,​as​Lea​ Jacobs​points​out,​it​certainly​is​apparent​in​the​critical​scenes.92​In​such​ scenes,​visibility​of​the​star’s​face​is​sacrificed​for​the​sake​of​effects​lighting.​ The​technique​first​appears​at​the​very​beginning​of​the​film​in​the​shots​ that​introduce​Farrar​as​Joan.​The​first​shot​that​follows​the​opening​credits​ and​intertitles​is​a​medium​long​shot​of​hardworking​Joan​at​her​spinning​ wheel.​Strong​frontal​light​and​sidelight​create​a​thick​shadow​of​her​on​the​ wall​in​the​background.​Does​this​shadow​imply​her​tragic​end?​In​any​case,​ this​is​a​typical​example​of​contrasty​Lasky​lighting,​which​minimizes​diffused​lights,​enhances​tensions​within​an​image​even​if​the​meaning​of​the​ tension​is​unclear,​and​leads​to​a​narrative​climax.93 ​ The​second​shot​of​the​film​uses​virtuoso​changes​of​lighting​set-​ups​ within​one​shot,​as​in​many​other​DeMille​films​of​the​same​period,​including​The Cheat​(1915).​The​shot​first​rhetorically​shows​Joan’s​martyrdom;​in​a​long​shot,​Joan​stands​right​in​front​of​a​wall.​Strong​frontal​and​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  29

figure​1.2  Backlight​in​the​shape​of​a​fleur-​de-​lis​appears​behind​Joan​ (Geraldine​Farrar).​Joan the Woman​(1917).

top​lights​create​multiple​shadows​of​her​body,​some​thick,​others​slightly​ less​dark,​on​the​wall.​Then,​as​she​raises​her​arms​and​poses​as​if​she​were​ crucified,​a​certain​number​of​frontal​lights​are​turned​off​and​backlight​in​ the​shape​of​a​fleur-​de-​lis​clearly​appears​behind​her​(fig.​1.2).​With​only​ weak​frontal​top​lights​and​strong​backlight,​Joan​appears​nearly​as​a​silhouette​and​lowers​her​neck​as​if​she​were​unconscious.​As​Jacobs​argues,​ changes​in​lighting​set-​ups​and​light​values​like​this​punctuate​“the​major​ turning​points​in​the​action.”94​In​this​case,​these​low-​key​and​contrasty​ lighting​(and​shadow)​effects​caused​by​backlighting​clearly​display​Joan’s​ preordained​fate. ​ Similarly,​ in​ The Hidden Pearls​ (George​ Melford,​ 1918),​ a​ star​ vehicle​ for​Sessue​Hayakawa,​a​Japanese​star​in​Hollywood,​we​can​observe​contrasty​Lasky​lighting.​During​the​production,​Kotani​replaced​Paul​Kerry​ as​the​film’s​cinematographer​after​Kerry​had​an​automobile​accident.​In​ the​surviving​partial​prints​of​The Hidden Pearls,​which​are​preserved​at​ the​George​Eastman​House,​there​is​a​scene​in​which​Tom​(Hayakawa)​ decides​to​return​to​his​native​island.​He​stands​in​front​of​a​mirror​in​a​ dark​room​(fig.​1.3).​In​a​long​shot,​strong​lights​illuminate​ him​from​a​ 30  chapter​1

figure​1.3  Strong​lights​illuminate​the​body​of​Tom​(Sessue​Hayakawa)​in​ front​of​a​mirror.​The Hidden Pearls​(1918).​Courtesy​of​the​Academy​of​Motion​ Picture​Arts​and​Sciences.

frontal​direction​and​frame​Tom’s​body​in​sharp​relief​against​the​black​ background.​He​wears​a​dark​nightgown,​and​his​face​and​his​bare​chest​ are​so​white​that​they​even​appear​to​emit​white​light​from​inside.​A​long​ shot​of​a​half-​naked​Native​Hawaiian​woman,​Tom’s​fiancée,​in​tears​on​the​ beach​is​inserted​as​his​flashback.​This​heightened​sense​of​his​interiority​is​ followed​by​a​medium​shot,​which​frames​only​his​reflection​in​the​mirror.​ Within​the​mirror’s​frame,​Tom​gazes​at​himself​without​blinking.​We​see​a​ black​tattoo​of​a​fish​on​the​naked​white​chest​of​Tom’s​double​in​the​mirror,​a​tattoo​forced​on​him​by​the​native​people​so​that​he​would​not​forget​ his​Hawaiian​racial​identity.​The​contrast​between​the​whiteness​of​Tom’s​ skin​ and​ the​ blackness​ of​ the​ tattoo​ is​ intensified​ by​ the​ Lasky​ lighting​ techniques.​The​whitening​of​Tom’s​appearance​in​this​scene​enhances​his​ psychological​struggle,​the​dramatic​battle​between​his​internalized​sense​ of​self​and​the​way​his​body​is​marked​as​different.​The​essence​of​Tom’s​ self​remains​hidden​but​the​special​luminosity​confirms​its​presence.​But​ the​question​remains:​what​is​the​essence​of​Tom’s​self​in​the​narrative​of​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  31

figure​1.4  Henry​Kotani​operates​a​camera​against​the​sun​on​a​street​in​ Honolulu.​The Hidden Pearls​(1918).​Courtesy​of​Henry​Kotani​Production.

The Hidden Pearls?​Is​it​his​Americanized,​white​identity​as​enhanced​by​ the​Lasky​lighting?​Or​is​it​the​primitive​Hawaiian​racial​identity​indicated​ by​the​tattoo,​starkly​visible​on​his​white​chest?​Tom’s​luminous​half-​naked​ body​signifies​his​Americanization​that​morally​condemns​such​a​primitive​ custom​as​tattooing;​it​also​simultaneously​reminds​the​viewers​of​his​racial​ Otherness​and​evokes​primal​desire​for​that​Other.​Thus,​the​special​luminosity​and​the​split​self-​image​in​the​mirror​conspicuously​express​Tom’s​ identity​crisis,​the​struggle​to​adjudicate​between​his​Americanized​self​and​ his​status​as​a​Native​Hawaiian.​The​scene​also​provokes​the​viewers’​moral​ struggle,​an​internal​battle​between​the​fear​of​miscegenation​and​sensual​ (visual)​attraction​to​prohibited​pleasure. ​ As​an​illustration​regarding​backlighting​in​particular,​we​can​look​to​ a​photograph​with​Kotani​operating​a​camera​during​the​shooting​of​The Hidden Pearls​on​location​on​a​street​in​Honolulu​(fig.​1.4).​There​are​dark​ shadows​of​the​actors​on​the​ground​to​the​side​of​the​camera.​We​see​a​ white​reflector​behind​the​camera.​This​setting​means​that​the​actors​are​ standing​in​front​of​the​sun.​The​camera​points​at​them​in​opposition​to​ the​sunlight.​The​reflector​works​as​a​fill​light​to​reduce​the​dark​shadows​ on​the​actors’​faces.​This​photograph​indicates​Kotani’s​preference​for​the​ 32  chapter​1

figure​1.5  A​couple​embraces​in​complete​silhouette​and​merges​into​the​twilight​

landscape.​The Heart of Youth​(1919).​Courtesy​of​the​Academy​of​Motion​Picture​Arts​ and​Sciences.

expressivity​of​light​and​shadow,​effectively​employing​effects​lighting— backlighting​in​particular—in​his​work​in​Hollywood.95 ​ A​result​of​such​use​of​strong​backlighting​is​displayed​in​a​pictorial​still​ photo​ of​ The Heart of Youth​ (Robert​ G.​ Vignola,​ 1919),​ preserved​ at​ the​ Paramount​Collection​of​the​Margaret​Herrick​Library​(fig.​1.5).​The Heart of Youth​was​photographed​by​Kotani,​and​the​still​photo​captured​a​scene​ of​romantic​love​in​front​of​a​river,​trees,​mountains,​and​the​sky.​In​the​ photo,​a​couple​embraces​in​complete​silhouette​and​merges​into​the​twilight​landscape.96​It​is​not​true​that​backlight​only​functions​to​hide​actors’​ faces​in​shadows.​Strong​backlighting​in​itself​reduces​three-​dimensional​ objects​to​an​immaterial​two-​dimensionality.​Torben​Grodal​argues​that​ this​sense​of​“deviating​reality”​makes​backlight​expressive.97​The​examples​ of​Joan the Woman,​The Hidden Pearls,​and​The Heart of Youth​illustrate​how​ this​ is​ accomplished.​ Yet,​ when​ combined​ with​ key​and​ fill​ lights,​ backlighting​ can​ secure​ “an​ illusion​ of​ roundness”​ by​ efficiently​ separating​ foreground​from​background,​which​became​“a​default​norm”​of​HollyLighting​anD​MoDernity  33

wood​cinematography​from​around​1915​through​the​early​1920s.98​Besides​ serving​to​isolate​the​contour​from​the​background,​backlight​can​emphasize​the​hair​of​the​actors.​Grodal​even​claims​that​rim​light​adds​“a​perhaps​ subliminally​perceived​halo​to​a​person.”99​Thus,​Kotani’s​work​in​Hollywood​was​not​simply​characterized​as​“beautiful​brightness”​as​the​contemporaneous​reviews​in​Japan​noted. light of Compassion

Unfortunately,​none​of​Kotani’s​films​produced​at​Shochiku​is​extant.​Yet​ existing​records​indicate​that​Kotani​conspicuously​used​effects​lighting​in​ his​films​that​were​photographed​in​Japan.​Kotani​substantially​used​3​kW​ carbon​arc​lights​and​spotlights​on​a​dark​stage​for​special​lighting​effects​ during​the​shooting​of​Poppy​(Gubijinso,​Kotani,​1921),​a​vehicle​for​Kurishima​Sumiko,​Shochiku’s​rising​star.100​We​have​a​rare​chance​to​compare​ a​shot​from​one​of​Kotani’s​films​to​a​production​photograph​showing​a​ lighting​and​camera​set-​up​for​what​is​evidently​the​same​scene​of​an​unidentifiable​film​(possibly​Spy of love​[Koi no misshi,​Kotani,​1924])​(figs.​1.6​ and​1.7).​The​production​photograph​depicts​Kotani​lying​on​a​mat​with​ a​low-​angle​camera​position​shooting​a​female​actor​in​a​kimono;​the​film​ shot​shows​how​the​actress​actually​looks​in​the​camera.​In​the​production​ photograph,​a​bright​carbon​arc​light​casts​its​light​on​the​actress​(and​the​ crew)​from​the​left​side.​In​the​film​shot,​the​side-​lit​effect​is​clearly​observed.​The​female​actor’s​cunning​facial​expression​is​emphasized​by​the​ selective​effects​lighting. ​ The​film​Light of Compassion​(Nasake no hikari,​1926,​35​mm,​prints​from​ the​National​Film​Center,​National​Museum​of​Modern​Art,​Tokyo)​was​ produced​under​the​instruction​of​the​Ministry​of​Education​instead​of​at​ Shochiku.​Yet​we​can​still​observe​how​Kotani’s​lighting​schemes​worked​ in​his​films​produced​in​Japan​in​the​1920s.​In​Light of Compassion,​Kotani​ as​ the​director​and​Midorikawa​ Michio​ as​ the​ cinematographer​ used​ “a​ nuanced​ lighting,​ which​ was​ called​ Rembrandt​ lighting,”​ according​ to​ Midorikawa.101​ Throughout​ the​ film,​ as​ the​ title​ suggests,​ lighting​ is​ the​ main​theme,​and​the​contrasts​between​lights​and​shadows,​which​are​emphasized​ by​ strong​ spotlights​ and​ backlights,​ conspicuously​ express​ the​ melodramatic​dichotomy​between​social​classes.​Light of Compassion​is​a​ heartwarming​story​of​a​hardworking​boy​with​a​criminal​father​and​a​sick​

34  chapter​1

figure​1.6  The​female​actor’s​cunning​facial​expression​is​emphasized​by​the​ selective​effects​lighting.​Courtesy​of​Henry​Kotani​Production.

figure​1.7  Kotani​photographs​a​female​actor​with​a​low-​angle​camera​position.​ Courtesy​of​Henry​Kotani​Production.

mother.​The​boy​is​eventually​sponsored​by​a​rich​girl​and​her​father​and​ provided​with​an​opportunity​for​better​education.​This​film’s​narrative​certainly​goes​along​with​the​state’s​policy​of​social​integration.​Kotani​and​ Midorikawa​adopted​a​distinctive​lighting​scheme​in​which​light​of​compassion​is​visually​cast​upon​the​boy. ​ Light of Compassion​opens​with​images​of​beams​of​light​penetrating​a​ dark​space.​The​background​of​the​opening​title​is​a​drawing​of​a​candle​ that​casts​light​in​a​dark​room.​The​actual​narrative​of​the​film​opens​with​a​ shot​of​a​young​plant​shining​in​a​strong​top​light.​This​opening​shot​is​followed​by​a​series​of​long​shots​and​medium​shots​of​a​boy​walking​down​ a​street,​selling​flowers.​The​boy​is​under​strong​top​light,​as​is​the​young​ plant.​The​street​scene​is​followed​by​a​scene​in​a​dark​room​early​in​the​ morning.​In​a​long​shot,​the​same​boy​wakes​up​and​folds​his​futon.​Even​ in​the​house,​strong​lights​are​placed​on​him​from​above.​When​his​sick​ mother​wakes​up,​he​brings​food​to​her.​In​close-​ups,​a​beam​of​light​on​her​ face​from​the​upper​right​emphasizes​the​paleness​of​her​skin​and​whiteness​of​her​breath​when​she​coughs.​When​we​see​the​boy​on​the​street​ again,​we​realize​that​the​scene​of​his​sick​mother​is​a​flashback​of​the​boy​ thinking​of​the​hardship​of​his​everyday​life. ​ In​one​scene,​the​boy’s​mother​visits​her​husband​in​jail.​The​man​has​ robbed​ a​ safe​ and​ has​ been​ arrested.​ Rembrandt-​style​ contrasty​ effects​ lighting​ creates​ numerous​ shadows​ on​ the​wall​ behind​ the​ man,​ as​ in​ a​ similar​shot​in​The Cheat​when​the​heroine​of​the​film​visits​her​husband,​ also​locked​in​a​jail​(figs.​1.8​and​1.9).​After​a​medium​shot​of​the​prisoner,​ the​camera​pans​to​the​right​to​capture​the​man’s​shadow.​On​the​street,​the​ boy​is​called​“the​son​of​a​criminal”​and​attacked​by​three​of​his​classmates.​ After​he​is​defeated,​blood​runs​down​the​boy’s​right​cheek.​His​clothes​are​ torn.​In​a​medium​long​shot,​strong​top​light​emphasizes​the​whiteness​of​ his​underwear.​He​stands​alone.​Female​classmates​of​the​boy​witness​his​ hardship​on​the​street.​In​an​extreme​long​shot,​supposedly​a​shot​from​the​ point​of​view​of​the​girls,​the​boy​is​seen​as​a​dark​shadowy​silhouette​on​ the​street​because​of​a​strong​beam​of​light​from​his​back.​Even​though​the​ boy​is​always​under​lights,​the​strong​lights​also​create​dark​shadows​of​him​ on​the​street.​Because​of​the​top​light,​his​face​is​constantly​in​dark​shades.​ Especially​in​the​girls’​point-​of-​view​shot,​because​of​the​harsh​backlight​ he​is​a​shadowy​existence.​Contrasty​effects​lightings​from​the​top​and​the​ back​do​not​clearly​display​the​boy’s​facial​expressions​in​close-​ups,​but​ 36  chapter​1

figure​1.8  Contrasty​effects​lighting​creates​shadows​behind​the​man​in​jail.​ The Cheat​(1915).

figure​1.9  Similar​to​the​shot​in​The Cheat​(1915),​contrasty​effects​lighting​creates​ shadows​behind​the​man​in​jail.​Light of Compassion​(1926).​Courtesy​of​the​National​ Film​Center,​Tokyo.

they​emphasize​the​financially​and​psychologically​severe​lives​of​the​boy​ and​his​poor,​sick​mother. ​ Compassion​ literally​ comes​ with,​ and​ as,​ light​ to​ the​ boy​ in​ Light of Compassion.​ A​ female​ classmate​ and​ her​ father​ appear​ in​ a​ subsequent​ scene​on​a​brightly​sunny​veranda​(engawa).​A​newspaper​that​her​father​ reads​shines​white​under​the​sunlight.​When​a​teacher​in​a​white​shirt​visits​ her​father,​the​living​room​is​lit​with​a​bright-​white​light.​The​room​is​ornamented​ with​ shining​ white​ flowers.​ A​ maid​ brings​ shining​ white​ coffee​ cups.​When​the​girl​comes​into​the​room,​she​stands​right​under​the​white​ light.​Together,​the​girl,​her​father,​and​her​teacher​get​into​an​automobile​ under​the​strong​sunlight,​visit​the​boy​and​his​mother,​and​offer​financial​ help​for​the​boy’s​education.​When​the​boy​and​girl​stand​on​the​street​in​ front​of​his​house,​thanks​to​a​bright​high-​key​light​in​addition​to​the​top​ light,​we​no​longer​see​the​strong​contrasts​between​lights​and​shadows.​ The​boy’s​face​is​lit.​He​is​no​longer​a​shadowy​figure.​The​final​intertitle​ declares,​“The​sky​is​sunny.”​The​last​shot​of​the​film​is​the​sky​full​of​light,​ in​direct​opposition​to​the​opening​title​with​the​drawing​of​candlelight​in​ a​dark​room.102 Visibility and expressivity: negotiation between shinpa and Hollywood

In​June​1922,​after​he​left​Shochiku’s​Kamata​studio,​Kotani​disappointingly​ claimed,​“In​general,​the​only​things​that​a​cinematographer​[in​Japan]​is​ allowed​to​do​are​to​use​the​best​of​background,​to​make​images​cleanly​ visible,​and,​in​particular,​to​photograph​actors​beautifully.​He​should​not​ go​beyond​those.”103​Kotani’s​characteristic​cinematographic​styles​were​ not​limited​to​making​images​“cleanly​visible”​and​photographing​actors​ “beautifully.”​ What​ Kotani​ brought​ from​ Hollywood​ was​ the​ contrasty​ Lasky​ lighting​ as​ well​ as​ effective​ use​ of​ backlighting,​ which​ would​ become​the​default​norm​in​Hollywood​in​the​1920s,​to​secure​an​illusion​of​ roundness. ​ However,​mainly​based​on​their​experiences​in​Kabuki​and​shinpa​theaters,​spectators​in​Japan​were​accustomed​to​the​idea​that​light​was​more​ or​less​a​neutral​element​in​mise-​en-​scène​and​the​visibility​of​actors’​faces​ was​the​important​thing.​Kotani’s​first​assignment​was​to​take​charge​of​the​ cinematography​of​Woman of the Island​(1920),​Shochiku’s​first​film​production.104​According​to​Kido​Shiro,​Woman of the Island​“shocked”​viewers​when​it​was​released​with​its​Hollywood-​style​lighting​and​rhythmical​ 38  chapter​1

shot-​reverse-​shot​editing.105​The​shock​was​educational​for​filmmakers.​Ito​ Daisuke​claimed​that​he​was​“astonished​at​the​beauty​of​tones”​in​Kotani’s​ cinematography​ in​ Woman of the Island​ that​ “deviated​ from​ black-​and-​ white​photography​in​the​past​but​introduced​the​so-​called​‘halftone.’”106​ The​cinematographer​of​Shochiku’s​second​production,​The Woman Who Stands in Light​(Hikari ni tatsu onna,​Murata​Minoru,​1920),​was​Mizutani​ Bunjiro,​who​had​recently​moved​to​Shochiku​from​the​Mukojima​production​facility​of​Nikkatsu,​the​film​company​that​dominated​Japanese​ cinema​in​the​second​decade​of​the​twentieth​century.​Mizutani’s​assistant,​ Midorikawa​Michio,​came​along​with​him​to​Shochiku.​Upon​seeing​the​ vast​difference​in​cinematographic​sensibilities​between​Mizutani’s​work​ and​ Kotani’s,​ Midorikawa​ immediately​ left​ Mizutani’s​ supervision​ and​ went​over​to​work​under​Kotani.107 ​ Even​if​the​visual​of​Woman of the Island​impressed​Ito​and​Midorikawa,​ the​shock​was​not​necessarily​appreciated​ by​general​ audiences​ when​ it​ was​released​at​Shochiku’s​Kabuki-za,​the​theater​for​Kabuki,​on​November​1,​1920.​The​audience​complained​that​the​images​of​the​film​were​so​ “unclear”​that​it​was​impossible​to​see​the​actors’​facial​expressions.108​This​ perceived​nonclarity​might​have​been​caused​by​Kotani’s​preference​for​ backlighting,​or​the​resulting​halftone​as​expressive​mise-​en-​scène,​with​ which​the​audience​at​that​time​was​not​very​familiar.​Kotani’s​son,​Eiichi,​has​preserved​a​certain​number​of​photographs​that​capture​the​actual​ shooting​of​Woman of the Island​on​location.​Among​them​are​two​photos,​ in​which​(probably)​Kotani​tries​to​photograph​an​actor​in​a​kimono,​who​ is​in​knee-​deep​water​(figs.​1.10​and​1.11).​The​silhouette​of​the​actor,​especially​his​right​side,​is​crisply​captured​in​the​photos,​backlit​by​the​obvious​ sunlight.​These​two​photos​are​visual​evidence​of​Kotani’s​preference​for​ backlight.​In​fact,​there​is​a​photo​of​a​very​similar​backlit​setting​on​the​ beach​during​the​shooting​of​The Hidden Pearls​(fig.​1.12). ​ If​the​only​things​that​Shochiku​wanted​from​its​cinematographers​were​ “to​use​the​best​of​background,​to​make​images​cleanly​visible,​and,​in​particular,​photograph​actors​beautifully,”​as​Kotani​noted,​then​Kotani’s​preference​for​effects​lighting​went​far​beyond​that​scope.​It​is​true​that​as​early​ as​1915,​Hanabusa​Taneta,​a​critic​for​Kinema Record,​the​progressive​journal​on​films​and​filmmaking​in​Japan,​had​introduced​the​new​lighting​in​ Hollywood​initiated​by​“Mr.​Rasukin”​(he​meant​Lasky),​with​the​emphasis​on​backlighting.​Hanabusa​argued,​“Positioned​in​opposition​to​a​larger​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  39

figure​1.10  Henry​ Kotani​photographs​ an​actor​against​ the​sun.​Woman of the Island​(1920).​ Courtesy​of​Henry​ Kotani​Production.

figure​1.11  Woman of the Island​(1920).​Courtesy​of​Henry​Kotani​Production.

figure​1.12  Henry​Kotani​photographs​actors​on​the​beach​against​the​sun.​ The Hidden Pearls​(1918).​Courtesy​of​Henry​Kotani​Production.

dark​space,​a​bright​spot​looks​much​more​beautiful”​in​Rembrandt​chiaroscuro.109​Similarly,​in​1919,​Katsudo Sekai​magazine​published​an​article​on​ lighting​in​Japanese​cinema.​The​film​critic​Morita​pointed​out​three​areas​ in​ which​ “Japanese-​made​ films​ are​ extremely​ inferior​ to​ foreign​ ones”:​ “incomplete​focuses,​lack​of​contrasts​between​light​and​dark,​and​lack​of​ energy.”​Regarding​his​second​point,​Morita​argued: Lack​of​contrasts​between​light​and​dark​is​partly​due​to​such​issues​as​ insufficient​exposure​and​failure​of​development,​but​it​is​also​caused​by​ the​inevitable​fact​that​in​essence​most​of​the​architecture​of​our​country​is​made​of​wood​and​the​colors​of​actors’​costumes​and​skin​of​their​ faces​and​bodies​are​the​same​as​those​of​wood.​In​comparison,​buildings​in​foreign​countries​are​mostly​white.​Actors​are​also​white.​Conversely,​ costumes​ are​ black.​ But​ foreign​ films​ also​ pay​ particular​ and​ extreme​attention​to​the​balance​of​colors.​.​.​.​In​case​there​are​limited​ contrasts​between​light​and​dark,​the​films​show​bright​sky​and​try​to​ create​contrast.​.​.​.​In​any​case,​the​films​that​lack​contrasts​make​the​ viewers​feel​unpleasantly​depressed.​They​destroy​the​essentially​cheerful​nature​of​motion​pictures.110 Morita’s​ claim​ certainly​ contained​ a​ culturally​ essentialist​ view.​ Still,​ Morita​was​clearly​looking​for​nonflat​and​contrasty​lighting​styles​that​did​ not​exist​in​filmmaking​in​Japan​in​1919.111​However,​such​film​journals​as​ Kinema Record​and​Katsudo Sekai​in​those​early​years​were​written​by​the​ pure​film​advocates—elite​film​critics.​They​ultimately​aimed​to​educate​ the​general​audience​about​cinematic​styles,​but​their​writings​had​not​yet​ been​widely​disseminated. ​ After​the​failure​of​Woman of the Island​and​other​films​that​used​Kotani,​ it​is​quite​possible​that​Shochiku​thought​that​the​general​audience​was​ not​ready​to​welcome​the​creatively​contrasty​use​of​lighting​in​cinematography.​Shochiku​was​not​willing​to​accomplish​a​complicated​cinematic​ maneuver​that​would​fully​integrate​effects​of​lighting​with​the​narratives,​ especially​when​it​was​not​appreciated.​Lea​Jacobs​points​out​that​the​low-​ key​effects​characteristic​of​Lasky​lighting​were​achieved​primarily​with​ two​types​of​carbon​arc​lamps:​“The​first,​standing​arc​floodlights,​consisted​of​two​arcs,​i.e.​two​pairs​of​carbons,​in​a​metal​housing​with​a​reflector​in​the​back.​.​.​.​The​second,​carbon​arc​spotlights,​were​made​with​a​lens​ placed​in​front​of​the​light​source​which​focused​the​light.”112​According​ 42  chapter​1

to​Shirai​Shigeru,​a​cinematographer​who​started​his​career​at​Shochiku’s​ Kamata​studio,​Shochiku​was​equipped​with​a​certain​number​of​artificial​ lights,​and​they​were​able​to​use​at​least​fifteen​carbon​lamps​in​a​set​in​ 1920.113​However,​after​being​asked,​“Speaking​of​lighting​techniques,​were​ there​any​thoughts​of​using​backlight,​key​light,​and​fill​light,​as​there​are​ now?”​Shirai​was​only​able​to​answer,​“I​cannot​say​clearly​there​were.”114​ The​critic​Okada​Munetaro​reported​in​December​1921​and​in​January​1922​ that​the​expensive​mercury​lamps,​generators,​and​other​lighting​equipment​that​Shochiku​imported​from​the​United​States​had​not​been​used​ and​wastefully​had​been​left​in​Shochiku’s​warehouse​because​the​technicians​there​were​not​willing​to​use​them​or​were​incapable​of​using​them​ properly.115 ​ Nihon Eiga​ magazine​ sarcastically​ stated​ that​ Shochiku​ decided​ to​ “heavily​ use​ such​ commercial​ filmmakers​ as​ Nomura​ Hotei​ and​ Kako​ Zanmu​beginning​in​mid-​1921​in​order​to​produce​vulgar​entertainment​ films​ and​ make​ ends​ meet.”116​ In​ October​ 1921,​ Shirai​ Shintaro,​ the​ initial​studio​head​in​Kamata,​became​a​company​executive​in​order​to​expand​the​market​for​Shochiku​films​in​the​Kansai​areas.​Nomura​Hotei​became​the​new​studio​head.117​Nomura​declared​that​he​was​not​interested​ in​“imitating​foreign​films”​but​was​“willing​to​develop​Japanese​cinema​ based​only​on​what​he​is​already​familiar​with.”118​To​this​end,​Nomura​ turned​popular​shinpa-​style​dramas​into​films​with​directors​experienced​ in​ shinpa—Golden Monster​ (Konjikiyasha,​ Kako​ Zanmu,​ 1922),​ Cuckoo​ (Hototogisu,​Ikeda​Gishin,​1922),​Foster Brothers​(Chikyodai,​Ikeda​Gishin,​ 1922)—and​made​them​big​hits.119​Nikkatsu​had​already​been​famous​for​ its​shinpa​films,​and​Shochiku​originally​had​intended​to​challenge​them​ using​the​styles​of​Hollywood​and​in​support​of​the​pure​film​movement.​ Yet​Nomura’s​policy​was​to​slow​down​the​rapid​renovation​of​filmmaking​ that​had​been​the​initial​aim​of​Shochiku.​In​this​sense,​Nomura​chose​to​ make​Shochiku​films​much​closer​to​the​products​of​its​main​rival​company.​Nomura’s​slogan,​“Have​high​ideals,​but​progress​carefully​and​practically”​(riso wa takaku, te wa hikuku),​clearly​indicated​the​compromising​ policy​ that​ he​ took.120​ Even​ if​ Hollywood​ films​ had​ obtained​ dominant​ status​in​the​Japanese​film​market,​making​Japanese​films​using​the​strong​ influences​from​Hollywood​was​a​different​story.​Shochiku’s​conception​ of​brightness​was,​after​all,​the​flat​lighting​of​Kabuki​and​shinpa​that​emphasizes​visibility.​Kotani’s​arrival​and​his​persistent​attempts​at​backlightLighting​anD​MoDernity  43

ing​made​the​people​at​Shochiku​realize​the​difference​between​Kabuki’s​ brightness​ and​ Hollywood’s​ lighting.​ Cinematographers​ in​ Japan​ loved​ what​Kotani​brought,​but​Shochiku​did​not​want​such​expressivity​because​ general​audiences​did​not​seem​to​appreciate​it. ​ It​was​not​true​that​Nomura​completely​abandoned​Hollywood​styles​ in​his​shinpa-​style​films​but​did​adopt​some​of​those​techniques.​For​example,​in​the​surviving​print​of​Cuckoo,​there​are​such​classical​Hollywood​ techniques​of​continuity​editing​as​shot​reverse​shots​with​the​180​degree​ system,​ crosscutting,​ and​ irised​ close-​ups​ of​ characters​ in​ emotionally​ heightened​ scenes.​ The​ book​ of​ Shochiku’s​ official​ history,​ published​ in​ 1996,​ insists​ that​ Nomura​ “adopted​ a​ bright​ and​ speedy​ American​ style​ when​ making​ these​ films​ of​ outdated​ and​ banal​ content”​ and​ the​ films​ “were​absolutely​supported​by​the​commercially​oriented​Distribution​Department.”121​However,​the​book​also​maintains​that​the​“artistically​oriented”​people​at​the​studio​were​“not​satisfied”​with​these​films.122​If​we​ focus​strictly​on​the​lighting​in​Cuckoo,​we​can​see​that​Lasky-​style​lighting​ and​ backlighting​ that​ Kotani​ brought​ from​ Hollywood​ to​ Kamata​ were​ not​used​as​a​narrative​device​at​all,​even​when​they​could​have​enhanced​ the​film’s​melodramatic​content.​Instead,​throughout​the​film,​the​priority​ was​to​clearly​and​brightly​display​the​facial​and​bodily​expressions​of​the​ actors.​ In​ the​ surviving​ print​ of​ Cuckoo,​ two​ interior​ scenes​ with​ quite​ opposite​atmospheres​appear​back-​to-​back.​The​first​is​a​scene​in​which​ Namiko​ (Kurishima​ Sumiko),​ the​ heroine​ with​ tuberculosis,​ is​ scolded​ by​her​mean​mother-​in-​law.​The​second​scene​involves​Namiko​and​her​ loving​ husband,​ Takeo,​ in​ the​ same​ room.​ No​ matter​ how​ different​ the​ atmospheres​in​these​two​scenes,​lighting​does​not​play​any​particular​role​ in​distinguishing​the​tones.​Similarly,​both​the​love​scene​between​Namiko​ and​Takeo​at​the​seashore​under​“the​bright​blue​sky​without​any​clouds,”​ according​to​the​intertitle,​when​Namiko​confesses​her​fear​of​the​disease​ and​the​following​battle​scene​at​night​in​China,​where​Takeo​barely​survives,​are​photographed​in​high-​key​lighting.123​The​latter​scene​includes​a​ few​shots​of​explosions​in​the​dark,​but​it​is​shot​in​daylight​despite​the​fact​ that​the​scene​actually​takes​place​at​night.124 ​ Notwithstanding​ its​ use​ of​ modern​ stories,​ shinpa​ usually​ played​ at​ Kabuki​ theaters.125​ Therefore,​ in​ most​ cases,​ shinpa​ followed​ Kabuki’s​ lighting​styles,​which​predominantly​used​flat​frontal​lighting​that​illumi-

44  chapter​1

nated​ the​ entire​ set​ and​ excluded​ shadow​ as​ much​ as​ possible​ to​ make​ onstage​acts​visible​to​the​spectator.126​The​notion​of​depth​was​not​emphasized​in​terms​of​lighting.​The​stage​was​already​three-​dimensional​so​ why​bother​thinking​of​compositional​lighting?​Flat​lighting​was​the​major​ lighting​scheme​for​Kabuki​even​after​Kabuki​moved​from​open-​air​to​indoor​theaters.127​According​to​a​study​by​Toyama​Shizuo,​a​specialist​in​theatrical​lighting​at​Toho,​the​brightness​of​daytime​interior​theaters​was​between​10​and​100​lux,​which​was​one-​tenth​that​of​contemporary​theaters.​ Therefore,​Toyama​concludes,​“It​is​natural​to​consider​that​under​such​ conditions​of​the​Edo​period​[1603–1867,​when​Kabuki​became​popular],​ lighting​was​only​used​in​Kabuki​to​make​the​stage​visible.”128​Even​when​ electric​light​began​to​be​used​in​theaters,​it​simply​occupied​a​supplementary​role​for​stage​visibility​and,​according​to​Toyama,​“did​not​contribute​ to​developing​theatrical​lighting​in​Kabuki​theaters​but​made​it​possible​to​ have​evening​shows​more​freely.”129 ​ Matsui​ Shoyo,​ the​ director​ of​ the​ uncompleted​ and​ unreleased​ film​ Island of Women of the Taira Clan​(Heike nyogogashima),​was​an​advisor​of​ lighting​in​Shochiku​theaters.​Matsui​wrote​in​July​1925​on​the​lighting​of​ Yotsuya Ghost Story​(Yotsuya kaidan),​a​popular​Kabuki​repertoire​played​at​ the​Kabuki-​za​theater​that​year,​“Baiko​[Onoe​Baiko​XI]​told​me​that​his​ art​would​become​too​realistic​if​we​changed​the​electric​lighting​too​often.​ Therefore,​we​tried​to​make​the​contrast​between​light​and​dark​as​little​as​ possible.​Even​during​a​scene​under​the​moonlight,​we​kept​the​lighting​the​ same.​The​only​exception​was​the​scenes​in​which​a​ghost​or​a​thin​hand​ appeared.​However,​even​in​those​scenes,​we​dropped​and​turned​on​the​ light​of​the​theater​at​the​same​time​[in​order​to​avoid​a​conspicuous​contrast​between​light​and​shadow].”130​When​Takada​Minoru,​one​of​the​most​ popular​actor-​directors​of​shinpa,​used​low-​key​lighting​in​a​twilight​scene​ in​Light​(Komyo)​to​express​the​sunset​and​the​following​dark​atmosphere​ under​the​starlight,​audiences​irritatingly​cried​out,​“Turn​on​the​light!”131 ​ An​article​published​in​Kinema Junpo​in​February​1922​illustrated​the​ ambivalent​relationship​between​Kotani​and​Shochiku​in​terms​of​their​ conceptions​of​filmmaking: His​[Kotani’s]​cinematography​is​always​pleasant​to​watch.​As​for​his​ pictorial​ compositions,​ lighting,​ and​ tones,​ there​ is​ nothing​ to​ criticize.​.​.​.​However,​Henry​put​too​much​emphasis​on​cinematographic​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  45

techniques​and​did​not​know​anything​about​theaters.​.​.​.​It​is​a​fact​that​ he​was​not​satisfied​with​old​motion​picture​dramas​and​tried​to​make​ new​films​with​Japanese​local​color.​.​.​.​Yet,​if​we​are​allowed​to​ask​him​ a​question​impossible​to​answer,​why​did​he​borrow​only​from​the​nearly​ extinct​techniques​of​shinpa​and​kyugeki​as​the​“dramatically​Japanese​ techniques”?​Why​did​he​not​think​carefully​about​adopting​theatrical​ techniques​ that​ were​ opposite​ to​ the​ techniques​ of​ motion​ pictures,​ which​originated​in​photography?​.​.​.​If​he​stuck​with​the​shinpa​drama,​ it​would​be​as​if​he​was​carving​a​statue​without​a​soul,​as​an​artist​who​ should​ destroy​ old​ and​ create​ new.​ It​ was​ like​ embracing​ a​ decaying​ body​of​a​deceased​lover​over​her​gravestone.132 The​ implication​ was​ that​ Kotani’s​ Hollywood-​trained​ cinematographic​ and​lighting​techniques​were​revolutionary​in​Japanese​filmmaking​in​the​ early​1920s,​but​Kotani​had​to​choose​conventional​materials​and​theatrical​ methods​to​be​accepted​by​Shochiku​and​its​audience.​The​author​insisted​ that​Kotani​was​not​responsible​for​his​failure.​He​regarded​Kotani​as​a​victim​of​Shochiku,​which​“only​pursued​commercial​success”​without​understanding​Kotani’s​skill​(“one​of​the​best​in​the​world”).​The​author​strongly​ hoped​ Kotani​ would​ deviate​ from​ “uncinematic”​ theatrical​ conventions​ and​make​“new​films”​in​Japan.​The​author​did​not​specify​what​exactly​the​ “nearly​extinct​techniques”​looked​like,​but​it​is​assumed​that​they​included​ the​theatrical​shinpa​styles​of​lighting​and​cinematography​that​dominated​ filmmaking​in​Japan,​even​at​the​supposedly​modernizing​Kamata​studio.​ The​critic​Kano​Chiyoo​wrote​in​1924,​two​years​after​Kotani​left​Kamata,​ “Films​made​at​Kamata​have​turned​into​sentimental​shinpa.​Their​cinematographic​techniques​are​not​as​impressive​and​innovative​as​before.”133 ​ Kotani​himself​wrote​sarcastically​in​February​1923,​“Shochiku​invited​ us​from​the​United​States​and​made​a​new​attempt​to​separate​shinpa​from​ Japan’s​conventions​[of​filmmaking].​With​the​completion​of​this​attempt​ and​with​the​vigilant​skill​of​the​Japanese​people,​Shochiku​became​the​ king​ of​ Japanese​ shinpa​ films.”134​ Kotani​ thus​ implicitly​ criticized​ Shochiku’s​choice​of​only​combining​shinpa​conventions​with​new​cinematic​ techniques​and​for​not​being​innovative​enough​in​its​use​of​lighting.

46  chapter​1

the “Clarity First” slogan and the kamata tone

How​did​Shochiku​combine​the​shinpa​conventions​with​the​films​produced​at​the​Kamata​studio?​How​did​the​Kamata​tone​actually​look?​It​ is​true​that​only​a​handful​of​films​before​the​mid-​1920s​still​exist​and,​as​ many​historians​point​out,​there​are​not​enough​extant​works​to​do​justice​to​a​history​of​Japanese​film​style​before​1925.​Okajima​Hisashi​of​the​ National​Film​Center,​National​Museum​of​Modern​Art,​Tokyo,​estimates​ the​survival​rate​for​Japanese​films​of​the​prewar​period​to​be​only​about​ 4​percent.135​David​Bordwell​agrees:​“Scarcely​any​films​survive​from​the​ first​25​years​of​Japanese​filmmaking.”136​In​this​regard,​it​is​impossible​to​ sufficiently​argue​how​lights​were​used​in​Japanese​films​of​the​early​decades​of​the​twentieth​century.​Yet​I​think​it​is​still​possible​to​hypothesize​ a​major​stylistic​ trend​ based​ on​extant​ films​and​the​contemporary​discourse​on​them. ​ In​May​1926,​Suzuki​Juzaburo,​a​reviewer​at​Kinema Junpo,​praised​A Floating Bridge of a Dream​(Yume no ukihashi,​Okubo​Tadamoto,​1926),​a​film​ made​at​the​Shochiku​Kamata​studio,​for​its​“successful​cinematography​ with​good​nuke​[clarity].”137​What​is​this​notion​of​nuke​that​describes​a​film​ of​the​Kamata​tone?​“Clarity​first,​story​second”​(ichi nuke, ni suji):​this​was​ a​slogan​introduced​in​the​early​decades​of​the​twentieth​century​by​Makino​Shozo,​“the​father​of​Japanese​cinema.”138​The​expression​“clarity​first”​ indicates​the​importance​of​light​and​lighting​in​the​early​period​of​filmmaking​in​Japan.​However,​the​emphasis​was​not​necessarily​on​sensitive​ tones​or​creative​nuances​and​contrasts​between​light​and​shadow.​Instead,​ the​term​nuke​suggests​an​emphasis​on​brightness​that​would​provide​visibility​even​for​well-​worn​prints​projected​with​dim​light​bulbs.​Brightness​ usually​ meant​ “simply​ flat”​ frontal​ lighting​ that​ would​ make​ everything​ “cleanly​and​clearly”​visible​to​the​spectator​as​well​as​to​the​benshi—who​ narrated​the​story​and​dialogue​of​a​film​for​the​spectators.139​The​cinematographer​Morita​Fujio​interprets​the​expression​to​mean​that​there​was​ less​density​(kaburi)​in​film​negatives​to​depict​the​flat​clarity.140​In​other​ words,​there​was​less​contrast​between​light​and​dark​in​lighting​styles​that​ followed​ Makino’s​ slogan.​ In​ particular,​ Mizusawa​ Takehiko​ (a​ pseudonym​of​the​film​theorist​Kaeiryama​Norimasa)​wrote​in​1915​that​studio​executives​at​Nikkatsu​Kyoto,​where​Makino​produced​his​films,​“prohibited​ using​backlight”​or​sidelight.141​The​critic​Miura​Rei​confirmed​in​1981​the​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  47

meaning​of​“clarity​first”:​“Use​frontal​lights​only.​No​backlight.”142​Actors,​ props,​and​backdrops​received​an​overall​diffuse​light,​usually​coming​from​ the​front​and​top.​The​chief​technician​at​Makino’s​studio​recollects​that​ there​were​no​such​things​as​lighting​techniques​around​1926:​“We​simply​ placed​1​kW​arc​lights​in​a​row​and​obtained​flat​lights.​The​idea​of​key​light​ and​fill​light​was​not​established​at​all.”143​Mizusawa​openly​criticized​the​ “clarity​first”​tendency:​“Speaking​of​lighting​and​setting,​it​is​obvious​that​ their​[Nikkatsu​Kyoto​studio​executives’]​manner​has​no​sense​of​atmosphere,​no​taste,​and​almost​no​skill​at​all.​.​.​.​[For​instance,]​use​of​backlight​is​prohibited​and​only​those​things​lit​from​the​front​are​photographed​ in​order​to​make​photographs​look​clear,​even​though​they​are​not​actually​ clear​but​too​white​or​blurred.”144 ​ Geopolitical​distance​was​not​the​only​reason​a​lag​in​Japanese​lighting​technology​was​created,​compared​to​other​film-​producing​countries.​ Clarity​or​visibility​had​sufficient​appeal​to​mass​audiences​who​were​accustomed​to​stage​repertories​of​kyugeki​and​shinpa​with​flat​lighting,​even​ if​it​was​not​enough​to​counter​the​Western​standard​in​terms​of​narrative​ clarity​and​expressivity​without​the​benshi’s​explication.​In​1914,​Shigeno​ Yukiyoshi,​editor-​in-​chief​of​Kinema Record,​wrote,​“All​the​foreign​films​ full​of​artistic​atmosphere​are​products​of​studios​fully​equipped​with​artificial​lights.​However​.​.​.​our​country’s​only​studio​does​not​have​lighting​ equipment,​and​as​a​result,​we​can​only​expect​flat​pictures​with​plain​lighting.”145​In​1912,​Nikkatsu​opened​its​studio​with​a​glass​stage​in​Mukojima,​ Tokyo,​but​it​did​not​have​“equipment​for​artificial​lighting,​which​resulted​ in​obtaining​flat​pictures​only​with​reflected​beams​of​the​sunlight.”146​Nikkatsu​barely​invested​in​equipment​or​buildings,​considering​only​product​ development​and​long-​term​profit.147​Obora​Gengo,​a​cinematographer​at​ Nikkatsu,​complained​that​the​film​stock​they​had​was​not​sensitive​at​all​ but​the​best​lens​they​had​was​f/3.5.148​It​is​said​that​the​first​use​of​artificial​lighting​for​filmmaking​in​Japan​started​as​early​as​1912​in​a​shinpa​film​ called​Blue Storm​(Seiran)​in​a​scene​in​which​a​blacksmith​makes​a​sword​ in​a​cave.149​Yet​what​were​used​on​those​occasions​were​not​light​bulbs​for​ filmmaking​but​numerous​Mazda​light​bulbs​for​household​use​or​carbon​ light​bulbs​for​film​screenings. ​ Based​on​the​surviving​small​number​of​films​from​the​pre-​earthquake​ period,​we​could​argue​that​the​“clarity​first”​technique,​that​poured​light​ into​ the​ set​ diffused​ with​ equal​ brightness​ on​ both​ settings​ and​ actors,​ 48  chapter​1

was​a​dominant​tendency,​except​for​occasional​shots​with​backlighting​ and​other​effects.​Hollywood​films​had​been​lit​in​the​same​manner​in​the​ period​from​roughly​1912​to​1915,​but,​according​to​the​film​historian​Kristin​ Thompson,​American​filmmakers​would​have​considered​this​style​of​lighting​to​be​old-​fashioned​only​a​few​years​later.150 ​ The​surviving​print​of​Chushingura​(1911),​one​of​the​oldest​surviving​ films​ produced​ in​ Japan,​ directed​ by​ Makino​ Shozo​ and​ starring​ Onoe​ Matsunosuke,​the​first​film​star​in​Japan,​is​a​typical​example​of​the​“clarity​ first”​tendency.151​Since​the​existing​prints​are​compilations​of​several​versions​ released​ in​the​ 1910s​and​ reedited​ after​the​ coming​ of​sound,​ it​ is​ difficult​to​determine​what​sort​of​editing​was​originally​used,​but​we​can​ still​observe​how​lighting​maintained​the​Kabuki​style.​Chushingura,​a​tale​ of​the​loyal​forty-​seven​ronin​(masterless​samurai)​who​faithfully​avenged​ their​wronged​lord,​is​one​of​the​most​popular​in​the​Kabuki​repertoire.​ The​film​begins​with​a​long​shot​of​three​men​“inspecting​Zojoji​Temple​of​ Shiba”​(as​the​intertitle​states).152​Strong​lighting​from​the​top​creates​dark​ shadows​of​the​men​and​a​pillar​on​fusuma​screens​in​the​background.​It​is​ possible​to​interpret​that​the​lighting​of​this​shot​emphasizes​the​authoritative​characteristic​of​the​men.​But​it​is​more​reasonable,​rather,​to​read​ the​dark​shadows​as​an​inevitable​consequence​of​shooting​on​a​glass​stage.​ The​cinematographer​was​probably​not​able​to​achieve​consistency​in​the​ supply​of​sunlight.​In​fact,​the​shadows​in​the​back​move​within​the​shot,​ most​likely​because​a​gust​of​wind​moved​a​curtain​that​should​have​supposedly​controlled​the​amount​of​light​to​the​set. ​ The​third​shot​of​the​film​is​a​long​shot​that​shows​matsu no roka​(the​ corridor​of​pine​trees),​where​Asano,​insulted​by​Kira,​attacks​him​with​ a​sword.​There​is​a​sudden​change​of​light​from​dark​to​bright​within​the​ duration​of​the​shot.​When​a​medium​close-​up​of​Asano​is​inserted​right​ after​the​assault​in​a​long​shot​with​rather​flat​lighting,​strong​lighting​from​ the​upper​right​appears​to​function​as​a​spotlight​that​creates​strong​shadows​on​Asano’s​face.​This​lighting​could​be​seen​as​emphasizing​temporary​ insanity​in​Asano’s​facial​expression.​However,​once​again,​it​seems​more​ reasonable​to​read​the​lighting​change​as​a​result​of​the​inconsistency​in​the​ use​of​equipment:​improper​adjustment​of​the​f-​stop​when​photographing​ the​medium​close-​up.​Moreover,​right​before​the​climactic​attack​of​the​ house​of​Kira​for​revenge,​the​forty-​seven​ronin​gather​on​the​second​floor​ of​a​noodle​shop​at​night.​Parallel​editing​shows​a​man​at​the​front​desk​on​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  49

the​first​floor​and​the​forty-​seven​ronin​on​the​second​floor​one​after​another.​Despite​the​fact​that​the​only​visible​light​source​in​the​space​seems​ to​be​two​candles​on​the​desk,​the​scene​is​flatly​lit.​The​following​dramatic​ scene​of​the​triumphant​attack​at​night​in​snow​is​also​displayed​in​bright​ flat​light. ​ The Story of the Filial Child Goro Masamune​(Goro Masamune koshi den,​ 1915,​preserved​at​the​National​Film​Center,​National​Museum​of​Modern​ Art,​Tokyo)​also​followed​the​“clarity​first”​slogan.​It​was​directed​by​Yoshino​Jiro​and​photographed​by​Edamasa​Yoshiro,​one​of​the​pioneer​cinematographers​ in​ Japan,​ and​ starred​ Sawamura​ Shirogoro,​ Onoe​ Matsunosuke’s​main​rival.153​Most​scenes​were​shot​on​a​glass​stage.​In​scenes​ inside​a​room​with​andon​lamps​(seed​oil​lamps​with​paper​covers),​which​ are​supposed​to​be​the​sources​of​light,​the​lighting​is​flat​and​sharp.​Shoji​ screens​are​not​used​for​special​lighting​effects​as​they​are​in​The Cheat,​the​ film​made​in​Hollywood​in​the​same​year.​Even​a​scene​supposedly​set​on​ a​dark,​snowy​night​is​shown​in​flat​lighting.​Because​it​is​supposed​to​be​ a​really​dark​night,​a​man​steps​on​a​child​who​fainted​in​front​of​a​well.​ This​scene​looks​unrealistic​only​because​we​see​the​action​clearly​in​flat​ ​lighting.154 ​ A Historical Play: Farewell of Nanko​(Shigeki: Nanko ketsubetsu,​1921),​the​ film​that​photographed​an​open-​air​performance​of​Onoe​Matsunosuke​as​ the​legendary​patriot​Kusunoki​Masashige,​contains​an​exceptionally​backlit​shot​that,​only​consequently,​reinforces​the​prevalence​of​the​“clarity​ first”​slogan​in​Nikkatsu​films.​The​surviving​print​of​the​film​includes​an​ introductory​sequence​that​documents​the​moments​before​this​open-​air​ performance​began.​In​this​sequence​Regent​Hirohito,​who​would​become​ the​emperor​in​five​years,​appears​as​one​of​the​spectators.​Quite​possibly​in​ order​to​depict​the​two​celebrities​of​the​time,​Hirohito​and​Matsunosuke,​ within​the​same​frame,​the​lighting​of​the​scene​was​compromised.​The​ shot​is​strongly​backlit.​Because​of​the​sunlight​from​the​back,​Hirohito​and​ the​surrounding​crowd​look​almost​like​silhouettes,​and​Matsunosuke​and​ other​actors’​figures​create​hard​shadows​on​the​ground.​However,​Matsunosuke​faces​in​the​direction​of​the​sun;​his​face,​the​right​side​of​which​is​ observable​to​the​audience,​is​clearly​lit​from​the​front.​After​this​introductory​sequence,​the​film​focuses​on​the​performance.​Hirohito​never​appears​ in​the​film​again​and​the​camera​stays​at​positions​where​diffused​frontal​ lighting​is​maintained​until​the​end.​The​film​historian​Hideaki​Fujiki​ar50  chapter​1

gues​that​the​camera​is​positioned​where​Hirohito​is​supposed​to​stand​as​ a​transcendental​presence,​which​means​that​this​film​never​intended​to​be​ challenging​to​the​authority.155​In​other​words,​in​the​case​of​this​film​the​ frontal​light​symbolically​comes​from​where​the​would-​be​emperor​stands. ​ In​a​report​published​in​Kokusai Eiga Shinbun​in​September​1927,​the​film​ journalist​Obata​Toshikazu​wrote,​“Until​now,​in​general​lighting​has​only​ been​from​the​front​with​lights​placed​right​and​left​of​a​camera.​Therefore,​ images​have​been​very​flat.​Now,​the​techniques​have​been​improved,​and​ top​light​and​side​light​is​used.​Frontal​light​is​only​used​to​fill​in.​However,​ flat​lighting​is​still​widely​used.”156​Two​drawings​that​Obata​attached​to​his​ report​display​examples​of​the​positioning​of​lights​at​a​Japanese​film​studio​ (fig.​1.13).​While​the​first​drawing​appears​to​follow​classical​Hollywood’s​ three-​point​lighting​with​key​lights,​sidelights,​and​backlights,​the​second​ drawing​of​a​lighting​design​on​a​star​clearly​indicates​more​flat​lighting​ with​the​emphasis​on​lights​coming​only​from​the​front​and​sides. ​ When​ Suzuki​ Juzaburo​ used​ the​ term​ nuke​ to​ describe​ Shochiku​ Kamata​films​in​1926,​he​was​thinking​of​this​“clarity​first”​tendency,​which​ was​maintained​in​the​shinpa-​style​films.​Comparison​of​a​Paramount​film,​ Docks of New York​(Josef​von​Sternberg,​1928),​and​its​Japanese​adaptation,​ First Step Ashore​(Joriku daiippo,​Shimazu​Yasujiro,​1932),​illustrates​how​ lighting​was​used​at​Kamata​and​maintained​the​“clarity​first”​tendency.157​ In​the​December​1932​issue​of​Kamata,​First Steps Ashore​was​described​as​ a​“splendid​imitation”​of​Docks of New York.158 ​ Contrasty​lighting​in​Docks of New York​quite​often​functions​as​a​self-​ conscious​ narrational​ device,​ even​ though​ the​ film​ was​ released​ in​ the​ period​ when​ so-​called​ classical​ cinema,​ in​ which​ light​ was​ supposed​ to​ work​as​a​neutral​element​of​mise-​en-​scène,​became​dominant​in​Hollywood.​Bill​(Wallace​Reid),​the​hero​of​the​film,​embodies​darkness​and​ blackness,​ and​ the​ heroine​ Mae​ (Betty​ Compson)​ embodies​ brightness​ and​whiteness.​Bill​appears​in​a​low-​key​boiler​room​of​a​ship​as​a​black​ figure.​Even​though​his​skin​is​white​and​the​room​is​hardly​lit​from​above,​ Bill’s​body​shines​dark​and​is​fully​covered​with​coal​flakes.​He​cleans​his​ body​with​a​piece​of​rag​and​throws​it​away,​but​his​boss​forces​him​to​pick​ up​the​dirty​rag.​He​is​not​allowed​to​take​off​the​darkness​from​himself. ​ While​the​shipmen​step​ashore​at​night,​a​woman​jumps​into​the​ocean.​ Mae’s​entire​act​of​attempting​suicide​is​reflected​on​the​dark​surface​of​ water.​Looking​at​her,​Bill​in​black​clothes​jumps​into​the​ocean​as​if​he​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  51

figure​1.13  The​positioning​of​lights​at​a​Japanese​film​studio​in​1927.​In​the​first​ drawing,​a​person​at​a​table​is​lit​by​three-point​lighting.​In​the​second,​a​star​is​lit​ rather​flatly​by​spotlights​and​Ewing​lights.​Reprinted​from​Kokusai Eiga Shinbun​5​ (September​20,​1927):​126.

were​going​into​lights.​Bill​comes​out​of​the​water​and​carries​her​into​a​ bar.​He​takes​her​up​to​a​room​on​the​second​floor​and​lays​her​on​the​bed.​ Throughout,​ Bill​ is​ strongly​ backlit.​ Even​ when​ he​ finally​ lights​ the​ gas​ lamp​and​is​standing​against​it​in​the​hotel​room,​Bill​is​seen​only​as​a​silhouetted​shadow.​On​the​contrary,​Mae’s​legs​are​extremely​white​in​Bill’s​ point-​of-​view​shot,​as​if​they​were​shining​on​their​own. ​ While​Bill​becomes​drunk​and​begins​fighting​in​the​bar,​he​stays​on​the​ dark​side​of​the​room.​Other​customers​look​at​him​fighting​from​the​bright​ side​at​the​back.​The​scene​is​crosscut​to​the​heroine​on​the​bed.​Under​ strong​spotlights​from​above,​her​skin,​hair,​underwear,​and​the​cigarette​ smoke​she​puffs​are​all​extremely​white.​Even​when​Bill​and​the​heroine​ eventually​spend​their​wedding​night​in​the​room,​Bill​moves​to​the​front​of​ the​only​visible​lamp.​He​keeps​placing​himself​against​lights​and​in​silhouette.​The​following​morning,​Bill​leaves​the​room​alone​with​a​large,​thick​ shadow​of​him​on​the​wall. ​ Eventually,​Bill​gives​up​his​shadowy​identity.​He​climbs​up​the​ladder​ of​the​boiler​room,​jumps​into​the​ocean​under​the​bright​sunlight,​and​ arrives​at​a​courtroom,​whose​ceiling​has​numerous​electrical​lamps,​with​ clean​white​skin​and​without​the​black​jacket,​to​protect​his​lawfully​married​wife.​On​the​surface,​Docks of New York​is​a​story​of​one​man​who​saves​ a​suicidal​woman.​However,​it​is​actually​the​man​who​is​saved—brought​ back​into​light​from​darkness.​It​is​true​that​the​ending​leaves​a​sense​of​ brightness​and​cheerfulness,​but​throughout​the​film​the​spectator​is​exposed​to​the​melodramatic​contrast​between​light​and​shadow. ​ Compared​ to​ Docks of New York,​ First Step Ashore​ is​ overtly​ photographed​in​diffused​and​flat​high​key.​Most​notably,​the​scene​in​which​the​ hero​saves​the​heroine​from​drowning​is​set​in​the​bright​daytime.​As​in​ Docks of New York,​the​hero​of​the​film,​Sakata​(Oka​Joji),​is​introduced​in​ a​low-​key​boiler​room​of​a​ship.​But​Sakata​is​not​covered​with​black​coal.​ Instead,​he​appears​as​a​luminous​half-​naked​male​body.​In​contrast​to​Bill,​ Sakata​appears​white.​Spotlights​from​the​top​and​side​light​from​the​coal​ fire​make​his​body​look​shiningly​white.​Moreover,​since​the​shots​of​the​ low-​key​boiler​room​are​crosscut​to​those​high-​key​ones​outside,​the​contrast​makes​the​luminosity​of​his​body​stand​out​even​more.​Sakata​is,​in​ fact,​depicted​as​a​person​who​physically​and​metaphorically​brings​bright​ light​ into​ the​ life​ of​ a​ reckless​ heroine​ who​ attempts​ suicide​ (Mizutani​ Yaeko).​Sakata​saves​her​from​the​water​and​takes​her​to​a​waiting​room​at​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  53

the​dock,​in​front​of​which​shines​a​round​and​white​electrical​lamp.​Sakata​ fights​against​gangsters​who​harass​the​heroine,​and​while​the​gangsters​are​ in​shadows,​Sakata​faces​them​under​bright​lamps.​The​deep​space​composition​emphasizes​the​contrast​between​Sakata​under​lights​and​the​gangsters​as​silhouettes​in​front.​The​heroine​cannot​help​throwing​something​ at​a​lamp​and​turning​the​room​into​darkness​to​help​Sakata.​Thus,​while​ it​is​not​true​that​First Step Ashore​is​a​film​insensitive​to​lighting​since​it​ certainly​uses​it​for​dramatic​purposes,​Shimazu’s​film​is​characterized​by​ brightness. ​ As​soon​as​the​heroine​opens​her​heart​to​Sakata,​the​lighting​turns​into​ mere​brightness​and​cheerfulness.​It​does​not​change​at​all​until​the​end.​ After​the​fight,​the​couple​rests​at​a​hotel​room​in​high-​key​lighting​(supposedly​under​a​naked​electrical​lamp​hanging​from​the​ceiling),​which​is​ displayed​in​one​long​shot​of​the​couple.​The​lighting​does​not​change​at​ all​even​when​the​morning​arrives​and​bright​sunlight​is​supposed​to​flood​ into​the​room​from​big​windows​at​the​back.​Sakata​needs​to​fight​the​gangsters​again,​but​this​time​in​the​sunlight.​Then​he​comes​back​to​the​high-​ key​hotel​room​where​he​is​arrested​by​police​and​charged​for​the​murder​ of​the​head​of​the​gangsters.​Lighting​does​not​serve​at​all​to​enhance​the​ tension​of​the​charge,​arrest,​and​the​heroine’s​petition. ​ It​is​ironic​because​the​backlighting​that​Kotani​preferred​could​produce​ “a​greater​impression​of​depth”​by​“outlining​figures​in​light”​and​could​ make​ the​ figures​ “stand​ out​ against​ a​subdued​ background.”159​ In​ other​ words,​clarity​in​depth​is​enhanced​with​the​effective​use​of​backlighting.​ However,​this​was​not​the​direction​chosen​by​Shochiku​and​its​rationalization​policy.​Shochiku​turned​to​another​way—a​conventionalized​theatrical​way—of​lighting​and​imaging​that​would​redeem​the​faces​of​Japanese​ actors​for​its​loyal​audience​of​Kabuki​and​shinpa. Rationalization: shochiku’s Capitalist-Industrial modernization

Kotani​did​not​successfully​fit​into​Shochiku’s​strategy​of​the​mixture​between​ shinpa​ and​ Hollywood​ from​ 1920​ to​ 1923.​ When​ the​ earthquake​ destroyed​ most​ of​ the​ filmmaking​ facilities​ in​ Tokyo,​ the​ conditions​ of​ filmmaking​ at​ the​ Shochiku​ Kamata​ studio​ changed​ drastically,​ which​ could​have​given​Kotani​a​second​chance.​While​the​studio​head​Nomura​ Hotei,​many​directors,​and​actors​who​had​dominated​Shochiku’s​shinpa-​ style​films​before​the​earthquake​had​to​temporarily​move​to​the​Shimo54  chapter​1

kamo​studio​in​Kyoto,​which​Shochiku​opened​for​emergency​measures,​ the​young​executive​Kido​Shiro​took​over​the​position​of​studio​head​at​ Kamata​in​July​1924.​“Shinpa-​style​films,”​Kido​stated,​“touched​upon​some​ truths​[of​human​life]​but​they​do​not​depict​actual​people.​Unchangeable​ morality​exists​at​the​basis​of​them.​The​people​[in​such​films]​are​simply​ controlled​ by​ morality.”160​ What​ Kido​ emphasized​ was​ that​ the​ studio’s​ films​should​deviate​from​the​theatrical​tradition.161 ​ But​ how?​ Kido​ insisted​ that​ the​ Kamata​ films​ should​ put​ emphasis​ on​tempo​and​mood​and​“initiate​a​new​style​of​expression​in​Japanese​ cinema.”162​Yet​he​never​clarified​how​technically​his​films​would​achieve​a​ certain​tempo​and​mood.​Kido​certainly​discussed​new​themes​and​subject​ matter.​According​to​Kido,​his​first​production,​Father​(Otosan,​a.k.a.​Chichi,​ Shimazu​Yasujiro,​1923),​was​a​“very​bright​and​cinematic”​film​that​had​“a​ simple​plot​with​daily​events,”​which​was​different​from​“theatrically​complicated​narration.”163​Kido​insisted​on​producing​well-​structured​films​that​ “directly​connected​to​the​actual​lives​of​contemporary​people.”164​However,​ he​ talked​ less​ about​ how​ he​ would​ incorporate​ modern​ cinematic​ techniques​and​technologies​in​his​films.165​Takeda​Akira,​who​worked​at​ the​Kamata​studio’s​screenplay​department,​confessed​that,​despite​the​fact​ that​screenwriters​and​Kido​had​numerous​discussions​on​theories​of​filmmaking,​it​was​“impossible​for​the​people​in​the​screenplay​department​to​ fully​understand​Kido’s​policy.”166 ​ After​all,​Kido’s​goal​was​a​slightly​more​updated​version​of​Nomura’s​ compromising​ policy.​ Kido​ acknowledged​ the​ incessant​ popularity​ of​ shinpa-​style​tragedy​despite​his​aspiration​to​distinguish​Shochiku​films​ from​the​shinpa​tradition.​Kido​stated,​“The​audience​will​eventually​welcome​tragedy​the​best.​However,​tragedy​should​not​be​the​same​old​shinpa​ style​that​simply​aims​at​tear-​jerking.​They​[the​films]​need​to​incorporate​ cheerful​scenes​and​action​scenes​with​appropriate​wit​and​laughter​that​ will​satisfy​the​viewers.”167​The​dream​of​export​in​Otani​Takejiro’s​initial​ goal​when​he​broke​into​film​business,​which​corresponded​to​the​pure​film​ movement,​was​almost​completely​overlooked.​The​original​aim​of​formulating​the​“artistic​motion​pictures”​was​replaced​by​a​safe​bet​on​the​conventionalized​style​of​shinpa​tragedy​for​domestic​audiences.​Indeed,​Kido​ brought​back​Nomura​Hotei,​the​representative​of​shinpa-​style​filmmaking​ in​the​past,​from​Shimokamo​to​Kamata​in​1926.​According​to​the​official​ history​book​of​Shochiku,​the​first​big​hit​from​Kamata​under​Kido’s​superLighting​anD​MoDernity  55

vision​was​a​1929​film​Mother​(Haha),​directed​“commercially​and​effectively”​by​Nomura.168 ​ Yet,​we​cannot​simply​consider​Kido’s​attitude​to​be​anachronistic​or​ antimodern.​In​1931,​the​film​critic​Mori​Iwao​severely​condemned​Kido’s​ policy:​“[Kido]​flatters​the​masses​too​much.​I​cannot​stand​his​too​obvious​ businessman​ attitude—he​ seems​ to​ believe​ that​ good​ films​ are​ the​ ones​that​would​grab​money​from​the​masses​in​any​way.​.​.​.​He​has​been​ ordering​capable​directors​and​screenwriters​to​focus​their​brains​on​extreme​shinpa​tragedies,​hasn’t​he?”169​It​should​be​noted​that​Mori​was​ criticizing​two​issues:​Kido’s​“businessman​attitude”​and​his​retreat​to​the​ shinpa-​style​ filmmaking.​ Herein​ lay​ a​ mixture​ of​ newness​ and​ oldness:​ rationalization​and​conventionalization.​These​two​elements​formed​the​ core​of​Shochiku​cinema’s​capitalist-​industrial​modernity.​For​Shochiku,​ as​well​as​other​studios​in​the​Japanese​film​industry,​the​lack​of​capital​was​ a​major​problem.170​The​studio​had​to​emphasize​a​quick​return​on​minimal​investments.​It​was​absolutely​necessary​to​manage​the​categories​of​ capitalist​production,​such​as​commodity​production​and​labor​management,​ in​ a​ rationalized​ manner.​ While​ reinstating​ the​ shinpa-​influenced​ old​filmmakers​who​were​criticized​by​Mori​and​others​as​“uncinematic,”​ Kido​advanced​rationalization​of​film​production​at​Shochiku.​Kido​was​ very​vocal​about​his​work​as​a​studio​head.​He​published​numerous​writings​in​film​journals,​as​the​pure​film​advocates​had​done​in​the​previous​decade.​Among​them​was​an​essay​published​in​February​1930​titled​“Theory​ of​Rationalizing​Filmmaking.”​Kido​emphasized​that​he​would​pursue​the​ “most​effective​ and​ organized​ manner​ to​use​ time,​ cost,​ and​ people”​ in​ filmmaking​ at​ Kamata.171​ Kido’s​ attitude​ certainly​ corresponded​ to​ the​ larger​trend​in​Tokyo​after​the​Great​Kanto​Earthquake​of​1923,​especially​ bureaucratic​and​corporate​rationalism.172 ​ Evidently,​Kido​did​not​simply​follow​the​Hollywood​industry.​He​never​ asked​Kotani​to​return​to​work.173​In​an​essay​published​in​1928,​Kido​stated​ that​he​was​“shocked”​by​the​“failure”​of​“some​Western​films”​with​budgets​of​more​than​several​million​yen​and​two-​year​lengths​of​production​ when​he​thought​about​the​time​and​energy​that​had​been​wasted.174​It​was​ true​that​under​Kido’s​supervision​two​additional​dark​stages​were​built​ at​the​studio​and​numerous​carbon​lamps​and​mercury​lamps​were​purchased​from​the​United​States​“in​order​to​photograph​by​electrical​lights​ and​to​have​depth​of​images.”175​But​there​was​not​a​clear​technical​shift​ 56  chapter​1

that​would​incorporate​more​sophisticated​and​profound​uses​of​lighting.​ Instead,​in​1928​Muguruma​Osamu,​the​vice​studio​head​at​the​Kamata​ studio,​pointed​out​the​increase​of​location​shootings​without​complicated​ settings​of​lighting.​Even​though​he​did​not​clearly​note​lighting​configuration,​Muguruma​wrote,​“There​is​a​certain​tendency​[at​Kamata]​of​going​ out​of​dark​rooms​to​spacious​locations​[to​shoot​films]​everywhere.​.​.​.​ It​is​really​pleasant​to​watch​films​with​location​scenes​that​are​beautifully​ done.​It​is​hard​to​put​up​with​films​with​too​many​scenes​within​Japanese​ houses.”176 ​ Kido​was​not​concerned​about​innovative​use​of​lighting​but​only​about​ visibility​of​images.​Kido​obviously​cared​less​about​expressive​mise-​en-​ scène​ as​ he​ rationalized​ filmmaking​ at​ Kamata.​ While​ Kido​ revived​ the​ studio’s​acting​school​and​established​a​script​“research​center,”​he​cared​ less​about​lighting​and​cinematography.​The​Shochiku​director​Oba​Hideo​ recalled​that​Kido​once​complained​about​the​interest​of​another​Shochiku​ filmmaker,​Nomura​Hiromasa,​in​experimenting​with​lighting.​According​ to​Oba,​Kido​sarcastically​said,​“Experiment​in​lighting​is​only​as​fun​as​ stepping​on​a​tatami​mat​and​breaking​into​a​shoji​screen.”177​Atsuta​Yuharu,​a​Shochiku​cinematographer,​later​recalled​that​not​even​a​high​platform​for​lighting​was​allowed​at​the​Kamata​studio—lighting​came​only​ from​the​sides.178​Kido,​who​began​his​career​in​Shochiku’s​accounting​division,​was​thinking​in​production,​distribution,​and​exhibition​values—new​ categories​of​film​and​capitalism.179 ​ The​journalist​Obata​Toshikazu​compared​each​studio’s​lighting​equipment​in​his​report​in​the​September​1927​issue​of​Kokusai Eiga Shinbun.​ Shochiku’s​ Kamata​ studio​ overwhelmed​ others​ in​ quantity,​ which​ indicated​ that​ the​ studio​ was​ initially​ trying​ to​ imitate​ Hollywood​ studios.​ While​there​were​thirty-​two​5​kW​arc​spotlights​at​Kamata,​there​were​only​ twelve​spotlights​at​the​“rival”​company​Nikkatsu’s​Daishogun​studio​in​ Kyoto.180​While​Kamata​owned​ten​mercury​lamps​and​eight​top​lights,​ Nikkatsu​Daishogun​had​none.​Nikkatsu​barely​outnumbered​Shochiku​ in​Ewing​lights,​sixty​to​fifty-​five.​As​for​electricity​usage​for​lighting,​Shochiku​used​approximately​25,000​to​35,000​kW​per​month​while​Nikkatsu​ used​ only​ 7,500​ kW.​ The​ number​ indicates​ that​ Shochiku’s​ films,​ at​ least​ in​ the​ interior​ scenes​ photographed​ in​ studios,​ were​ brighter​ than​ ​Nikkatsu’s.181 ​ Shochiku’s​films​might​have​had​higher​production​values​than​others,​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  57

so​they​cost​much​more​than​other​companies’​products.​According​to​the​ “Japan’s​Seven​Major​Studios’​Proficiency​Report”​in​Kokusai Eiga Shinbun,​ Shochiku​Kamata​was​producing​about​ten​films​a​month​with​a​total​production​cost​of​200,000​yen.​Nikkatsu​was​making​twelve​films​a​month​ with​150,000​yen.​Other​smaller​studios​include​Toa​Kinema​(nine​films​ with​100,000​yen),​Makino​Production​(ten​films​with​140,000​yen),​and​ Teikoku​ Kinema​ (a.k.a.​ Teikine,​ fifteen​ films​ with​ 120,000​ yen).182​ Another​report​in​Kokusai Eiga Shinbun​compared​the​fixed​assets​and​depreciation​rates​of​Shochiku,​Nikkatsu,​and​Teikine​in​the​latter​half​of​the​ 1927​fiscal​year.​Shochiku​was​faring​the​poorest​of​the​three.​Nikkatsu’s​ fixed​assets​were​4,286,000​yen​and​the​depreciation​rate​was​3.6​percent​ and​Teikine’s​were​2,609,000​yen​and​21.1​percent,​while​Shochiku’s​were​ 6,433,000​yen​with​only​2.0​percent​depreciation.183​After​the​earthquake​ in​1923​until​1929,​Nikkatsu​was​constantly​making​profits​between​500,000​ and​700,000​yen​a​year,​thanks​to​the​newly​popularized​genre​of​jidaigeki​ (period​drama),​especially​after​1927​with​the​success​of​the​young​filmmaker​Ito​Daisuke​and​his​new​star,​Okochi​Denjiro.184​There​is​no​record​ of​exact​numbers​for​Shochiku’s​profits​and​deficits​in​the​same​period,​but​ Inoue​Shigemasa,​the​manager​of​Shochiku​Kinema’s​Osaka​branch,​noted​ in​January​1928,​“Honestly,​the​best​period​of​Shochiku​Kamata​was​from​ 1923​to​1924​when​our​films​were​received​extremely​well​everywhere​in​ Japan​on​an​incredible​scale.​I​do​not​know​why​but​after​1925​the​reception​ of​our​films​turned​miserable​on​a​similarly​unimaginable​scale.”185​Under​ such​circumstances,​Kido​must​have​thought​that​rationalization​of​filmmaking​was​necessary​at​his​studio. ​ Contrary​ to​ Shochiku’s​ rationalization​ policy,​ Nikkatsu​ expanded​ its​ production​scale,​which​would​turn​out​to​be​a​failure​by​the​early​1930s.​ Nikkatsu​opened​its​new​studio​in​Uzumasa,​Kyoto,​in​1928.​The​new​studio​ was​equipped​with​seventy-​eight​lights​with​twenty-​six​lighting​technicians​ while​ Shochiku​ had​ seventy-​four​ lights​ and​ nine​ lighting​ technicians.186​ Theoretically,​Nikkatsu​films​became​able​to​provide​more-​elaborate​lighting​ techniques​ handled​ with​ more​ technicians.​ However,​ the​ timing​ of​ Nikkatsu’s​business​expansion​was​not​perfect.​Nikkatsu’s​profits​started​ to​decrease​in​1929,​partially​due​to​the​economic​downfall​in​Japan.​The​ film​historian​Tanaka​Junichiro​claims​that​Nikkatsu​was​in​debt​from​its​ unrealized​plan​of​constructing​a​building​in​Marunouchi,​Tokyo.187​In​1931,​ there​was​no​dividend.188​At​the​end​of​1932,​Nikkatsu​suffered​a​deficit​of​ 58  chapter​1

199,000​yen.189​As​many​as​two​hundred​workers​were​suddenly​fired​from​ Nikkatsu’s​Kyoto​studio.190​In​1934,​with​financial​support​from​Shochiku,​ which​was​making​a​gigantic​579,000​yen​of​profit​in​that​year​alone,​Nagata​ Masaichi,​the​former​head​of​production​at​Nikkatsu​Kyoto​studio,​became​ the​president​of​the​new​company​Daiichi​Eiga.191​The​establishment​of​ Daiichi​Eiga​was​Shochiku’s​strategy​to​attack​Nikkatsu’s​distribution​system.​The​films​produced​by​Nagata​at​Daiichi​Eiga​were​distributed​to​any​ theater​chain,​even​to​Nikkatsu’s​theaters,​via​a​new​distribution​company,​ Japan​Film​Distribution​ Company​(Nihon​Eiga​Haikyu​Kabushiki​Geisha),​which​was​financed​by​Shochiku.​In​other​words,​even​within​its​own​ theater​chains,​Nikkatsu​had​to​compete​for​screens​with​Shochiku.192​According​to​the​official​company​report,​Nikkatsu​did​not​make​any​profit​ but​increased​its​debt​between​1936​and​1938.193​The​Nikkatsu​president​Nakatani​Sadayori​and​the​executive​Hori​Kyusaku​approached​Photo​Chemical​Laboratory​(pcL),​a​rising​film​company​equipped​with​new​sound​film​ technologies,​for​financial​support,​but​Shochiku​intervened​both​times,​ disclosing​the​huge​deficit​that​Nikkatsu​had​compiled.​In​October​1936,​ Otani​Takejiro,​the​president​of​Shochiku,​personally​undertook​Nikkatsu’s​2,500,000​yen​debt​to​Chiba​Bank​and​took​charge​of​the​company.194​ By​1937,​Nikkatsu​was​integrated​under​the​so-​called​Shochiku​block.195​ Nagata,​who​became​the​president​of​another​new​company​under​the​Shochiku​block,​Shinko​Kinema,​wrote​in​1939,​“Nikkatsu’s​company​policy​ was​no​longer​decided​without​Mr.​Otani’s​consent.”196 ​ Thus,​by​the​mid-​1930s,​Shochiku​had​confirmed​its​dominant​financial​ status​in​the​film​industry.197​Along​with​that​came​the​dominant​mode​of​ film​styles.​Or​vice​versa.​Shochiku’s​film​styles​that​were​formulated​under​ its​rationalization​policy​led​the​company​to​its​dominant​status.​In​1929,​ when​Shochiku​came​to​own​“the​largest​film​company​in​Japan,”​increasing​its​capital​from​6,875,000​yen​to​15,000,000​yen,​the​cinematographer​ Nagahama​Keizo​wrote,​“Isn’t​lighting​in​Japanese​cinema​wrong?​They​ [the​films]​just​use​direct​reflection​of​the​sunlight​by​a​reflector​on​location​ and​nonstrategically​arranged​various​lamps​in​the​studio.​.​.​.​Lighting​decides​the​taste​of​films.​Poor​lighting​makes​films​with​bad​taste.​.​.​.​[Lighting]​is​the​major​issue​to​be​studied​right​now​in​Japanese​cinema.”198​In​ the​same​year,​Isayama​Saburo,​the​cinematographer​at​Nikkatsu​since​1922,​ wrote,​“I​want​to​explore​a​new​way​of​lighting​unique​in​cinema.​Based​on​ modern​tones​of​lighting,​I​want​to​practice​‘individualized’​lighting​that​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  59

matches​the​content​of​the​drama​and​emphasizes​the​particular​beauty​of​ it.​.​.​.​In​Japan,​there​are​so​many​unsophisticated​people​who​only​think​ it​beautiful​when​actors’​faces​are​photographed​all​white​as​if​they​were​ packed​with​white​powder.​The​color​of​actors’​faces​in​cinema​should​be​ photographed​based​on​the​actual​colors​of​them.​.​.​.​We​should​abandon​ outdated​methods.”199​Similarly,​in​1932,​Kinema Junpo​published​an​essay​ by​the​critic​Okumura​Yasuo​titled​“About​Lighting​Effects​in​Cinema.”​ Okumura​criticized​the​lack​of​concern​for​lighting​in​Japanese​cinema​and​ requested​ “meaningful​ lighting​ effects”​that​ would​ fully​employ​ the​ “fill​ light”​and​the​“back​light,”​in​addition​to​the​frontal​“key​light,”​the​only​ light​that​looked​dominant​in​Japanese​films​to​Okumura.​Okumura​wrote,​ “What​are​the​lighting​technicians​thinking​when​they​participate​in​filmmaking?​Aren’t​they​simply​thinking​that​lights​should​only​be​used​to​light​ objects​in​order​to​make​them​look​bright?​.​.​.​In​our​places​[Japanese​film​ studios],​all​parts​of​the​sets​are​lit​by​cheap​2​kW​lamps.​There​is​no​room​ for​any​contrasts.​Lights​from​any​windows​are​so​weak​that​the​entire​sets​ look​cheaper​than​they​are.”200 ​ When​Kotani​left​Shochiku,​Furukawa​Roppa​wrote​in​Kinema Junpo,​“It​ is​a​shame​that​the​people​at​Shochiku,​and​people​in​Japan,​do​not​understand​how​precious​Henry​is.​Therefore,​Henry​is​leaving​Shochiku.​He​ may​leave​Japan.​Shochiku​as​a​company​has​been​dependent​upon​Henry​ but​does​not​intend​to​repay​him​and​simply​lets​him​go.​After​losing​him,​ Shochiku​and​the​Japanese​film​circles​will​surely​regret​it.”201​But,​obviously,​Shochiku​did​not​need​to​regret​it. star lighting

Shochiku’s​ position​ toward​ modern​ technologies​ of​ lighting​ and​ imaging​was​not​a​simple​retreat​to​the​Kabuki​and​shinpa​conventions.​While​ shinpa​ used​ onnagata​ (impersonators)​ for​ female​ roles,​ Shochiku​ film​ was​centered​on​the​use​of​actresses.​Shochiku​Kamata​made​stars​out​of​ such​actresses​as​Kurishima​Sumiko,​who​made​her​debut​in​Poppy,​which​ Kotani​directed,​and​Kawada​Yoshiko,​who​played​a​protagonist​in​Woman of the Island.​When​it​came​to​publicizing​their​stars,​specifically​female​ stars,​beautifully,​Kotani​and​his​Hollywood​techniques,​including​backlighting,​played​significant​roles.​For​Kido,​aesthetic​achievement​counted​ as​long​as​it​went​along​with​commercialism.​Hideaki​Fujiki​and​Patrick​ Keating​argue​that​in​Hollywood​from​1915​through​the​1920s​such​photo60  chapter​1

graphic​techniques​as​close-​up,​artificial​three-​point​lighting,​and​soft​focus​ were​used​for​movie​stars​in​both​their​films​and​publicity​photos​to​“emphasize​actors’​physical​characteristics”​and​to​convey​“sensual​attraction,​ friendliness,​and​psychological​states,”​which​could​go​beyond​the​logic​of​ the​ film​ narratives.202​ While​ providing​ narrative​ clarity​ and​ consistency,​ these​ photographic​ techniques​ could​ also​ enhance​ the​ viewers’​ sensory​ perceptions​of​materiality,​or​what​Siegfried​Kracauer​called​the​“physical​ reality”​of​the​actors’​presence.203 ​ According​to​Fujiki,​Kurishima​was​one​of​the​first​Japanese​stars​with​ “the​sense​of​newness.”204​Before​the​rise​of​actors​as​cinematic​stars,​Fujiki​ argues,​an​early​star​system​was​formulated​for​the​benshi​and​for​onnagata,​with​emphasis​on​their​bodily​performances.​Contrary​to​the​benshi​ and​onnagata,​Fujiki​argues​that​Kurishima’s​newness​was​based​on​“the​ image​of​physical​sexuality​that​was​similar​to​American​film​stars,”​whose​ physical​characteristics​ were​enhanced​by​photographic​technologies.205​ Kurishima​was​the​first​major​female​movie​star​in​Japan​whom​Shochiku​ created.​After​Kurishima,​Shochiku​became​famous​for​its​gendaigeki​(contemporary​drama)​films​with​female​stars. ​ Behind​the​“new”​formation​of​the​Japanese​movie​star​system,​which​ was​separate​from​the​theatrical​conventions,​lighting​played​a​significant​ role.​ In​ this​ regard,​ Shochiku​ allowed​ Kotani​ to​ fully​ use​ his​ technique​ of​lighting​to​create​the​packaged​image​of​Kurishima.​First,​disliking​the​ shinpa-​style​makeup,​which​used​too​much​white,​Kotani​used​Max​Factor​cosmetics,​imported​directly​from​the​United​States,​on​Kurishima​in​ Poppy​to​create​a​more​realistic​appearance​and​to​enhance​the​lighting​ effects.206​Noda​Kogo,​a​screenwriter​at​Shochiku​Kamata,​wrote​in​1927,​ “Above​anything​else,​when​Kurishima​Sumiko​appeared​on​the​screen​in​ this​film​[Poppy],​I​was​so​astonished​at​how​beautiful​she​was​that​I​felt​suffocated​for​a​while.”207​Second,​Kotani​used​backlight​to​perform​“the​less​ self-​conscious​tasks​of​defining​space​and​adding​a​normative​degree​of​aesthetic​polish”​to​imitate​the​photographic​techniques​of​Hollywood,​with​ which​the​Hollywood​film​industry​publicized​their​stars​in​photographic​ images.208​Still​photos​of​Kotani’s​films​from​1921,​both​of​whose​titles​refer​ to​lighting,​A Village at the Sunset​(Yuyo no mura)​and​A Dark Street​(Yami no michi),​include​numerous​backlit​shots​in​which​the​heroines’​hair​glows​ beautifully​and​sets​the​stars​off​from​the​darker​background​(fig.​1.14).​ These​images​of​heroines​are​certainly​comparable​to​those​of​Laila​Lee,​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  61

a​Paramount​star,​whom​Kotani​photographed​in​Hollywood.​Kotani​was​ assigned​as​a​cinematographer​for​her​star​vehicles,​including​The Heart of Youth,​Puppy Love​(R.​William​Neill,​1919),​Rustling a Bride​(Irvin​Willat,​ 1919),​and​The Secret Garden​(G.​Butler​Clonebough,​1919),​and​he​photographed​her​beautifully​in​light.​In​the​still​photos​of​these​films,​Lee’s​brunette​hair​in​particular​shines​gorgeously​in​either​interior​or​exterior​shots,​ being​lit​from​sides​and​from​behind​(fig.​1.15).​Kotani​was​certainly​a​specialist​of​female​star​photography​both​in​Japan​and​in​Hollywood. ​ However,​as​already​seen​in​the​example​of​Cuckoo,​Shochiku​was​not​ willing​to​fully​incorporate​Kotani’s​techniques​into​the​shinpa-​style​narrative​logic​that​prioritized​visibility​to​expressivity​or​sensuality,​even​when​ Shochiku​used​female​actors​in​its​films​and​publicized​them​in​Hollywood-​ style​photography.​Not​many​shinpa-​style​films​survived,​but​still​photos​ reprinted​in​film​magazines​indicate​the​main​types​of​lighting.​As​Fujiki​ indicates,​the​March​1917​issue​of​Katsudo Gaho​juxtaposes​a​still​photo​of​ Tachibana​Teijiro,​a​very​popular​onnagata​at​Nikkatsu​Mukojima​studio,​ in​a​shinpa​tragedy​film​Futari Shizuka​(Oguchi​Tadashi,​1917)​with​a​portrait​of​Myrtle​Gonzalez,​a​Hollywood​star.​While​the​latter​is​a​sensual​ close-​up​of​the​female​actor’s​face​and​naked​shoulders​in​low-​key​lighting,​ dramatically​highlighted​with​sidelight​from​the​left,​the​former,​a​typical​ portrayal​of​a​shinpa-​style​film​of​the​time,​is​a​flat-​lit​long​shot.209​Even​ though​it​is​not​clear​how​faithfully​this​still​photo​represents​the​actual​ scene​in​the​film,​this​example​among​many​implies​how​the​mise-​en-​scène​ of​the​shinpa-​style​film​emphasizes​visibility​of​the​theatrical​tableau​in​diffused​lighting​rather​than​dramatically​enhancing​fragmented​body​parts​ or​anything​within​the​frame​via​spot​lighting.210​According​to​Fujiki,​onnagata​of​shinpa​tragedy​express​their​emotions​in​the​movement​of​entire​ bodies,​or​in​special​configuration​with​other​actors​and​the​surrounding​ decor,​and​long​shots​and​flat​lighting​are​more​suitable​to​display​their​ performances​than​close-​ups​and​spot​lighting.211​In​October​1931,​Nomura​ Hotei​clearly​articulated​his​filmmaking​style:​“In​my​method​of​directing​ films,​I​care​less​about​details.​I​put​emphasis​on​acting​in​general.​I​use​ wide​angles​and​photograph​one​cut​slowly​in​a​certain​length,”​and​he​also​ insisted​on​avoiding​numerous​close-​ups​and​shot​reverse​shots.212 ​ Shochiku’s​shinpa-​style​films,​mostly​based​on​the​family​drama​novels​ by​such​authors​as​Izumi​Kyoka,​Osaki​Koyo,​Tokutomi​Roka,​and​Kikuchi​ Yuho,​ adopted​ the​ same​ tableau-​style​ flat​ lighting.​ The​ film​ Cuckoo​ cer62  chapter​1

figure​1.14  The​heroine’s​hair​glows​beautifully​in​backlight.​A Village at the Sunset​(1921).​Courtesy​of​Henry​Kotani​Production.

figure​1.15  Laila​Lee,​photographed​by​Henry​Kotani​in​Hollywood.​The Heart of Youth​(1919).​Courtesy​of​Henry​Kotani​Production.

tainly​contains​iridescent​close-​ups​of​Kurishima’s​face,​but​the​lighting​ for​these​shots​is​consistently​flat.​With​the​close-​ups,​the​film​emphasizes​ the​fact​that​an​actual​woman,​not​an​impersonator,​is​playing​the​heroine,​ but​compared​to​the​portrait​of​Gonzalez​in​Katsudo Gaho,​lighting​is​not​ necessarily​used​to​enhance​the​sensual​attraction​or​material​reality​of​the​ actress.​In​other​words,​the​emphasis​is​still​on​the​tableaux​that​occupy​ the​majority​of​screen​time.​Since​the​Edo​period,​there​was​a​special​spotlighting​effect​in​Kabuki​called​tsura-akari​(face​light)​or​sashidashi​(insert).​A​stage​assistant​would​insert​candlelight​in​front​of​an​actor’s​face​ to​enhance​its​visibility.213​The​irised​close-​ups​with​flat​lighting​in​Cuckoo​ could​be​regarded​as​a​modernized​version​of​tsura-​akari.​The​technique​ was​certainly​cinematic,​but​the​effect​was​oriented​more​toward​the​conventionally​theatrical. ​ Such​ visibility​ over​ expressivity​ was​ also​ necessitated​ by​ the​ power​ structure​of​the​film​industry.​According​to​Gerow’s​research,​film​exhibitors​were​the​ones​largely​in​control​of​the​industry​in​the​1910s​and​1920s,​ when​the​industry​was​not​vertically​integrated​and​the​number​of​movie​ theaters​was​quite​low.214​Major​theaters​not​only​had​significant​freedom​ to​select​films,​but​some​could​also​specifically​order​films​from​producers​ to​suit​their​audiences,​who​were​accustomed​to​the​idea​that​light​was​to​ be​ more​or​ less​ a​ neutral​ element​ in​ mise-​en-​scène​ and​the​visibility​of​ actors’​faces​was​the​important​thing.​The​film​historian​Itakura​Fumiaki​ also​points​out​the​“superiority​of​film​exhibitors​to​film​producers”:​exhibitors​and​benshi​requested​what​they​needed​in​theaters​to​filmmakers,​who​ were​forced​to​comply​with​such​demands.215​While​long​shots,​long​takes,​ and​still​framing​were​adopted​and​spoken​intertitles​were​eliminated​so​ benshi​could​maintain​the​comfortable​rhythms​of​their​narrations,​clarity​ of​lighting​and​development​was​also​required​for​visibility—for​the​viewers​and​for​benshi.​Besides,​it​was​a​customary​practice​to​make​only​a​small​ number​of​film​prints​from​any​negative—“to​milk​as​much​as​possible​ from​a​few​prints”​that​were​shown​over​and​over​again​in​the​big​cities,​ from​Tokyo’s​Asakusa​district​to​Osaka,​Yokohama,​and​then​sent​around​ the​country​for​extra​profit.216​The​film​industry​was​not​involved​with​mass​ production.​Under​such​conditions​of​production,​distribution,​and​circulation,​practically​speaking,​clarity​was​prioritized​to​dark​and​contrasty​ lighting​so​the​prints​would​be​visible​when​projected​by​worn-​out​light​ bulbs​in​local​theaters. 64  chapter​1

​ Movie​stars​could​have​paved​the​way​for​the​Japanese​film​industry​ to​ fully​ turn​ into​ “a​ form​ of​ capitalist​ and​ Fordist​ commodity-​centered​ culture​industry”​in​which​producers​have​the​dominant​position​over​exhibitors.217​In​other​words,​stars​could​have​been​created​as​a​product​to​ “channel​audience​desires​into​set​patterns​corresponding​to​identifiable​ textual​formulas”​at​the​site​of​film​production​and​not​at​the​sphere​of​ exhibition—like​the​benshi​and​onnagata.218​Yet​such​separation​between​ production​and​exhibition​by​way​of​star​lighting​did​not​occur​until​the​ late​1920s​when​Shochiku​was​challenged​by​the​rising​popularity​of​a​new​ genre,​jidaigeki,​with​its​spectacular​sword​fighting. ​ At​the​point​of​1925,​while​at​least​partially​adopting​Hollywood-​style​ star-​publicity​methods,​Kido​was​critical​of​the​star​system​from​a​perspective​of​labor​management.​He​was​concerned​that​a​series​of​competitions​ among​ film​ companies​ to​ contract​ stars​ or​ even​ steal​ other​ companies’​ stars​would​damage​the​rationalization​policy​that​he​pursued.219​Hoping​ to​maintain​the​authority​of​control​over​his​products,​Kido​clearly​stated​ that​he​prioritized​“synthetic​editing”​that​emphasized​“tempo​and​mood”​ and​“dramatic​structure”​of​films​rather​than​“frequent​appearance​of​close-​ ups​of​stars.”220​He​obviously​tried​to​contain​the​cinematic​appeal​of​the​ stars​within​tableau-​style​theatrical​conventions.​Kido​tried​to​maintain​his​ dominant​position​as​a​newly​established​businessman​over​actors​by​resorting​to​the​old​practices. ​ The​film​critic​Mori​Iwao​was​aware​of​the​limit​of​Kurishima’s​newness.​ He​highly​valued​her​acting​that​was​an​apt​fit​to​“cinema’s​photographic​ realism,”​which​deviated​from​the​styles​of​shinpa,​but​he​simultaneously​ claimed,​ “This​ Japanese​ sweetheart​ is​ a​ leftover​ beauty​ of​ the​ period​ of​ tragedy.​She​does​not​have​the​elastic​beauty​of​the​modern​period.​No​ stimuli.”221​By​pointing​out​Kurishima’s​photographically​real​acting,​Mori​ was​ indicating​ the​ substantial​ use​ of​ close-​ups​ of​ her​ face.​ At​ the​ same​ time,​Mori​criticized​the​lack​of​flexibility​in​her​star​persona,​by​which​he​ possibly​meant​the​flat​expressivity​in​the​cinematic​lighting​and​decor​that​ surrounded​her​on​the​screen.​The​Marxist​film​critic​Iwasaki​Akira​wrote​ in​1939: Shochiku’s​profit-​oriented​policy​made​it​step​back​artistically​and​led​ it​to​safely​produce​brainless​films​that​would​flatter​the​mass​taste.​In​ short,​they​were​shallow​and​sentimental​films.​They​were​unintelligent​ Lighting​anD​MoDernity  65

films​whose​only​purpose​was​to​make​young​and​naïve​girls​absorbed​ in​sweet​dreams​and​nostalgia.​It​was​suited​to​the​melancholic​feelings​of​the​society​of​this​country​that​was​suffering​from​depression​ after​a​period​of​affluence.​Or,​such​films​were​born​under​such​conditions.​Therefore,​Shochiku​became​hugely​successful​as​a​company.​.​.​.​ Yet,​Shochiku’s​success​was​also​because​of​its​introduction​of​the​first​ female​ actors​ on​ the​ screen,​ deviating​ from​ the​ unnatural​ custom​ of​ Japanese​cinema​that​followed​the​tradition​of​Kabuki,​in​which​onnagata,​or​male​actors,​play​female​roles.​The​emergence​of​female​actors​ was​welcomed​tremendously.​The​first​Japanese​stars,​including​Kurishima​Sumiko,​were​born.222 In​a​very​cynical​manner,​Iwasaki​described​the​capitalist-​industrial​modernity​ in​ Japanese​ cinema​ represented​ by​ the​ corporate​ development​ of​ ​Shochiku.

66  chapter​1

chApter 2

fLashes​of​the​sWorD​ ​ anD​the​star Shochiku and Jidaigeki

the emergence of Jidaigeki and the Flash of the sword

Kido​Shiro,​the​Shochiku​Kamata​studio​head,​once​recalled,​“Personally,​I​did​not​think​that​the​popularity​of​gendaigeki​[contemporary​drama]​films​produced​at​Kamata​ever​suffered,​but​Shochiku​theater​managers​came​to​Kamata​and​complained​about​ the​situation​once.​They​asked​us​to​do​our​best​facing​the​rising​ power​of​jidaigeki​films.”1​Still,​Kido​had​to​admit​that​it​was​necessary​for​Shochiku​to​keep​up​with​jidaigeki​(films​set​in​the​premodern​period​of​Japan,​that​is,​before​1868)​when​this​new​genre​ was​at​the​height​of​its​popularity​in​the​mid-​to​late​1920s.2​Shochiku​officially​noted​decades​later:​“Chanbara​[sword-​fighting​ period​drama]​films​from​Kyoto​were​enjoying​their​best​years,​ and​films​from​Kamata​were​not​very​popular.”3​Shochiku​was​ thus​challenged​by​jidaigeki​in​the​course​of​promoting​its​bright​ and​cheerful​tone​as​the​dominant​mode​of​film​style​and​confirming​its​dominant​financial​status​in​the​film​industry. ​ The​genre​of​jidaigeki​emerged​at​a​time​of​cultural​turmoil.​ The​period​that​followed​the​Great​Kanto​Earthquake​of​1923​witnessed​the​rapid​transformation​of​the​social​and​media​landscape​ of​Tokyo.​Aaron​Gerow​argues,​“While​it​has​been​called​the​age​ of​‘Taisho​democracy’​for​its​fitful​efforts​at​parliamentary​democ-

racy,​the​1920s​was​also​a​time​when​growing​state​and​military​authority,​effected​by​the​authoritarian​Peace​Preservation​Law​of​1925,​battled​a​flood​of​ new​ideas,​from​left-​wing​radicalism​to​labor​unionism.”4​Popular​demands​ for​political​participation​and​democracy,​tied​to​nationalism​based​on​the​ emperor​system​and​imperialist​expansion,​resulted​in​the​establishment​of​ a​parliamentary​government​in​1924.​The​Universal​Manhood​Suffrage​Act​ was​passed​in​1925.​Labor​organization,​unionization,​and​socialist​and​communist​thoughts​gradually​prevailed​in​working-​class​culture​throughout​ the​1920s.5​A​mass​market​for​films​was​opening​up​at​the​same​time.​The​ number​of​movie​theaters​was​increasing​rapidly:​from​703​in​1923​to​1013​in​ 1924,​and​most​of​them​were​located​in​urban​areas.6​Jidaigeki​films,​most​ of​which​were​produced​in​Kyoto,​the​other​center​of​filmmaking​in​Japan​ that​was​not​devastated​by​the​earthquake,​not​only​embraced​the​tension​ between​democracy​and​authoritarianism​in​their​narratives,​themes,​and​ styles​but​also​satisfied​the​increased​demand​for​films. ​ It​is​worthwhile​to​note​that​jidaigeki​became​popular​in​almost​exactly​ the​same​period​as​the​proletarian​arts​movement​in​Japan​developed​and​ “flaunted​its​discontent​and​contempt​for​the​dominant​culture.”7​Mitsuhiro​Yoshimoto​argues,​“The​vitality​of​jidaigeki​in​the​1920s​and​early​1930s​ was​inseparable​from​young​filmmakers’​anarchistic​rebellion​against​the​ establishment​and,​at​an​institutional​level,​small​production​companies’​ struggle​ against​ large​ capital.”8​ Shochiku​ was​ an​ embodiment​ of​ such​ “large​capital”​in​the​film​industry,​while​many​of​the​early​jidaigeki​films​ were​produced​at​companies​with​smaller​capital​(including​Makino​Production,​established​by​Makino​Shozo,​who​departed​from​Nikkatsu,​Teikoku​Kinema,​and​Toa​Kinema)​with​“young​filmmakers”​and​new​stars.​ These​ companies​ represented​ rebellious​ ways​ of​ expression​ against​ the​ dominant​mode​of​Shochiku.9 ​ Critics​embraced​the​newness​of​jidaigeki,​even​though​the​genre​was​ set​in​the​premodern​period​of​Japan,​in​opposition​to​the​relative​oldness​ of​Shochiku’s​gendaigeki,​whose​stories​were​set​in​contemporary​Japanese​ society.​Mori​Iwao​pointed​out​in​1931,​“I​am​certain​that​sword​fighting​in​ [jidaigeki]​is​formulated​based​on​modern​sensitivity​and​aesthetics​and​is​ superior​to​that​in​Kabuki.”10​In​jidaigeki,​cinematic​styles​and​techniques​ were​used​in​a​more​radical​fashion​than​those​in​gendaigeki​typified​by​the​ Shochiku​Kamata​films.​Takizawa​Hajime​claims​that​during​the​ten​years​ between​ 1923​and​1932​“jidaigeki​ was​more​‘modern’​than​gendaigeki.”11​ 68  chapter​2

Similarly,​the​film​historian​Tomita​Mika​argues​that​it​was​jidaigeki​that​ reflected​the​“immense​transformation​of​the​structure​of​urban​landscape​ of​the​late​Taisho​to​early​Showa​period”​more​substantially​than​the​gendaigeki​produced​at​Kamata.12​As​such,​with​the​emergence​of​premodern​ drama​as​the​most​up-​to-​the-​minute​genre,​the​relationship​between​old​ and​new,​theatrical​and​cinematic,​tradition​and​innovation​in​Japanese​ cinema​became​more​complicated. ​ While​ Shochiku’s​ gendaigeki​ preserved​ the​ style​ of​ shinpa​ and​ combined​it​with​Hollywood​technologies​and​techniques,​especially​in​terms​ of​ lighting​ and​ cinematography,​ jidaigeki​ overcame​ the​ theatricality​ of​ kyugeki​films​(old​drama,​or​Kabuki-​style​period​drama),​many​of​which​ were​produced​earlier​in​the​century​by​Makino​Shozo​(who​insisted​on​ “clarity​first”)​with​Onoe​Matsunosuke,​the​first​star​of​Japanese​cinema.​ Even​though​kyugeki​did​include​such​cinematic​polishes​as​Méliès-​style​ trick​editing​and​“separations​of​a​space”​to​display​multiple​actions​within​ a​ frame,​ it​ basically​ reproduced​ Kabuki​ by​ mostly​ using​ “the​ dominant​ style​with​long​shots,​long​takes,​and​still​frames”​and​did​not​have​female​ actors.13​With​his​background​in​Kabuki,​Onoe​emphasized​buto​(dance-​ like​stylized​movements)​in​his​sword​fights.​His​movements​were​punctuated​with​static​moments​of​his​body​facing​the​camera. ​ Despite​being​set​in​the​premodern​period​like​kyugeki,​jidaigeki​challenged​such​stylized​movements​of​Onoe.​Jidaigeki​used​the​techniques​of​ Hollywood​cinema​extensively,​although​Shochiku​had​decided​not​to​do​ that​on​a​full-​scale​basis.​The​swashbuckler​film​star​Douglas​Fairbanks​Sr.​ was​the​most​popular​foreign​actor​in​Japan​after​the​earthquake.​Jidaigeki,​ first​of​all,​mimicked​the​athleticism​and​speed​that​Fairbanks’s​films​displayed.​David​Bordwell​argues:​“Although​the​reformers​of​the​late​1910s​ and​early​1920s​had​stressed​applying​Hollywood-​based​technique​to​tales​ from​contemporary​life,​it​was​the​jidai-geki​and​particularly​the​swordplay​ film​that​emphasized​shot/reverse-​shot​découpage,​crosscutting,​fast​cutting​in​scenes​of​violent​action,​and​other​classical​strategies.​To​these​were​ added​violent​thrusts​of​action​to​the​camera,​accelerated​motion​(achieved​ through​undercranking),​and​swift​(often​handheld)​camera​movements,​ usually​during​fight​scenes​but​sometimes​during​conversations​or​even​ across​scenes,​such​as​transitions.”14 ​ At​the​same​time,​jidaigeki​was​also​heavily​influenced​by​a​Japanese​ theatrical​ art:​ shinkokugeki​ (new​ national​ theater).​ Shinkokugeki​ was​ a​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  69

new​school​of​popular​theater​founded​in​1917​by​Sawada​Shojiro​and​was​ best​ known​ for​ its​ realistic—that​ is,​ nonstylized,​ speedy,​ energetic,​ and​ violent—sword​fighting.​Most​of​the​shinkokugeki​repertoires​were​based​ on​the​jidai shosetsu​(period​novel),​the​overwhelmingly​well-​liked​taishu bungaku​(genre​in​popular​literature).​Realistic​sword​fighting,​rather​than​ the​dance-​like​stylized​ type​in​Kabuki,​was​considered​ to​be​more​suitable​to​express​the​class​consciousness​of​the​political​masses​that​emerged​ during​the​radical​social​changes​and​uncertainties​in​the​first​decades​of​ the​twentieth​century​and​marked​the​major​thematic​concern​in​taishu​ bungaku,​even​though​in​many​dramas​both​shinkokugeki​and​Kabuki​narrated​the​last​days​of​the​Edo​period,​when​loyalists​and​shogunate​supporters​had​engaged​in​bloody​battles​and​fought​for​hegemony. ​ In​particular,​the​emphasis​on​lighting​enhanced​the​realism​of​sword​ fighting​in​shinkokugeki.​There​is​no​record​of​what​lighting​equipment​ was​actually​used,​but​some​photographs​of​Sawada​Shojiro​on​the​shinkokugeki​stage​indicate​how​significant​lighting​was​in​his​sword​fights.​In​a​ color​photo​taken​from​the​play​Tsukigata Hanpeita​(1919),​one​of​the​most​ popular​sword-​fighting​plays​in​shinkokugeki,​Tsukigata​(Sawada)​holds​his​ sword​in​his​right​hand,​kneels​down​a​little,​and​grins​to​his​right​(fig.​2.1).​ Two​masked​samurai​are​about​to​attack​him.​According​to​the​caption,​the​ photo​is​from​the​famous​scene​in​the​play​set​at​the​Sanjo​riverbed​of​the​ Kamo​River​in​Kyoto.​Under​the​very​bright​moonlight,​Tsukigata​(meaning​“the​shape​of​the​moon”)​fights​against​the​samurai​of​the​loyalist​group​ Shinsengumi.​We​see​a​very​dark​and​long​shadow​of​his​figure​extending​ from​his​feet.​Tsukigata’s​sword​and​his​eyes​shine​brightly,​reflecting​the​ lighting​that​imitates​the​bright​moonlight​and​enhancing​the​tension​as​ well​as​the​spectacle​of​the​scene.15​A​line​in​the​play​even​expresses​this:​ “Oh,​swords​strike.​Ah,​sparks​are​emitted.​Hateful​samurai​are​dying​one​ by​one.​Oh,​they​are​getting​close.​I​see​them​now.​The​white​blade​shines​ in​my​arm.​I​can​feel​the​sharpness.​This​is​ecstatic.”16​Now​that​the​eyes​ and​the​swords​of​the​enemy​are​in​shadow,​the​whiteness​of​the​eyes​and​ sword​of​Tsukigata​is​striking.​The​lighting​thus​not​only​emphasizes​the​ cold​material​of​the​metallic​sword​but​also​the​psychological​state​of​the​ protagonist​at​the​edge​of​insanity. ​ It​ is​ unknown​ whether​ Sawada​ was​ familiar​ with​ the​ work​ of​ David​ Belasco.​But​the​theatrical​lighting​in​shinkokugeki​made​it​much​closer​

70  chapter​2

figure​2.1  Tsukigata​Hanpeita​(Sawada​Shojiro)​fights​against​the​ samurai​of​the​loyalist​group​Shinsengumi.​Shinkokugeki​play,​Tsukigata Hanpeita​(1919).​Takeda​Toshihiko,​Shinkokugeki Sawada Shojiro,​3.

to​that​of​Belasco’s​theater.​Belasco​believed​that​lighting​should​be​varied​ to​suit​the​changing​moods​of​the​play​“in​order​to​maximize​the​play’s​expressive​power.”17​As​Patrick​Keating​argues,​the​effects​of​Lasky​lighting,​ which​was​heavily​influenced​by​Belasco’s​theater,​are​realistically​motivated​ and​ simultaneously​ accomplishing​ an​ expressive​ function.18​ In​ an​ interview​in​1916,​Cecil​B.​DeMille​claimed:

fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  71

I​have​found​that​emphasizing​or​softening​certain​dramatic​points​in​ the​motion​picture​can​be​realized​by​the​discriminating​ use​of​light​ effects,​in​just​the​same​way​that​the​dramatic​climax​in​a​play​can​be​ helped​or​impaired​by​the​music​accompanying​it,​and​working​on​this​ principle​I​came​to​feel​that​the​theme​of​the​picture​should​be​carried​ in​its​photography.​In​our​production​of​“The​Cheat,”​one​of​the​principal​characters​is​a​Japanese.​In​photographing​this​I​endeavored​to​carry​ out​the​Japanese​school​of​art​by​making​my​backgrounds​sinister​and​ using​abrupt,​bold​light​effects.​In​fact,​the​lighting​of​this​picture​definitely​suggests​the​“clang”​and​smash​of​Japanese​music.19 As​Keating​suggests,​the​link​between​DeMille’s​abrupt​lighting​effects​and​ his​story​about​a​Japanese​villain​is​a​tenuous​one.20​No​matter​how​absurd​ his​cultural​assumption​was,​ironically,​the​link​was​created​on​the​stage​of​ shinkokugeki​and​on​the​screen​in​the​form​of​jidaigeki​in​Japan. ​ Jidaigeki​fully​incorporated​such​Belasco-​type​lighting​in​shinkokugeki,​ especially​with​the​flash​of​the​sword,​while​gendaigeki​of​Shochiku​abandoned​the​Belasco-​influenced​effects​lighting​(i.e.,​Lasky​lighting)​brought​ in​by​Henry​Kotani.​In​jidaigeki,​lighting​was​effectively​used​to​combine​ narrative​and​spectacle​in​an​emotionally​engaging​manner.​This​combination​is​precisely​the​reason​why​filmmakers​such​as​DeMille​were​admired​ in​1915.21​Tsukigata Hanpeita,​set​in​the​last​days​of​the​Tokugawa​shogunate,​was​adapted​into​films​numerous​times​in​the​mid-​1920s​and​1930s.​Not​ all​of​them​exist​in​their​entirety,​but​extant​fragments​of​these​films​indicate​that​lighting​significantly​enhanced​the​spectacles​of​sword​fighting.​ The​sword-​fighting​scene​of​the​1925​version,​directed​by​Kinugasa​Teinosuke​and​starring​none​other​than​Sawada​Shojiro,​was​photographed​at​the​ actual​location​of​Tojiin​Temple​in​Kyoto​at​night.​This​scene​is​nothing​but​ a​spectacle​of​light​in​an​experimental​manner.​In​an​extreme​long​shot,​we​ see​three​rectangular​rooms​or​spaces​or​boxes​within​the​frame.​The​samurais​with​swords​fight​in​the​center​box,​a​lit​frame​within​a​frame,​as​if​they​ were​fighting​in​a​visible​motion​picture​frame.22​In​the​shots​that​follow,​ their​swords​shine​in​the​low-​key​setting.​A​part​of​a​draft​of​the​screenplay​ for​this​film​written​by​Kinugasa’s​pen​is​preserved​in​the​Sorimachi​Collection​of​the​National​Film​Center​at​the​National​Museum​of​Modern​ Art,​Tokyo.23​The​draft​reads,​“The​blue​moonlight​after​the​rain​makes​a​ sleeve​of​Tsukigata’s​white​kimono​shine​brutally.​.​.​.​Because​of​a​move72  chapter​2

ment​of​a​samurai​who​steps​on​a​root​of​a​big​tree,​the​dew​on​the​branches​ of​the​tree​shines​and​scatters,​reflecting​the​moonlight.​Tsukigata​moves​ his​sword​quietly​to​his​left​hand​and​swings​it​swiftly.​One​of​the​enemies​ from​the​Shinsengumi​clan​barely​backs​off​from​the​flash,​stepping​on​a​ bucket.”24​This​section​does​not​exactly​depict​the​climactic​scene​with​the​ experimental​lighting​scheme,​but​it​still​indicates​how​sensitive​the​film​is​ to​the​flash​of​the​sword​in​low-​key​settings. ​ Despite​originating​in​the​theatrical​lighting​of​shinkokugeki,​lighting​ in​jidaigeki​differentiated​the​genre​from​the​theatricality​of​kyugeki—and​ from​that​of​Shochiku’s​shinpa-​style​films.​As​we​have​already​seen​in​the​ examples​of​Chushingura​and​The Story of the Filial Child Goro Masamune,​ kyugeki​most​typically​embodied​Makino’s​early​slogan​of​“clarity​first.”​ Critics​severely​criticized​its​“insufficiency​in​details​and​gradation​of​light”​ and​“carelessness​and​negligence​of​lighting​equipment.”25 ​ In​contrast,​jidaigeki​fully​employs​effects​lighting​in​low-​key​settings​ and​enhances​complex​psychological​states​of​the​sword​fighters.26​In​jidaigeki,​characters​often​wander​in​the​dark,​which​is​the​perfect​setting​ for​spectacular​sword​fighting.​Under​the​dim​moonlight​or​street​lamps,​ the​swords​of​samurai​warriors​flash​for​a​moment,​as​if​they​could​not​wait​ for​bloodshed.​Samurai​warriors​need​to​resort​to​their​swords,​which​embody​their​spirits,​to​prove​themselves,​but​they​often​suffer​from​the​act​of​ killing:​an​existentialist​crisis.​Some​even​decide​to​dump​their​swords— their​identities—in​order​to​deviate​from​the​past.​The​filmmaker​Uratani​ Toshiro​ claims,​ “Chanbara​ is​ the​ boiling​ point​ where​ the​ ‘psychological​ climax’​and​the​‘visual​climax’​of​the​drama​meet.”27​The​cinematographer​ Morita​Fujio​elaborates: It​has​been​a​regular​practice​for​tateshi​[the​sword-​fighting​choreographer]​to​think​of​unique​sword-​fighting​methods​to​be​most​effectively​ photographed.​.​.​.​Psychologically,​a​bamboo​sword​transforms​into​a​ real​sword.​It​is​significant​to​make​the​bamboo​sword​look​heavy,​edgy,​ and​brutal.​It​is​craftwork​to​make​the​sword​shine​momentarily.​The​ flash​emphasizes​the​fearful​nature​of​the​sword​especially​in​close-​ups.​ In​this​sense,​technicians​of​Daiei​studio​were​extremely​sensitive​to​the​ environment​of​sword-​fighting​scenes.​They​preferred​dawn,​dusk,​and​ night​to​daytime.​They​liked​to​juxtapose​such​natural​phenomena​as​ rain​or​mist​with​the​sense​of​brutality​in​sword​fighting.28 fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  73

figure​2.2  The​sword​of​Tokijiro​(Okochi​Denjiro)​flashes​momentarily.​ Kutsukake Tokijiro​(1929).

Even​today,​one​of​the​major​attractions​at​Toei​Kyoto​Cinema​Village,​a​ Universal​Studios–style​amusement​park​attached​to​a​film​and​tv​production​studio,​is​a​live​demonstration​of​jidaigeki​filmmaking​whose​climax​is​ a​production​of​a​scene​in​which​a​sword​flashes​in​the​hands​of​an​actor,​reflecting​a​spotlight.​The​presenter​explains,​jokingly,​how​difficult​and​crafty​ it​is​to​flash​the​sword​in​perfect​timing​in​front​of​a​camera. ​ The​sword-​fighting​sequence​of​Kutsukake Tokijiro​(Tsuji​Kichiro,​1929)​ is​a​typical​example​of​the​effects​of​lighting​in​jidaigeki​produced​at​Nikkatsu’s​Daishogun​studio​in​Kyoto.​In​a​low-​key​medium​long​shot,​Tokijiro,​ played​by​Okochi​Denjiro,​the​new​star​of​jidaigeki,​faces​the​camera​and​ his​sword​flashes​momentarily,​reflecting​a​strong​sidelight​from​his​right,​ as​he​slowly​raises​it​in​front​of​him​(fig.​2.2).​The​emphasis​of​this​shot​is​ not​the​visibility​of​the​star’s​face​but​the​transitory​whiteness​of​the​sword.​ Okochi​was​a​former​shinkokugeki​actor,​and​Kutsukake Tokijiro​was​part​of​ a​popular​repertoire​in​shinkokugeki​that​Hasegawa​Shin​wrote​in​1928.29​ Hasegawa​was​a​major​contributor​to​Taishu Bungei,​the​first​magazine​exclusively​focused​on​popular​literature. ​ Two​sword​fighters​face​each​other​in​a​long​shot​that​follows.​As​the​two​ 74  chapter​2

fighters​start​moving​around,​the​camera​slowly​circles​them.​The​circular​ movements​of​the​two​fighters​and​the​camera​are​completely​in​reverse.​ Through​the​simultaneous​but​opposite​movements​of​the​fighters​and​the​ camera,​the​two​swords​shine​shockingly​white​numerous​times,​reflecting​ light​from​one​direction.​In​other​words,​both​movements—the​camera​ and​ the​ characters—generate​ recurring​ sparks​ from​ the​ swords.​ After​ a​ brief​medium​shot​of​the​opponent,​a​medium​shot​of​three​gangsters​who​ witness​the​fight,​and​a​close-​up​of​Tokijiro,​Tokijiro​kneels​down​and​almost​simultaneously​delivers​a​blow​with​his​sword​in​a​medium​long​shot.​ The​final​flash​of​Tokijiro’s​sword​with​its​swift​movement​ends​the​fight​ in​a​blink​of​an​eye.​After​a​medium​shot​of​the​wife​of​Tokijiro’s​opponent​ and​the​three​gangsters,​the​camera​pans​from​the​opponent​falling​to​the​ ground​to​Tokijiro,​crouching​without​moving​his​sword​at​all.​As​Tokijiro​ slowly​stands​up,​his​sword​goes​off​the​screen.​From​then​on,​close-​ups​of​ Tokijiro’s​face​are​repeated​numerous​times.​Now​the​emphasis​of​lighting​ is​on​the​dark​shadows​on​his​face​created​by​strong​sidelight.​The​lighting​ scheme​of​this​scene​swiftly​changes​from​the​spectacle​of​the​sword​fighting​to​the​expression​of​the​protagonist’s​psychological​state.​Tokijiro​has​ to​protect​the​wife​and​the​child​of​the​man​whom​he​just​killed​from​the​ vicious​gangsters.30 ​ It​was​true​that​Fairbanks​Sr.’s​films​had​a​certain​impact​on​the​style​ of​jidaigeki,​but​the​obsession​with​the​flash​of​the​sword​distinguished​jidaigeki​from​Hollywood​swashbuckler​films​of​the​same​period.​The​spectacular​and​narrational​significance​of​effects​lighting​was​much​more​enhanced​in​the​sword​fights​in​jidaigeki.​In​a​climactic​duel​in​Chutaro of Banba: Mother of Memory​ (Banba no Chutaro: Mabuta no haha,​ Inagaki​ Hiroshi,​1931),​another​story​written​by​Hasegawa​Shin,​the​swords​shine​ spectacularly.​After​the​fight,​Chutaro,​played​by​the​jidaigeki​star​Kataoka​ Chiezo,​throws​away​his​sword.​His​sword​sticks​into​the​bottom​of​a​tree​ and​shines​conspicuously​white​(fig.​2.3).​Then​the​camera​slowly​pans​to​ the​right​until​it​captures​Chutaro​and​his​mother,​for​whom​he​has​been​ searching​a​long​time,​embracing​each​other​and​sobbing.​While​they​had​ been​separated,​Chutaro​was​forced​out​of​necessity​ to​become​a​hired​ swordsman. ​ This​finale​was​surely​inspired​by​the​ending​of​The Mark of Zorro​(Fred​ Niblo,​1920),​a​Douglas​Fairbanks​Sr.​star​vehicle,​which​was​popularly​received​in​Japan.​When​don​Diego​(Zorro),​played​by​Fairbanks​Sr.,​throws​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  75

figure​2.3  The​sword​of​Chutaro​(Kataoka​Chiezo)​sticks​into​the​bottom​of​a​ tree​and​shines​white.​Chutaro of Banba: Mother of Memory​(1931).

figure​2.4  The​sword​of​Zorro​(Douglas​Fairbanks​Sr.)​sticks​to​the​wall​but​does​ not​shine.​The Mark of Zorro​(1920).

away​his​sword​after​the​climactic​battle,​it​sticks​to​the​wall.​In​the​following​long​shot,​Diego​jumps​ up​to​the​second​floor.​Then,​in​the​following​medium​long​shot,​Diego​and​his​sweetheart​embrace​each​other.​ However,​Zorro’s​sword​does​not​conspicuously​shine​on​the​wall​at​all​ (fig.​2.4).​The​difference​in​lighting​diegetically​implies​that​for​Zorro,​the​ sword​does​not​have​much​significance​in​terms​of​his​identity,​while​for​ Chutaro​it​is​as​if​the​sword​embodies​his​soul.31 Ito daisuke’s Jidaigeki

The​ films​ directed​ by​ Ito​ Daisuke​ most​ typically​ represented​ the​ mode​ of​lighting​in​jidaigeki,​an​alternative​to​the​“clarity​first”​of​kyugeki,​the​ bright​ and​ cheerful​ Shochiku​ Kamata​ tone,​ and​ the​ Hollywood​ swashbuckler​ genre.​ It​ is​ a​ little​ ironic​ that​ Ito​ started​ his​ film​ career​ at​ Shochiku​and​then​ended​up​challenging​the​company.​When​Osanai​Kaoru,​ one​of​the​core​advocates​of​the​pure​film​movement,​assumed​the​post​of​ the​head​of​the​Shochiku​Cinema​Institute,​Ito,​with​Osanai’s​assistance,​ entered​Shochiku’s​acting​school​as​a​trainee​in​1920.32​Ito​became​a​screenwriter​at​the​Kamata​studio​and​wrote​nearly​sixty​screenplays​between​ 1920​and​1923,​which​amounted​to​nearly​20​percent​of​the​Kamata​films​ of​the​period,​including​A New Life​(Shinsei,​directed​and​photographed​by​ Henry​Kotani,​1920),​The Secret of the Mine​(Kozan no himitsu,​directed​by​ Edward​Tanaka,​photographed​by​Kotani,​1920),​and​Woman and Pirates​ (Onna to kaizoku,​directed​by​Nomura​Hotei,​1923).33​Ito​enthusiastically​ read​the​English​books​on​screenplays​that​Kotani​had​brought​back​from​ Hollywood​ and​ learned​ the​ techniques​ of​ lighting,​ including​ backlight,​ from​Kotani.34​Yet​Ito​left​Shochiku​suddenly​in​June​1924,​almost​as​if​he​ had​followed​Kotani,​who​had​also​left​the​same​year.​Itakura​Fumiaki​suggests​that​Ito​challenged​the​dominant​style​of​filmmaking​that​maintained​ “the​superiority​of​film​exhibitors​to​film​producers”​and​explored​ways​to​ establish​“the​independence​of​a​work​created​by​an​auteur.”35​According​ to​Itakura,​in​his​screenplays​Ito​clearly​specified​which​shot​sizes,​camera​ angles,​and​spoken​intertitles​should​be​used​and​where.​Such​an​emphasis​on​the​superiority​of​production​might​have​been​problematic​at​Shochiku’s​Kamata​studio,​where​the​strategy​of​“clarity​first”​seemed​to​have​ been​chosen​in​order​to​accommodate​the​request​from​the​exhibition​side.​ Ito​moved​to​Teikine​(Teikoku​Kinema),​a​company​with​smaller​capital​ than​Shochiku,​and​made​his​directorial​debut​there.36​After​establishing​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  77

his​own​company,​Ito​Eiga​Kenkyujo​(film​study​group),​in​1925,​he​moved​ to​Nikkatsu,​the​rival​of​Shochiku​that​had​produced​kyugeki​films​with​ Onoe​Matsunosuke,​in​July​1926.37 ​ Ito​might​have​learned​the​theory​and​practice​of​cinematic​lighting​from​ Kotani,​but​according​to​his​own​claim,​he​became​truly​sensitive​to​lighting​ and​started​his​experiments​not​at​Shochiku​but​“out​of​necessity”​when​he​ directed​Ring of the Sun​(Nichirin,​1926)​at​his​own​“very​poor”​production​ company,​Ito​Eiga​Kenkyujo,​which​had​only​one​camera​and​no​lamp​or​ stage.38​Ito​needed​to​use​household​lamps​to​shoot​close-​ups.​Ito​wrote: The​scene​was​at​a​café.​The​set​was​extremely​poor​and​we​did​not​have​ enough​light​because​of​our​insufficient​lighting​equipment.​The​Arashiyama​line​was​running​a​curve​right​below​our​studio​set.​Electric​ sparks​of​the​trains​passed​through​our​café​as​if​they​were​coming​from​ a​lighthouse.​I​suddenly​changed​my​shooting​plan.​I​moved​the​table​ where​the​protagonist​and​the​partner​sat​to​the​space​by​the​window.​ Now​they​were​in​silhouette.​As​the​trains​passed,​the​sparks​seemed​to​ display​enhanced​emotions​of​the​characters.​This​device​coming​out​of​ necessity​brought​unexpectedly​unique​effects​to​the​scene.39 ​ Ito’s​sensitivity​and​innovation​in​lighting​flourished​in​the​jidaigeki​that​ he​directed​at​Nikkatsu.​When​Ito​arrived​there,​Nikkatsu​was​losing​its​ trademark​star,​Onoe​Matsunosuke—he​fell​ill​in​May​and​died​in​September.​ Onoe’s​ death​ and​ Ito’s​ arrival​ were​ symbols​ of​ Nikkatsu’s​ transition​from​kyugeki​to​jidaigeki.​A​typical​example​of​Ito’s​work​is​his​acclaimed​trilogy​of​Chuji’s Travel Journal​(Chuji tabinikki,​1927;​preserved​by​ Tokyo​National​Film​Center),​produced​at​Nikkatsu’s​Daishogun​studio​ in​Kyoto.​Chuji’s Travel Journal​was​highly​praised​immediately​after​its​release.​Part​II​of​the​trilogy,​Laughing in Blood in Shinshu​(Shinshu kessho hen),​was​selected​as​the​best​film​of​the​year,​and​part​III,​Arrest​(Goyo hen)​ was​fourth​of​the​year​by​Kinema Junpo.40​A​review​noted,​“Chuji’s Travel Journal​would​be​remembered​for​a​long​time​as​a​classic​of​jidaigeki​film.​ The​monument​of​jidaigeki​was​established​by​the​desperately​suffering​ Ito​Daisuke​and​the​impressive​and​enchanting​Okochi​Denjiro.”41​Okochi​entered​into​contract​with​Nikkatsu​in​October​1926,​only​one​month​ after​Onoe’s​death.​In​1959,​Kinema Junpo​selected​the​film​as​the​best​in​the​ sixty-​year​history​of​Japanese​cinema. ​ In​reality,​Nikkatsu,​the​rival​of​Shochiku​and​the​protector​of​kyugeki-​ 78  chapter​2

style​Matsunosuke​films​until​Onoe’s​death​in​1926,​provided​Ito​with​only​ one​soundstage​under​bad​conditions​because​he​was​a​newcomer​with​a​ past​career​at​Shochiku.​Lighting​equipment​was​not​proper​either.​It​was​ impossible​to​create​a​look​of​a​smoky​light​ring​around​an​andon​(an​oil​ lamp​covered​with​shoji​papers)​so​Ito​had​to​paint​the​ring​on​the​wall​behind​the​andon​with​white​chalk.42​Nikkatsu’s​unfavorable​attitude​toward​ Ito​at​first​was​enhanced​by​Ito’s​persistence​in​using​Fushimi​Naoe​as​the​ heroine​of​Chuji’s Travel Journal.​Fushimi​was​a​stage​actress​at​the​Tsukiji​ Shogekijo​theater​group​led​by​Osanai​Kaoru,​another​ex-​Shochiku​artist.​ However,​Ito​turned​his​misfortune​into​gold—or​once​again​he​had​to​be​ experimental​out​of​necessity.​The​opening​title​of​Chuji’s Travel Journal​ seems​to​declare​that​the​focus​of​this​film​is​lighting—and​an​innovative​ one.​Chuji,​the​(anti)hero​of​the​film,​suddenly​appears​from​a​black​background​and​cuts​off​one​of​the​paper​lanterns​in​a​line​with​his​sword. ​ The​scene​of​Chuji​on​his​deathbed​in​a​dry​well,​his​secret​hiding​place,​ is​one​of​the​most​striking​examples​of​the​nuanced​and​spectacular​uses​ of​light​in​this​film:​effects​of​backlights​as​well​as​spotlights.​This​climactic​ scene​appears​to​mimic​the​lighting​of​Belasco​plays,​or​even​that​of​German​expressionist​theater.​On​Die Niebelungen​(Fritz​Lang,​1923–24),​the​ film​that​incorporated​the​lighting​effects​of​expressionist​theater,​Ito​notes​ that​the​cinematography​was​“not​black​and​white​but​halftone​and​with​ deep​focus.​.​.​.​When​only​the​clear​distinction​between​light​and​dark​was​ highly​valued​as​good​in​clarity​[nuke ga ii]​in​Japan,​halftone​was​already​ pursued​in​Germany.”43​The​lighting​of​the​climactic​scene​of​Chuji’s Travel Journal​looks​to​explore​such​halftone​with​deep​focus.​O-​Shina,​Chuji’s​ lover​(Fushimi​Naoe),​inquires​as​to​who​has​deceived​Chuji.​The​first​shot​ of​the​scene​is​an​extreme​long​shot​of​a​dark​room.​We​see​a​beam​of​light​ from​the​upper-​left​corner​of​the​frame,​supposedly​coming​from​a​window​ off​screen.​The​beam​of​light​shines​on​a​determined-​looking​woman​sitting​in​the​lower-​right​corner​of​the​frame.​There​are​also​some​men​sitting​ in​line​under​the​beam​of​light,​which​rectangularly​crosses​the​frame.​The​ lighting​makes​the​shot​look​like​a​painting​by​Vermeer.​In​the​following​ medium​shot,​O-​Shina​faces​a​spotlight​from​the​front.​She​calls​the​names​ of​the​men​one​by​one,​in​order​to​find​the​traitor.​In​each​medium​shot,​the​ face​of​each​man​is​lit​by​dramatically​strong​sidelight​from​the​left.​Then,​ in​a​close-​up​that​follows,​O-​Shina​says​to​the​men,​“Chuji​has​kept​saying​ that​he​would​kill​people​but​not​his​men.”​Being​noticeably​lit​by​sidelight​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  79

and​backlight,​O-​Shina​looks​absolutely​divine.​The​camera​pans​the​faces​ of​the​men​one​by​one,​followed​by​a​rapid​montage​of​the​close-​ups​of​ their​faces​and​a​quick​panning​of​them.44​Then,​after​a​medium​shot​of​her​ face,​O-​Shina​is​displayed​in​a​long​shot​with​a​dark​and​dominant​shadow​ of​her​body​cast​on​the​wall​with​a​strong​spotlight.​In​the​following​close-​ up,​O-​Shina​is​strongly​lit​from​the​right.​Clearly,​the​lighting​on​her​has​ changed​from​a​three​point​to​a​more​contrasty​one.​It​is​said​that​in​the​ original​print,​which​is​lost,​there​was​a​shot​here​of​O-​Shina​licking​the​ edge​of​her​pistol.45​Then,​in​a​close-​up,​we​see​the​edge​of​a​man’s​kimono​ pinned​by​a​shining​sword.​O-​Shina​shoots​a​pistol.​In​a​long​shot,​a​man​ falls​down.​Thus,​lighting​effectively​creates​the​solemn​tone​of​the​main​ character’s​deathbed,​adds​the​divine​mood​that​surrounds​the​heroine,​enhances​the​tension​of​finding​out​who​is​the​traitor,​and,​finally,​makes​the​ sword​flash. ​ In​a​scene​like​the​one​just​described,​Ito​experimented​with​the​source-​ lighting​technique​of​jidaigeki.​The​technique​made​an​onscreen​lamp​look​ as​if​it​were​the​source​of​lighting​in​the​scene.​In​figure​2.5,​D,​an​andon,​ was​the​onscreen​source​of​lighting,​and​a,​an​arch​lamp,​was​the​actual​ source​of​lighting​for​the​scene.​The​diffusing​light​from​a​was​converged​ through​b,​a​lens​in​a​hose,​and​reflected​on​c,​half​mirrors.​The​hose​needed​ to​be​approximately​fifteen​feet.​When​there​was​no​room,​e,​a​mirror,​reflected​diffused​light​from​a.46 ​ With​Chuji’s Travel Journal,​Ito,​who​had​left​the​large​capital​of​Shochiku​and​suffered​even​at​companies​with​smaller​capital,​came​back​to​the​ front​stage​under​a​strong​spotlight—with​a​vengeance.​It​was​Shochiku’s​ turn​to​struggle—at​least​for​a​little​while,​facing​the​challenge​of​jidaigeki​ and​the​flash​of​the​sword.​However,​while​Shochiku​attempted​to​overcome​such​a​struggle,​the​most​popular​star​of​Japanese​cinema​in​the​pre– World​War​II​period​was​born.​The​star​was​an​embodiment​of​the​negotiations​that​the​Japanese​film​industry​of​this​period​went​through​between​ old​and​new,​theatrical​and​cinematic,​and​production​and​​reception. shochiku’s Bright and Cheerful Jidaigeki

Shochiku​could​have​avoided​the​challenge​of​jidaigeki.​It​was​at​Shochiku​ that​ Ito​ had​ started​ his​ career.​ It​ was​ Shochiku​ that​ had​ originally​ supported​shinkokugeki.​Shirai​Matsujiro,​the​president​of​Shochiku​at​that​ time,​had​contracted​with​shinkokugeki​in​August​1917.​Before​the​con80  chapter​2

figure​2.5 ​

The​source-​ lighting​technique​ of​jidaigeki.​Hirai,​ “Soko​Nihon​eiga​ satsuei​shi​10,”​47.​ Courtesy​of​the​ editorial​committee​ of​Eiga Satsuei.

tract,​shinkokugeki​theaters​were​on​the​verge​of​bankruptcy.​It​is​assumed​ that​Shirai​invested​in​Sawada’s​unique​style​of​sword​fighting.​In​fact,​it​ was​Shirai​who​sent​the​playwright​Yukitomo​Rifu​to​help​shinkokugeki​ theaters​and​let​him​write​period​dramas,​including​Tsukigata Hanpeita.​Yet​ the​cooperation​between​shinkokugeki​and​Shochiku​ended​in​1922​when​ Sawada​terminated​his​contract,​irritated​with​Shochiku’s​“feudalist”​attitude​that​did​not​provide​full​support​to​shinkokugeki​when​it​turned​out​ to​be​not​financially​successful​enough.47 fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  81

​ It​was​also​Shochiku​that​originally​introduced​the​term​and​the​notion​ of​jidaigeki.​When​Shochiku​released​Woman and Pirates​(written​by​Ito)​in​ 1923,​the​company​used​the​term​shin-jidaigeki​(a​new​period​drama)​in​the​ film’s​ad​to​distinguish​its​film​from​kyugeki.​Shochiku’s​shin-​jidaigeki​was​ certainly​ different​ from​ kyugeki.​ Shin-​jidaigeki​ used​ directors​ of​ shinpa​ and​actresses.​Itakura​Fumiaki​points​out​that​shin-​jidaigeki​incorporated​ such​techniques​as​intertitles​and​close-​ups​more​substantially​than​kyugeki.48​Even​so,​it​was​not​at​the​Shochiku​Kamata​studio​where​jidaigeki​ developed.​Kobayashi​Isamu,​a​film​critic​at​the​Miyako Shinbun​newspaper,​ wrote​in​1929,​“The​basis​of​Japanese​sword-​fighting​films​was​completed​ with​the​two​films,​Shimizu Jirocho​and​Woman and Pirates,​but​it​was​not​ Kamata​that​built​the​actual​structures​of​them​with​iron​and​concrete.​.​.​.​ What​happened​to​Kamata?​Ito​Daisuke​[who​wrote​screenplays​for​the​ two​films]​became​increasingly​interested​in​chanbara,​but​the​studio​was​ not​as​enthusiastic.​.​.​.​Ito​was​frustrated​because​he​was​not​able​to​become​a​director​and​bailed​out.​.​.​.​And​the​center​of​chanbara​films​moved​ to​Kyoto.”49 ​ Facing​the​rising​popularity​of​the​new​genre​that​Shochiku​had​originally​dismissed,​the​company​was​not​able​to​ignore​it.​When​Bando​Tsumasaburo,​a​very​popular​jidaigeki​star,​departed​from​Makino​Shozo​and​ became​freelance,​Shochiku​did​not​waste​a​minute​before​approaching​ him.​ In​ 1926,​ Shochiku​ contracted​ with​ Bantsuma​ Production,​ an​ independent​production​company​led​by​Bando,​and​agreed​to​distribute​his​ films​at​Shochiku’s​theaters​nationwide.​Shochiku’s​contract​with​Bando​ included​purchasing​eight​films​a​year​for​approximately​15,000​yen​per​ film.​Now​that​Shochiku’s​Asahiza​theater​in​Osaka​“easily​made​20,000​ yen​a​week”​for​one​Bando​film,​according​to​a​critic,​Shochiku​could​have​ made​a​huge​profit​by​distributing​Bando’s​films.50​According​to​Kido​Shiro,​ though,​the​joint​project​between​Shochiku​and​Bando​in​the​end​resulted​ only​in​debt.51 ​ Shochiku​did​not​intend​to​fully​incorporate​the​techniques​of​jidaigeki​ even​when​the​company​tried​to​add​the​genre​to​its​repertoire.​Instead,​ Shochiku​tried​to​extend​its​company​policy​of​bright​and​cheerful​tone​to​ the​genre.​For​instance,​every​scene​except​one​in​Sunaeshibari​(the​first​ chapter​directed​by​Yamaguchi​Teppei,​1927;​the​second​chapter​directed​ by​Inuzuka​Minoru,​1927),​a​star​vehicle​for​Bando,​is​in​flat​high-​key​lighting.​Even​climactic​fight​scenes​between​a​heroine​and​a​tattoo​artist,​one​ 82  chapter​2

in​a​heavy​rain​under​the​moon​and​the​other​in​fire​and​smoke,​are​photographed​in​darker​lighting​than​other​scenes,​but​they​still​use​flat​and​diffused​lighting.52​In​comparison,​in​Orochi​(Futagawa​Fumitaro,​1925),​a​pre-​ Shochiku​Bando​star​vehicle,​lighting​plays​a​dramatic​role,​despite​the​fact​ that​the​film​was​photographed​at​a​studio​in​Nara​prefecture​under​“extremely​poor​conditions.”53​Bando​established​his​independent​production​ company​in​that​year​and​was​not​able​to​use​Makino’s​studio​in​Kyoto.​ Orochi​is​a​story​of​the​downfall​of​Heizaburo,​a​naïve​samurai.​Victimized​ by​the​feudalist​class​system,​Heizaburo​is​disowned​by​his​master,​cannot​ find​a​job,​becomes​a​bodyguard​of​a​gangster,​is​captured​in​order​to​protect​an​innocent​woman​he​loves,​and​is​executed​in​the​end. ​ The​climactic​showdown​between​Heizaburo​and​the​policemen​chasing​ him​is​spectacularized​by​the​choice​of​an​extremely​long​take​that​captures​ Heizaburo’s​action​without​a​pause,​as​well​as​by​the​lighting.​As​soon​as​ he​runs​out​of​the​gangster’s​darkly​lit​house,​Heizaburo​reveals​himself​ under​the​bright​sunlight.​His​breakout​corresponds​to​daybreak:​backlit​by​the​rising​sun,​a​policeman​rings​a​warning​bell​at​the​top​of​a​tower​ in​a​long​shot.​Then,​in​an​extreme​long​crane​shot,​Heizaburo​and​the​ crowd​of​constables​move​back​and​forth​under​hard​high-​key​lighting— branches​of​trees​create​strong​shadows​on​bright​streets.​Heizaburo​and​ the​constables​keep​moving​in​and​out​of​the​shadows.​The​scene​is​a​spectacle​of​movement​and​lighting.​Tanaka​Junichiro​described​the​scene​as​ follows:​“He​[Bando]​lowers​one​arm​and​swings​his​sword​in​a​beautiful​form​in​front​of​a​number​of​officers.​As​he​swings​his​sword,​the​pursuers​move​back​and​forward,​kneel​down,​bend​backward,​and​die.​The​ camera​also​moves​in​a​fierce​speed,​circles​around,​rises​high,​becomes​ bright,​and​turns​dark.​The​cinematic​beauty​of​light,​shadow,​and​movement​flows​into​the​screen​along​with​Tsumasaburo’s​ sword​fighting.”54​ Eventually​captured,​Heizaburo​is​taken​to​jail:​all​of​a​sudden,​the​sun​sets.​ The​policemen​raise​their​paper​lanterns.​Along​the​line​of​shining​lanterns,​ handcuffed​behind​his​back,​Heizaburo​lowers​his​head​and​in​an​extreme​ long​shot​weakly​walks​down​a​bridge​in​silhouette.​Thus,​lighting​enhances​ the​tragic​ending​of​the​tale. ​ Despite​ the​ collaboration​ with​ Bando,​ Shochiku’s​ attempt​ to​ expand​ to​jidaigeki​was​not​very​successful.​In​terms​of​both​the​attitudes​toward​ cinematic​technologies,​including​lighting,​and​the​fan​bases,​the​Shochiku​ Kamata​tone​and​jidaigeki​did​not​get​along​very​well.​All​Shochiku​was​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  83

able​to​do​was​constantly​insist​that​jidaigeki​was​nothing​but​overly​conventionalized​sword​fights​of​nihilistic​antiheroes​and​try​to​diminish​the​ impact​of​the​new​genre.55 the meteoric Rise of Hayashi Chojiro: Jidaigeki and Female spectatorship

In​late​1927,​however,​the​situation​started​to​change​dramatically.​Tanaka​ Junichiro​writes,​“Chronologically​speaking,​1927​was​the​year​when​Japanese​cinema​made​rapid​progress.​Researchers​must​concentrate​on​this​ year​and​try​to​study​the​films​produced​by​each​company.”56​Even​though​ Tanaka’s​claim​was​inclined​to​a​rather​naïve​teleological​view,​with​the​ tremendous​success​of​Chuji’s Travel Journal​trilogy,​1927​was​certainly​a​ memorable​year​for​the​jidaigeki​genre.​It​was​also​a​breakthrough​year​for​ Shochiku’s​jidaigeki​filmmaking.​The​change​was​not​limited​to​“the​films​ produced​by​each​company”​but​the​reception​of​them.​The​year​1927​was​ when​a​new​type​of​spectatorship​was​formed​in​Japan​with​the​rise​of​a​ brand​new​star. ​ The​critic​Dazai​Yukimichi​wrote​in​November​1927,​“Shochiku’s​jidaigeki​was​boring,​and​that​was​a​fact.​.​.​.​I​could​not​help​thinking​that​Shochiku​would​never​have​anything​to​do​with​jidaigeki.​However,​Hayashi​ Chojiro​appeared.​Not​only​I​but​probably​everyone​else​was​astonished​by​ him​and​appreciated​him.”57​By​January​1928,​according​to​Dazai,​the​films​ of​Hayashi​Chojiro​were​called​“without​a​doubt,​the​treasure​box​of​Shochiku”​and,​according​to​another​critic,​Chikamatsu​Kyojiro,​“the​best,​if​we​ consider​cinema​to​be​commercial​products.”58​The​young​actor​Hayashi​ Chojiro​appeared​as​the​star​of​Shochiku’s​Shimokamo​studio​and​then​became​the​star​of​Japanese​cinema​“meteorically.”59​Shochiku​established​ its​Shimokamo​studio​in​Kyoto​in​1923​when​the​earthquake​hit​Tokyo,​ but​the​studio​was​scarcely​used​in​1925​and​1926​and​did​not​produce​any​ hits.60​All​of​a​sudden,​however,​Shimokamo​had​turned​into​the​home​of​ the​rising​star. ​ Shirai​Shintaro,​the​Shimokamo​studio​head,​wrote​in​1930,​“Jidaigeki​ film​had​captured​the​hearts​of​millions​of​fans​by​giving​100​percent​of​ its​attention​to​the​white​flash​of​the​sword.​.​.​.​But​now​we​need​to​move​ away​from​such​a​deadlocked​condition.​It​is​time​to​explore​a​way​of​new​ jidaigeki.”61​For​Shirai​and​Shochiku​executives,​Hayashi​Chojiro​was​certainly​the​key​to​exploring​such​newness​while​they​did​their​best​to​simul84  chapter​2

taneously​incorporate​the​theatrical​styles​that​they​had​preserved​in​their​ films.​The​unique​stardom​of​Hayashi​Chojiro​was​created​at​the​focal​point​ between​the​rising​popularity​of​jidaigeki​and​Shochiku’s​business​strategy​ that​combined​Hollywood-​style​lighting​and​cinematography,​Kabuki​and​ shinpa​conventions,​and​newly​structured​star-​making​publicity. ​ In​the​January​1925​issue​of​Shojo Gaho,​a​popular​magazine​for​young​ women,​ Tachibana​ Takahiro,​ the​ head​ of​ the​ censorship​ board​ of​ the​ Tokyo’s​metropolitan​police​force,​negatively​depicted​jidaigeki​for​female​ spectators:​“For​this​type​of​films​[jidaigeki],​narrators​often​talk​in​vulgar​ language​even​when​the​images​on​the​screen​are​not​so​much.​You​should​ not​go​into​the​theaters​where​such​benshi​exist.”62​Hayashi​became​the​ first​cinematic​matinee​idol​in​Japan​starring​in​such​a​“vulgar”​genre.​The​ year​1927​was​also​to​be​remembered​as​the​time​when​women​turned​to​ jidaigeki,​which​had​been​considered​to​be​a​genre​for​men—and​were​ openly​solicited​as​film​patrons​(see​fig.​2.6). ​ “My​fans​are​mostly​women,”​Hayashi​admitted​in​August​1928,​which​ was​ quite​ unusual​ for​ a​ star​ in​ the​ jidaigeki​ genre.63​ His​ film​ Gonza the Spearman​(Yari no Gonza,​Furuno​Eiji,​1929),​was​exclusively​categorized​ “for​women”​by​Kokusai Eiga Shinbun,​a​film​trade​journal.64​Ueda​Isamu,​ one​ of​ the​ editors​ of​ Shimokamo,​ a​ film​ fan​ magazine​ mainly​ devoted​ to​ Hayashi​ Chojiro,​ wrote​ that​ “90​ percent”​ of​ the​ readers’​ responses,​ whether​they​were​fan​letters​or​questions,​were​from​“female​students.”65​ In​August​1932,​Kamata,​the​publicity​magazine​of​Shochiku​Kamata​films,​ noted,​“We​forgot​to​mention​the​much​more​important​ thing​that​occurred​ in​ the​ beginning​ of​ 1927:​ Hayashi​ Chojiro​ entered​ Shimokamo!​ Once​a​couple​of​his​star​vehicles​were​released​as​quickly​as​machine​gun​ bullets,​girls​nationwide​became​unable​to​sleep​at​night​dreaming​of​‘my​ Cho-​san​of​my​own!’”66​The​film​collector​Ibuki​Eido​recalls,​“Women​ in​the​service​business​scream​at​the​screen,​‘Cho-​san,​don’t​get​caught!​ Yippee!’​ Men​ in​ the​ audience​ had​ to​ hold​ words​ of​ damnation​ in​ their​ mouths.”67​When​Hayashi​first​visited​Tokyo​in​January​1928​to​promote​ his​star​vehicle​Record of the Ocean Country​(Kaikokuki,​Kinugasa​Teinosuke),​“thousands​of​people​gathered​in​front​of​Tokyo​station​to​welcome​ not​a​national​guest,​not​the​prime​minister,​but​just​a​young​actor,”​according​to​Hayashi​himself.68​The​Tokyo Asahi Shinbun​newspaper​reported​on​ the​three-​day​tour​of​Hayashi​to​thirty-​four​theaters​in​Tokyo:​“The​popularity​ of​ Hayashi​ Chojiro,​ Chihaya​ Akiko,​ and​ Ogawa​ Yukiko​ who​ have​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  85

figure​2.6  Female​fans​looking​at​posters​of​Hayashi​Chojiro.​Reprinted​from​ Shimokamo​10.6​(June​1936):​26.

been​visiting​Tokyo​since​January​16​is​incredibly​terrific.”69​The​critic​Asakawa​Kiyoshi​also​reported,​“When​Chojiro​came​out​of​Denkikan​Theater​ after​his​promotional​appearance,​he​blew​his​nose​and​threw​away​the​tissue​paper​that​he​had​used.​Then,​right​away​a​number​of​people​crowded​ over​the​paper.​It​was​an​ugly​battle​for​life​in​order​to​acquire​the​sheet​of​ tissue​paper.”70​A​touring​group​even​appeared​with​an​impersonator​with​ the​same​name,​Hayashi​Chojiro.71​In​November​1930,​Hayashi​was​ranked​ as​the​most​popular​Shochiku​star​(including​both​Kamata​and​Shimokamo)​in​a​contest​held​by​Kamata​magazine.​He​received​5,962​ballots,​ which​was​almost​twice​as​many​as​the​second-​place​Takada​Hiroshi​with​ 3,265.72​Even​in​1937,​a​decade​after​his​debut,​according​to​one​report​in​

86  chapter​2

Nihon Eiga​journal,​Hayashi​was​the​most​popular​Japanese​star​among​ “female​students.”73​Considering​the​huge​popularity​of​Hayashi,​Shochiku​ sent​him​to​its​Kamata​studio​in​Tokyo​in​1932​to​make​“a​special​appearance”​in​Nomura​Hotei’s​shinpa-​style​film​Golden Monster​(Konjikiyasha)​ featuring​Tanaka​Kinuyo,​a​female​star​at​Kamata.74​It​was​very​unusual​for​ a​jidaigeki​star​to​appear​in​a​gendaigeki​film—especially​playing​a​lead​in​ a​love​story​with​a​gendaigeki​star.​Kido​Shiro,​the​Kamata​studio​head,​recalls,​“Hayashi​was​so​sensationally​received​that​even​we​[at​Kamata]​had​ to​call​him​to​appear​in​Cuckoo​[sic],​starring​Tanaka​Kinuyo,​in​order​to​ use​his​name​value.​He​was​truly​big​by​then.​We​brought​Hayashi​to​Tokyo​ and​took​him​to​a​geisha​house.​Then​all​the​geishas​of​the​house​voluntarily​came​to​meet​him​leaving​other​customers​unattended.​.​.​.​When​he​ left​the​house,​twenty​or​thirty​geishas​saw​him​off.”75 ​ Shelly​ Stamp​ suggests​ that​ an​ American​ film​ fan​ culture​ that​ chiefly​ targeted​women​in​the​early​decades​of​the​twentieth​century​“did​so​by​ providing​souvenirs​and​tie-​ins​that​froze​photoplays​in​possessable,​consumable​ moments​ through​ the​ dissemination​ of​ products.”76​ Hayashi’s​ sensational​rise​as​a​star​in​1927​and​the​formation​of​the​film​fan​culture​ that​immediately​followed​marked​the​point​when​cinema​and​its​stardom​ were​first​clearly​recognized​as​a​commodity​in​Japan.​In​that​year,​Yanai​ Yoshio,​ head​ of​ the​ film​ censorship​ section​ of​ the​ Home​ Ministry,​ discussed​three​perspectives​on​cinema.​In​addition​to​referring​to​the​artistic​ and​technological​aspects​of​cinema,​Yanai​pointed​out,​“Finally,​cinema​is​ business.​We​had​completely​ignored​this​perspective.​.​.​.​Quite​recently,​at​ last,​we​started​to​think​about​film​production​as​an​industry.​Filmmaking​ requires​enormous​time​and​capital.​The​economic​laws​of​this​business​are​ the​complete​opposite​to​art.​A​good​film​cannot​be​made​without​sufficient​financing.​Capital​must​be​used​diversely​and​efficiently.​An​industrial​ system​must​be​organized​well.”77 ​ Hayashi​Chojiro​was​certainly​a​product​of​such​an​industrial​system​ from​ the​ very​ beginning.​ His​ stardom​ was​ tactfully​ produced—skillful​ manipulation​of​lighting​in​a​combination​of​the​Hollywood​and​Kabuki​ and​ shinpa​ manners​ was​ a​key​component​ in​ creating​ his​ photographic​ images—and​publicized​to​be​consumed​and​possessed​by​young​female​ movie​ fans.​ Young​ female​ fans​ became​ a​ staple​ of​ Shochiku’s​ business​ and​promotions,​and​the​company’s​advertising​campaigns​wooed​female​

fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  87

consumers​ with​ the​ star’s​ photographic​ image​ using​ a​ glamorous​ lighting​scheme,​as​was​the​case​in​Hollywood​during​the​early​decades​of​the​ century.78​ For​ Hayashi,​ Shochiku’s​ economic​ organization​ was​ focused​ simultaneously​on​markets​of​consumption,​with​modern​advertising,​and​ sites​of​production,​with​modern​lighting​technology.​To​refer​to​the​film​ scholar​Mary​Ann​Doane’s​words,​the​female​consumer​was​identified​as​ “taken​in​by​the​lure​of​advertising”​and​simultaneously​by​“the​seduction​ of​an​image.”79 ​ However,​it​is​significant​to​note​that​Hayashi’s​female​fans​were​not​ simply​passive​consumers​of​such​advertisements​and​images.​Hayashi’s​ stardom​marked​the​emergence​of​a​modern​viewing​subject​in​the​history​ of​ Japanese​ cinema,​ who​ dialogically​ consumed​ products​ prepared​ and​ publicized​by​a​capitalist​industry.​In​this​sense,​the​year​1927​should​also​be​ noted​as​the​birth​of​a​new​type​of​film​spectatorship.​This​historical​audience​of​Hayashi​Chojiro​was​physically​susceptible​to​the​effect​of​cinema​ as​a​modern​technology,​but​at​the​same​time,​he​or,​mainly,​she​was​conscious​of​his​or​her​spectatory​position​as​a​consumer.​In​other​words,​while​ the​modern​capitalist​relationship​between​the​producer​and​the​consumer​ of​products​was​safely​maintained,​both​the​producer​and​the​consumer​of​ Hayashi​Chojiro​were​aware​that​the​relationship​was​also​a​performance.​ Hayashi’s​background​as​an​onnagata​(female​impersonator)​facilitated​the​ formation​of​performative​communication​and​of​a​modern​viewing​subject​in​Japan.​Eighteen-​year-​old​Hayashi​Chojiro​was​a​disciple​of​Hayashi​ Chozaburo,​son​of​the​famous​Kabuki​actor​in​Kansai,​Nakamura​Ganjiro​I,​and​was​trained​as​an​onnagata.80​In​Kabuki​or​shinpa,​female​impersonation​is​valued​as​verisimilar​performance.​In​many​cases,​the​audience​of​Kabuki​and​shinpa​appreciates​the​actors’​skills​(and​costumes)​ and​takes​part​in​the​“presentational”​mode​of​narratives​and​emotions,​ if​I​can​quote​Noël​Burch.81​In​the​meantime,​the​audience​of​Hayashi’s​ films,​whether​based​on​Kabuki​acts​or​not,​cherished​his​act,​costume,​ and​makeup​as​a​performance,​and,​simultaneously,​became​physically​absorbed​in​the​affective​experiences​that​Hayashi’s​onscreen​image​invoked. ​ Regarding​ modern​ spectatorship​ in​ Japan,​ the​ historian​ Ayako​ Kano​ points​out,​“Modern​theater​in​Japan​[in​the​1910s]​produces​a​new​subject​ position:​that​of​the​passive​though​alert​audience​member,​sitting​straight​ and​forward​facing​in​their​chairs,​prohibited​from​eating,​drinking,​conversing​with​their​neighbors​and​from​engaging​in​social​and​sexual​inter88  chapter​2

course​with​the​performers.​With​the​help​of​the​new​technology​of​electric​lighting​to​illuminate​the​stage,​the​auditorium​can​now​be​darkened,​ and​the​audience​sits​isolated,​absorbed​in​the​spectacle​unfolding​in​front​ of​their​eyes.”82​Kano​insists​that​such​“conditions​of​a​new​subjectivity”​ as​“dark​auditorium,​illuminated​spectacle,​a​performance​which​addresses​ the​spectator​but​is​not​addressed​by​the​spectator—already​existed​in​the​ modernizing​ theaters​ of​ the​ 1910s”​ preceding​ motion​ pictures.83​ Joseph​ Murphy​expands​on​Kano’s​argument​on​the​distance​between​the​audience​and​the​performers​in​modern​theater​and​insists​that​the​“unique​ relationship​between​the​modern​[film]​stars​and​the​audience​was​established​only​because​the​image​of​film​did​not​materially​exist​and​it​only​indicated​how​intangible​the​stars​were.”84​If​the​modern​audience​member​ wanted​to​fill​in​the​“infinitely​remote​gap”​between​the​stars​and​himself​ or​herself,​Murphy​argues,​his​or​her​attitude​would​begin​to​have​“pathological​nuances.”85 ​ I​agree​with​Kano​and​Murphy​on​the​emergence​of​“a​new​subjective​ position”​in​modern​theaters​and​motion​pictures​based​on​the​distance​ between​the​stars,​whose​images​were​carefully​prepared​and​publicized​ by​capitalist​industries,​and​the​audience.​Neither​Kano​nor​Murphy​considers​the​modern​audience​to​be​simply​passive.​Both​of​them​stress​the​ “agency”​of​the​modern​audience,​with​which​he​or​she​can​“appropriate”​ or​“resist​the​dominant​culture​in​a​creative​manner.”86​I​do​not​think​the​ audience​of​motion​pictures​was​merely​passive​either,​and​I​do​acknowledge​the​audience’s​agency.​I​also​agree​with​Miriam​Hansen’s​claim​for​“a​ potentially​autonomous​dynamic”​of​“the​public​dimension​of​cinematic​ reception”​that​makes​such​a​star​phenomenon​as​the​Rudolph​Valentino​ cult​in​1920s​Hollywood​“more​than​a​consumerist​spectacle​orchestrated​ from​above.”87​I​think​it​is​true​that,​as​Hansen​argues,​“public​dimension​ is​distinct​from​both​textual​and​social​determinations​of​spectatorship​because​it​entails​the​very​moment​in​which​reception​can​gain​a​momentum​ of​its​own,​can​give​rise​to​formations​not​necessarily​anticipated​in​the​ context​of​production.”88 ​ However,​I​would​argue​that​the​relationship​between​Hayashi​Chojiro​ and​his​fans​was​slightly​different​from​such​conditions​as​appropriation,​ resistance,​or​intangibility,​which​seemed​to​presuppose​a​dichotomy​between​production​and​reception,​as​well​as​between​passivity​and​activity.​ Hansen​reads​the​Valentino​cult​as​“a​kind​of​rebellion,​a​desperate​protest​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  89

against​the​passivity​and​one-​sidedness​with​which​patriarchal​cinema​supports​the​subordinate​position​of​women​in​the​gender​hierarchy.”89​She​ argues,​“In​their​unabashed​theatrical​display,​Valentino’s​films​revert​to​an​ early​‘cinema​of​attractions,’​above​all​erotic​films​in​which​the​performer​ casts​a​knowing​glance​at​the​camera.”90​Such​“rituals​of​mutual​recognition​ between​ star​ and​ fan”​ in​ “those​ moments​ of​ direct​ display,”​ claims​ Hansen,​ “inscribe​ the​ viewer​ as​ a​ member​ of​ a​ public​ body​ rather​ than​ an​isolated​peeping​tom.”91​She​thus​distinguishes​an​active​recognition​ of​a​direct​display​of​an​erotic​body​or​gaze​from​a​passive​voyeurism​and​ values​ the​emergence​ of​ “a​ specifically​ female​ subjectivity​ whose​ political​and​psychological​dimensions​far​outstrip​the​economic,​consumerist​ function”​in​that​active​recognition.92​Like​the​Valentinian​gaze,​Hayashi’s​ gaze​“exceeds​its​formal​function​of​providing​diegetic​coherence​and​continuity.”93​He​gazes​at​his​diegetic​opponent​as​well​as​at​the​nondiegetic​ audience.​ As​ a​ result​ of​ the​ technological​ manipulation​ of​ images,​ like​ Valentino,​Hayashi​is​“overdetermined​as​both​object​and​subject​of​the​ look.”94​In​this​sense,​a​Hayashi​fan​Kobayashi​Fujie​appropriately​called​ Hayashi​the​“Valentino​of​the​East.”95 ​ I​would​also​argue​that​the​Hayashi​cult​was​by​no​means​rebellious​or​ subversive​to​dominant​capitalist​ideology.​Instead,​there​was​a​dialogic​ or​cooperative​relationship​between​the​producer​and​the​consumer.​The​ Hayashi​fan​chose​to​be​simultaneously​active​and​passive—or​consciously​ submissive—and​the​producers​clearly​were​aware​of​the​simultaneity.​As​ a​result,​the​producer​and​the​audience,​both​of​whom​openly​addressed​ their​ concerns​ about​ the​ image​ of​ the​ star,​ could​ anticipate​ formations​ of​reception​so​that​there​was​little​room​for​any​anxiety​of​expectation.​ Such​a​dialogic​relationship​between​the​producer​and​the​consumer​made​ Hayashi’s​stardom​unique.​It​was​such​a​cooperative​relationship​that​could​ be​called​the​emergence​of​a​new​subjective​position​of​film​spectatorship. ​ The​French​film​theorist​Edgar​Morin​describes​the​star​system​as​a​mixture​of​accessibility​and​inaccessibility.​He​calls​film​actors​the​equivalent​ of​a​twentieth-​century​god​to​point​out​the​inaccessible​quality​and​then​ simultaneously​points​out​the​commodity​quality​of​the​star,​which​makes​ him​or​her​accessible​to​fans.​Morin​stresses​that​the​two​sides​of​the​star’s​ status,​as​both​god​and​commodity,​are​“two​faces​of​the​same​reality:​the​ needs​of​man​at​the​stage​of​twentieth​century​capitalist​civilization.”96​I​ agree​with​Morin​regarding​the​simultaneity​of​accessibility​and​inacces90  chapter​2

sibility​in​the​star​system.​But​the​god​metaphor​for​inaccessibility​seems​ slippery​to​me.​God​could​be​both​accessible​and​inaccessible.​Certainly​ images​of​god​represent​inaccessibility,​or​infinite​distance​between​god​ and​worshipper.​But​if​god​appears​to,​speaks​to,​or​touches​a​worshipper,​ such​ an​ affective​ experience​ is​ one​ of​ accessibility.​ Specific​ lighting​ techniques​constructed​an​iconic,​or​god-​like,​image​of​Hayashi,​but​at​the​ same​time​such​an​image​enhanced​its​affective​quality​that​could​facilitate​ the​viewer’s​tactile​experience.​Moreover,​regarding​accessibility,​Hayashi​ fans​were​not​simply​passive​recipients​of​commodity.​Their​access​meant​ that​they​consciously​cooperated​to​construct​the​star​image.​In​this​sense​ they​were​by​no​means​resistant​or​subversive​to​dominant​capitalist​ideology​but​were​active​receptionists. ​ In​addition​to​the​choice​of​aware​passivity​by​the​audience,​the​special​lighting​technique​on​Hayashi’s​face,​which​combined​the​Hollywood​ and​Kabuki​and​shinpa​styles,​enabled​a​tangible​perception​by​the​audience.​Even​if​audience​members​understood​their​social​or​physical​distance​from​the​star,​the​technology​of​cinema​filled​in​that​gap​instantly​and​ simultaneously.​When​I​call​the​audience​of​Hayashi​film​a​modern​viewing​ subject,​I​mean​a​position​of​simultaneity—simultaneity​between​activity​ and​passivity​and​between​intangibility​and​tangibility.​Such​a​spectatorial​ position​of​simultaneity​did​not​occur​to​many​actors—at​least​at​that​time​ in​Japanese​film​history.​This​made​Hayashi​Chojiro​an​exceptional​figure​ even​within​Shochiku’s​capitalist-​industrial​system. glamorization of Jidaigeki: A new Promotional strategy and lighting scheme

Viewing​Hayashi​in​his​debut​film,​Kid’s Sword Fight​(Chigo no kenpo,​Inuzuka​Minoru,​1927),​right​before​its​release,​Shirai​Shintaro,​the​Shimokamo​studio​head​who​had​not​been​successful​in​catching​up​with​the​ popularity​ of​ jidaigeki​ and​ expanding​ the​ market​ for​ Shochiku​ films​ in​ Kansai​areas,​decided​to​bet​on​him.​Shirai​spent​30,000​yen​on​publicizing​ Hayashi​on​a​massive​scale.97​Hayashi’s​case​turned​out​to​be​the​first​extensive​star-​making​publicity​in​the​history​of​Japanese​cinema.​First,​Shirai​sent​out​fifty​thousand​portrait​photos​of​Hayashi,​fifty​thousand​special​ letters,​seventy​thousand​towels,​and​twenty​thousand​photo​albums​specifically​to​women​in​the​Kyoto,​Osaka,​and​Kobe​areas​and​to​every​household​in​the​entertainment​district​of​Kyoto.​Then​he​distributed​special​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  91

posters​to​beauty​parlors​and​cafés.​Hayashi’s​face​became​widely​known​ even​before​his​debut​on​the​screen.​By​the​release​of​Hayashi’s​second​ and​third​star​vehicles,​Shirai​had​added​three​thousand​happis​(special​ clothes),​three​thousand​parasols,​ten​thousand​sensu​(fans),​and​ten​thousand​uchiwa​(round​fans)​to​the​initial​publicity​materials​and​distributed​ them​“in​the​most​effective​manner​to​all​possible​places,”​according​to​ him.98​For​instance,​in​the​Nagoya​area,​Shirai​distributed​special​hanging​ screens​to​numerous​female​bathhouses​“in​order​to​attract​city​girls.”99​ After​several​films,​Hayashi’s​popularity​“rose​among​female​students​so​ high”​that​Shirai​produced​one​hundred​thousand​diaries​and​sent​them​ out​using​address​books​from​all​schools​in​Kyoto,​Osaka,​and​Kobe.​In​ order​to​promote​Hayashi,​Shirai​also​purchased​pages​in​national​newspapers​with​money,​special​gifts,​and​letters​from​the​famous​Kabuki​actors​ (and​Hayashi’s​mentors)​Nakamura​Ganjiro​I​and​Hayashi​Chozaburo.100 ​ As​an​integral​part​of​such​a​well-​organized​expansive​publicity​campaign,​fan​clubs​were​created​for​the​first​time​in​the​history​of​Japanese​ cinema.​While​there​had​been​supporters’​organizations​for​popular​actors,​ Hayashi’s​ fan​ clubs​ appeared​ to​ be​ what​ Hansen​ calls​ “an​ industrial-​ commercial​public​sphere”​that​was​conspicuously​designed​“to​mobilize​ grassroots​support,​but​.​.​.​[was]​fully​orchestrated​from​above,”​targeting​ female​spectators.101​Along​with​the​establishment​of​fan​clubs,​publication​ of​a​fan​magazine,​Shimokamo,​began​in​November​1927.​Kubota​Tatsuo,​ editor-​in-​chief​of​Shimokamo​and​the​head​of​the​fan​club​Hanabishi-​kai​ (Flower​and​arrow​group),​wrote​that​the​publication​of​the​magazine​was​ planned​ even​ before​ Hayashi’s​ entry​ into​ the​ Shimokamo​ studio.102​ Yet​ most​of​the​pages​of​the​magazine​were​dedicated​to​Hayashi​and​his​films,​ and​Shimokamo​was​widely​recognized​as​a​Hayashi​publicity​magazine.​ It​is​noteworthy​that​Shimokamo​promoted​such​Hayashi​goods​as​photo​ albums,​ handkerchiefs,​ soaps,​ and​ caramel​ candies​ in​ the​ Maruberudo​ store​in​Asakusa,​where​the​headquarters​of​Hanabishi-​kai​was​located.103 ​ Shirai’s​tactic​was​based​on​the​business​know-​how​that​he​had​acquired​ in​Hollywood,​which​he​had​visited​before​he​became​the​studio​head​at​ Shimokamo.104​Contemporary​film​critics​were​very​well​aware​of​Shirai’s​ business​strategy.​The​critic​Mizumachi​Seiji​wrote​in​1937​that​a​“trademark​for​business”​had​been​attached​to​Hayashi​and​the​120​films​that​ he​appeared​in​for​ten​years.​Mizumachi​argues,​“Businessmen​[at​Shochiku]​kept​exploiting​Chojiro​as​a​beautiful​man​who​would​flatter​young​ 92  chapter​2

women.​Chojiro​himself​made​every​effort​to​do​just​that.”105​Similarly,​but​ in​a​more​unfavorable​manner,​another​critic,​Yamahoshi,​called​Hayashi​ “ignorant”​and​wrote​in​1938​that​Hayashi’s​life​“displays​the​misery​of​so-​ called​commodified​stars​so​typically​that​we​cannot​help​becoming​more​ interested​in​the​structure​of​the​contemporary​film​business​that​forces​ him​to​dance.”106​Critic​F.K.R.​even​called​film​stars​“robots​that​film​companies​produce​overnight”​and​regarded​Hayashi​as​a​typical​example​of​ them.107 ​ But​how​could​Hayashi​become​Shochiku’s​“trademark​for​business”​ when​the​company​was​almost​completely​giving​up​jidaigeki?​Kido​Shiro​ claimed​that​Hayashi’s​star​vehicles​were​“sweet​jidaigeki,”​which​are​“completely​different​from​those​with​Bantsuma​[Bando​Tsumasaburo’s​nickname].”108​In​the​eyes​of​the​Kamata​studio​head,​Hayashi​was​not​exactly​ a​ jidaigeki​ star.​ Kido​ was​ not​ alone​ in​ this​ opinion.​ Contemporary​ critics​did​not​juxtapose​Hayashi​with​other​contemporary​jidaigeki​stars​but​ with​Shochiku​Kamata’s​female​stars.​In​1931,​the​critic​Suzuki​Tamotsu​ called​Hayashi​“the​darling​of​cinema​Nippon.”109​Similarly,​the​title​of​an​ article​on​Hayashi​in​a​1929​encyclopedia​of​film​stars​was​“Japanese​Darling”​ (“Nihon-​teki​ choji”).110​ Kurishima​ Sumiko,​ the​ first​ female​ star​ of​ Shochiku,​was​often​called​“Japanese​sweetheart”​(Waga​kuni​no​koibito).​ The​critic​Kimura​Fujio​noted,​“The​attraction​of​Pointo​[Hayashi’s​nickname]​is​his​femininity.​.​.​.​I​feel​pure​and​essential​Japanese​femininity​ [in​him].​Can​we​sense​the​same​characteristic​in​other​jidaigeki​actors​like​ Chiezo,​Okochi,​and​Bando?​Such​feminine​beauty​is​the​basis​of​Pointo’s​ attraction.​.​.​.​What​a​beautiful​sadness​we​can​feel​in​Pointo,​which​could​ even​destroy​one’s​[i.e.,​the​viewer’s]​body!”111​The​jidaigeki​star​Okochi​ Denjiro​ admitted​ the​ difference​ among​ jidaigeki​ stars​ including​ himself​ and​Hayashi:​ “[When​I​watched​ one​of​Hayashi’s​ films]​I​was​very​impressed​by​the​fact​that​the​truly​beautiful​Chojiro-​san​[on​the​screen]​was​ making​the​audience​very​pleased​by​his​beautiful​face​and​poses.​It​was​beyond​what​I​had​heard​about.​.​.​.​Chojiro-​san​is​in​a​totally​different​class​ from​me.”112​In​response,​Hayashi​claimed​that​he​was​not​good​at​“action-​ oriented”​acting​that​characterized​Okochi​or​Bando.113​Shochiku​played​ down​the​role​of​the​sword​in​Hayashi’s​star​image,​which​distanced​him​ from​authentic​jidaigeki​with​its​realism​in​sword​fighting.​Of​Hayashi’s​star​ vehicle​Star of Woman and Man​(Jobuboshi,​Kinugasa​Teinosuke,​1927),​the​ critic​Hazumi​Tsuneo​wrote,​“In​fact​‘swords’​do​not​play​significant​roles​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  93

figure​2.7  Only​the​portrait​of​Hayashi​Chojiro​is​a​close-​up.​Reprinted​from​ “Enchanted​Moments​from​the​Sword​Plays,”​Nihon Eiga​1.1​(June​1929):​n.p.

in​this​film.​.​.​.​What​can​other​jidaigeki​actors​do​being​deprived​of​their​ swords?​Probably​they​can​only​look​miserable​as​if​their​arms​and​legs​ were​cut​off.​.​.​.​It​is​impossible​for​jidaigeki​actors​to​throw​away​their​ swords​and​not​to​kill​people​with​them.​Overcoming​such​an​impossibility,​ Hayashi​Chojiro​became​successful.”114 ​ A​different​photographic​scheme​was​adopted​to​formulate​Hayashi’s​ star​image​not​around​the​sword​but​around​sweetness​and​even​vulnerability.​The​June​1929​issue​of​Nihon Eiga​magazine​placed​six​photographs​ of​ jidaigeki​ stars​ under​ the​ title​ “Enchanted​ Moments​ from​ the​ Sword​ Plays”​(fig.​2.7).​Among​them,​only​Hayashi’s​portrait​was​a​close-​up;​the​ other​photos—mostly​long​shots—featured​such​stars​as​Bando​and​Okochi​with​swords​in​their​hands.​Their​swords,​often​shining​white​and​reflecting​ strong​ spotlights,​ played​ as​ significant​ a​ role​ as​ their​ faces​ and​ bodies.​On​the​contrary,​in​Hayashi’s​photo,​his​sword​was​placed​behind​ his​back​and​visibly​out​of​focus.​His​face​and​his​eyes,​slightly​narrowed​ with​small​points​of​white​light​within​them,​were​clearly​emphasized​by​ high-​key​lighting.115 ​ Similarly,​a​publicity​still​photo​from​Torn Woven Umbrella​(Yabure amigasa,​ Inuzuka​ Minoru,​ 1927)​ captures​ Hayashi​ in​ high-​key​ lighting​ (fig.​ 94  chapter​2

2.8).​In​the​photo,​a​visibly​fatigued​Hayashi​is​embraced​by​a​woman​(Chihaya​ Akiko)​ from​ the​ back.​ His​ eyes​ are​ narrowed​ as​ if​ he​ were​ suffering​from​a​fatal​wound.​Some​blood​is​visible​on​his​left​cheek.​While​the​ woman​looks​motherly,​Hayashi’s​body​looks​quite​vulnerable,​especially​ because​his​sword​is​not​visible​even​though​it​was​quite​obvious​from​his​ costume​that​this​was​a​scene​following​a​sword​fight.116​Such​a​vulnerable​image​of​Hayashi​was​the​realization​of​one​female​fan’s​dream.​In​the​ dream​that​she​confessed​in​a​fan​letter,​Hayashi​appeared​as​a​dying​samurai​who​begs​for​her​help—the​ultimate​image​of​vulnerability:​“To​my​ears,​ the​suffering​samurai​seemed​to​be​begging​for​water.​Then​he​vomited​ blackish​red​blood​and​fell​down.​As​soon​as​I​realized—oh,​what​a​stupid​ girl​I​was—all​of​these​occurred​in​my​dream.”117 ​ The​film​critic​Okamura​Akira​wrote​about​Kichizo the Monk​(Obo Kichizo,​ Fuyushima​ Taizo,​ 1929),​ Hayashi’s​ star​ vehicle:​ “Cinematography​ [of​the​film]​is​bright​and​cheerful.”118​The​critic​Murakami​Hisao​similarly​ pointed​ out,​ “When​ brightness,​ cheerfulness,​ and​ pureness​ quietly​ circle​around,​they​turn​into​the​profile​of​young​Hayashi​Chojiro.​The​outline​of​his​spotless​profile​that​makes​the​viewers’​hearts​joyful​then​turns​ into​a​close-​up,​which​emphasizes​his​two​eyes—the​origin​of​all​his​characteristics.​The​impression​of​Chojiro​derives​clearly​from​his​bright​and​ shadow-​free​eyes​even​when​he​cries,​smiles,​or​rages.”119​It​seemed​as​if​ Hayashi’s​sweet​jidaigeki​became​Shochiku’s​“trademark​of​business”​as​an​ extension​of​its​bright​and​cheerful​policy,​whose​emphasis​was​on​the​visibility​of​characters’​faces.​However,​Hayashi’s​star​image​was​by​no​means​ a​straightforward​extension​of​the​Kamata​tone.​In​fact,​there​was​no​other​ actor​who​received​such​a​careful​and​crafty​lighting​and​cinematographic​ scheme​as​Hayashi​Chojiro​did.​Female​stars​at​Kamata​such​as​Kurishima​ Sumiko​ received​ the​ Hollywood-​style​ three-​point​ lighting​ and​ special​ makeup,​particularly​in​publicity​photos,​but​the​stars​were​mostly​placed​ in​a​tableau-​style​flat​lighting​in​films.​In​the​case​of​Hayashi,​the​special​ treatment​in​lighting​was​not​limited​to​publicity​photos.​Special​lighting​ schemes,​which​combined​the​Hollywood​style​and​the​Kabuki​style​in​an​ unprecedented​manner,​enhanced​the​sensual​glamour​of​the​rising​star​ and​played​significant​roles​in​the​formation​of​an​affective​and​communicative​mode​in​Hayashi’s​stardom.​Hayashi​himself​tried​to​distinguish​ his​star​image​from​a​simple​adoption​of,​or​a​retreat​to,​the​Kabuki​style.​ In​ his​ essay​ of​ February​ 1929,​ “My​ Kabuki​ Film,”​ Hayashi​ argued,​ “The​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  95

figure​2.8  Vulnerable​Hayashi​Chojiro​is​embraced​by​a​woman.​Torn Woven Umbrella​(1927).​Reprinted​from​Shimokamo​2.11​(November​1928):​28.

Kabuki​film​that​I​have​been​making​and​will​continue​to​make​is​not​a​ film​about​Kabuki​itself.​I​am​tentatively​calling​it​the​Kabuki​film​because​ there​is​no​other​appropriate​word​to​describe​it.​Yet,​essentially,​a​Kabuki​ film​is​a​new​artistic​existence​that​combines​the​good​things​of​both,​and​ the​styles​of​Kabuki​are​condensed​in​those​of​cinema.”120 ​ It​is​indicative​that​in​fan​magazine​articles​Hayashi​often​named​Ernst​ Lubitsch​as​his​favorite​director.​The​first​dream​that​Hayashi​had​on​January​1,​1930,​according​to​an​article​published​in​Shimokamo,​was​starring​ in​ 8th Heaven,​ a​ sequel​ to​ 7th Heaven​ (Frank​ Borzage,​ 1927)​ with​ Janet​ Gaynor​under​the​direction​of​Lubitsch.​When​Hayashi​was​about​to​kiss​ Gaynor​ in​ his​ dream​ in​ a​ close-​up,​ Kinugasa​ Teinosuke,​ the​ director​ of​ many​Hayashi​star​vehicles​who​also​served​as​the​assistant​director​for​the​ film,​knocked​a​lamp​over,​and​Hayashi​woke​up​from​the​dream.121​In​1937,​ asked​whom​he​would​choose​if​he​were​allowed​to​invite​a​filmmaker​from​ abroad​to​produce​his​film,​Hayashi​answered,​“First​of​all,​Ernst​Lubitsch.​ I’ve​really​liked​him​for​a​long​time.​How​can​I​say,​he​is​truly​masterful.”122 ​ By​the​time​Hayashi​made​his​debut​on​screen,​Lubitsch​had​already​ established​ his​ status​ in​ Hollywood.​ After​ discovering​ backlighting,​ according​to​Kristin​Thompson,​“precise,​glowing​three-​point​lighting”​became​ one​ of​ Lubitsch’s​ trademark​ techniques.123​ Thompson​ argues​ that​ Lubitsch’s​actors​are​“typically​outlined​with​edge​light,”​which​exemplifies​his​execution​of​the​three-​point​system​that​minimizes​shadows​cast​ by​actors​“a​bit​better​than​anyone​else.”124​In​the​system,​the​primary,​or​ key,​light​would​typically​concentrate​on​the​main​actors,​which​is​what​ the​film​scholar​Torben​Grodal​calls​“typical​glamour​lighting.”125​Fill​light​ cast​on​the​actors​from​the​side​opposite​the​key​light​softens​shadows​and​ creates​an​attractive​modeled​look.​Backlighting​from​lamps​placed​on​the​ tops​of​the​sets​at​the​rear​would​project​highlights​onto​the​actors’​hair​ and​trace​a​little​outline​of​light​around​their​bodies.126​Three-​point​lighting​was​originally​a​gender-​coded​technique.​A​June​1932​article​in​American Cinematographer​stated,​“When​photographing​women​they​should​be​ done​so​beautifully.​The​lighting​should​be​in​a​high​key​and​aim​to​express​ femininity.​The​tonal​range​between​the​highlight​and​the​shadow​should​ never​be​very​great.​The​lighting​for​men​on​the​other​hand​should​express​ rugged​virility.​The​tonal​contrast​should​be​much​longer​than​that​employed​for​women.​In​fact​it​should​be​more​or​less​contrasty​without​being​ violent.”127​However,​according​to​Patrick​Keating,​as​cinematographers​in​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  97

Hollywood​grew​better​and​better​at​making​people​look​perfectly​unblemished,​the​studios​grew​more​and​more​insistent​that​cinematographers​use​ their​glamor​techniques​on​all​major​stars,​men​and​women​alike.​As​a​result,​“a​lighting​treatment​that​was​conventionally​coded​as​‘feminine’:​a​flat​ key-​light,​a​generous​amount​of​fill,​and​a​glowing​backlight”​was​applied​ to​male​stars​for​the​ideal​of​glamori​zation.128 ​ This​Hollywood​ideal​of​glamorization​in​lighting,​which​had​been​sporadically​adopted​for​Shochiku’s​female​stars​at​Kamata​by​Henry​Kotani​ and​others,​was​fully​adopted​for​the​first​time​in​the​history​of​Japanese​ cinema​ to​ formulate​ Hayashi’s​ photographic​ image.​ In​ most​ cases,​ the​ close-​ups​of​Hayashi’s​face​clearly​display​specific​use​of​three-​point​lighting,​with​visibly​soft​focus.​In​a​still​photo​from​O-Natsu Seijuro​(Inuzuka​ Minoru,​1936),​the​film​“made​absolutely​in​order​to​please​[Hayashi]​fans,”​ Hayashi​looks​at​the​heroine​(Tanaka​Kinuyo)​on​a​nighttime​street​(fig.​ 2.9).129​With​his​eyes​narrowed,​he​shows​the​left​side​of​his​face​to​the​ camera.​The​production​photo​of​the​film​reveals​the​use​of​incandescent​ tungsten​lamps,​so​strong​sidelights​leave​the​left​half​of​Hayashi’s​face​in​ slight​shade,​fill​lights​from​the​frontal​right​soften​the​shadow,​and​top​ lights​make​the​rim​of​his​head​shine​beautifully​(fig.​2.10).130​In​an​interview​conducted​before​the​film’s​production,​Ito​Takeo,​the​cinematographer,​confirmed​that​he​would​adopt​soft-​focus​photography​for​Hayashi​ in​the​film:​“I​will​use​soft​tones​throughout,​for​instance,​in​order​to​make​ Mr.​Hayashi​look​as​good​as​possible​for​the​film​that​celebrates​the​ten-​ year​anniversary​of​his​debut.”131 ​ Incandescent​tungsten​lamps​that​could​bring​more​uniform​illumination​were​indispensable​in​achieving​soft​tones​in​the​three-​point​lighting​ system.​ Carbon​ arc​ lamps​ that​ had​ dominated​ filmmaking​ in​ the​ 1920s,​ on​the​other​hand,​created​more​intense​light​in​more​limited​areas,​even​ though​they​were​noisier​and​lasted​only​for​fifteen​to​thirty​seconds.132​ Carbon​arc​lamps​were​thus​suitable​for​jidaigeki,​especially​when​a​flash​of​ swords​was​required.​Shochiku’s​Shimokamo​studio​took​the​initiative​to​ incorporate​electric​incandescent​lamps​into​films.​According​to​a​March​ 1931​report​in​Kinema Junpo,​Nikkatsu’s​Uzumasa​studio​in​Kyoto,​which​ specialized​ in​ jidaigeki,​ maintained​ 198​ “carbon​ lights”​ and​ 72​ “globe”​ lamps,​while​Shochiku’s​Shimokamo​studio​was​in​possession​of​80​“carbon​and/or​electric​lights”​and​20​“specialized​lights.”133​According​to​an​ April​1933​report​in​the​same​journal,​Nikkatsu’s​Uzumasa​studio​owned​198​ 98  chapter​2

figure​2.9  Hayashi​Chojiro​looks​at​Tanaka​Kinuyo​on​a​nighttime​street.​ O-Natsu Seijuro​(1936).​Reprinted​from​Shimokamo​10.5​(May​1936):​3.

figure​2.10  Incandescent​tungsten​lamps​create​soft​lighting​for​Hayashi​ Chojiro​and​Tanaka​Kinuyo.​O-Natsu Seijuro​(1936)​in​production.​Reprinted​from​ Shimokamo​10.5​(May​1936):​80.

carbon​lights​and​220​globe​lamps.​The​studio​added​148​globe​lamps,​but​ the​number​of​carbon​lights​did​not​change​at​all​in​the​two​years.​In​the​ meantime,​in​April​1933​Shochiku’s​Shimokamo​studio​was​in​possession​of​ much​greater​numbers​of​electric​lamps​and​proudly​informed​the​journal:​ one​5​kW​electric​bulb​spotlight,​four​3​kW​electric​bulb​special​spotlights,​ four​2​kW​electric​bulb​special​spotlights,​six​6​kW​sun​lights,​twenty-​five​ 6​kW​arc​spotlights,​thirty-​five​2​kW​top​lights,​fifty​1​kW​sidelights,​thirty-​ five​2​kW​sidelights,​five​3​kW​special​top​lights,​seven​1​kW​electric​spotlights,​seventeen​1​kW​suspension,​and​six​500​W​hectoria.​They​had​195​ lamps​in​total—only​25​of​them​were​designated​as​carbon​arc​lamps.134 ​ Incandescent​lamps​gradually​took​the​place​of​arc​light​(coal​arc​light​ and​mercury​steam​light)​in​Japanese​filmmaking​in​the​1930s,​in​accordance​with​the​introduction​of​panchromatic​film,​which​was​more​sensitive​than​the​previous​orthochromatic​film​and​reproduced​all​the​colors​ of​the​visible​spectrum.135​Shochiku​Shimokamo​preceded​all​others​in​this​ move,​even​Kamata.​It​was​Shochiku​Kamata​that​had​initially​started​using​ Mazda’s​1​kW​incandescent​tungsten​lamps​in​film​production​as​early​as​ 1929,​including​in​Record of New Women​(Shin josei kagami,​Gosho​Heinosuke,​1929).136​The​cinematographer​of​Record of New Women​was​Miura​ Mitsuo,​who​had​just​returned​from​his​research​trip​to​Hollywood.​Miura​ was​impressed​by​the​“abundant”​use​of​light​in​Hollywood​studios,​including​Mazda​lamps,​and​wanted​to​use​them​in​his​films.137​When​Mazda’s​ 3​ kW​ sunspot​ lights​ were​ imported​ to​ Tokyo​ Mazda​ Lighting​ School​ in​1930​and​the​Japanese​branch​of​Mazda​started​producing​3​kW​sunspot​lights​in​1931,​Shochiku​Kamata​was​the​first​to​use​them​in​its​filmmaking.138​Wataragi​Moichi,​the​former​chief​of​the​electricity​department​ of​the​Kamata​studio,​which​was​responsible​for​lighting​equipment,​recalled​that​he​used​3​kW​sunspot​lights​in​Hobo in the City​(Machi no runpen,​Ikeda​Yoshinobu,​1931),​starring​Kurishima​Sumiko.139​The​September​ 1931​issue​of​Kamata​proudly​noted​that​sunspot​lighting,​which​the​studio​ had​started​to​use​“about​one​year​ago,”​was​“excellent​lighting​equipment”​ so​that​“sunspot​lighting​took​the​place​of​arc​lighting​right​away.”140​However,​it​was​at​Shochiku​Shimokamo​that​incandescent​lamps​were​fully​ employed.​According​to​Wataragi,​incandescent​tungsten​white​light​bulbs​ of​“high​quality”​were​“extremely​expensive”​and​not​easily​replaceable.141​ The​Kamata​studio​head​might​have​been​hesitant​to​turn​completely​to​ such​an​expensive​investment​until​it​became​necessary​when​they​started​ 100  chapter​2

to​ produce​ talking​ pictures.142​ After​ The Neighbor’s Wife and Mine​ (Madamu to nyobo,​Gosho​Heinosuke,​1931),​the​first​complete​talking​picture​ in​Japan​produced​at​Shochiku’s​Kamata​studio,​light​bulbs​became​a​necessity​because​they​did​not​create​the​loud​noises​that​arc​lights​did.143 ​ Shochiku​Shimokamo’s​move​toward​incandescent​light​bulbs​followed​ the​technological​transformation​in​Hollywood.​In​1928,​the​Society​of​Motion​Picture​Engineers​tested​panchromatic​film​and​incandescent​lighting​on​a​massive​scale,​known​as​“the​Mazda​tests​of​1928.”​As​a​result,​ incandescent​light​and​panchromatic​film​became​the​industry’s​norm.144​ In​1930,​Victor​Milner,​the​Hollywood​cinematographer​who​worked​with​ Lubitsch​on​such​films​as​The Love Parade​(1929)​and​Monte Carlo​(1930),​ insisted​on​the​significance​of​panchromatic​film​in​the​development​of​ new​styles​of​cinematography:​“No​one​can​deny​that​one​of​the​greatest​ increases​in​the​actual​photographic​beauty​came​with​the​introduction​of​ the​panchromatic​emulsion.​The​actual​styles​of​photography​and​lighting​ were​unchanged,​but​the​more​sensitive​emulsion​was​able​to​make​fuller​ use​of​light​reflected​from​the​subjects,​and​gave​unquestionably​better​results.”145​Hayashi​himself​recollected​that​he​first​learned​how​to​put​on​ his​makeup​for​films​from​Seki​Misao,​who​had​worked​in​Hollywood​with​ such​people​as​Sessue​Hayakawa​and​Henry​Kotani.146​In​this​sense,​David​ Bordwell​is​correct​when​he​writes​that​Japanese​filmmakers​“borrowed​ extensively”​from​“Hollywood​conventions​of​structure​and​style.”147​Shochiku’s​original​ goal​of​filmmaking—imitating​ Hollywood—seemed​ recouped​at​its​Shimokamo​studio​after​its​Kamata​studio​decided​to​pursue​ a​more​compromising​policy.​The​distance​from​Kamata,​Shochiku’s​main​ film​studio,​and​the​status​of​jidaigeki​in​Shochiku’s​filmmaking,​whose​ focus​was​more​on​gendaigeki,​might​have​made​it​possible​to​pursue​such​ technological​ experimentation​ that​ deviated​ slightly​ from​ the​ company​ policy.​Or,​as​long​as​Hayashi​was​successful​as​its​star,​expressivity​was​ justified​ over​ visibility.​ For​ Shochiku​ executives​ such​ as​ Kido,​ aesthetic​ achievement​counted​as​long​as​it​would​go​along​with​commercialism. ​ However,​ Hollywood​ conventions​ of​ structure​ and​ style​ were​ not​ straightforwardly​applied​to​Hayashi’s​star​image.​The​lighting​scheme​for​ the​ star​ was​ surely​ different​ from​ the​ bright​ and​ cheerful​ Kamata​ tone,​ but​the​lighting​combined​the​Hollywood​style​with​the​conventions​of​ Kabuki​and​shinpa​in​a​unique​manner.​Bordwell​claims,​“By​1928,​we​find​ films​such​as​Fuun Yoshi​(Yoshi Castle)​[sic],​whose​slick​style​wholly​accepts​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  101

the​norms​of​Hollywood​lighting,​staging,​camera​position,​and​cutting.”148​ History of the Fuun Castle​ (Fuunjoshi,​ Yamasaki​ Fujie,​ 1928,​ 35​ mm​ print​ preserved​at​the​National​Film​Center,​National​Museum​of​Modern​Art,​ Tokyo)​is​a​typical​Hayashi​star​vehicle—Suzuki​Juzaburo​of​Kinema Junpo​ called​the​film​“not​good​but​not​bad.”149​In​the​film,​Hollywood​lighting​ is​effectively​incorporated​to​enhance​the​glamour​of​Hayashi’s​face.​In​the​ opening​scene,​for​instance,​Hayashi​rides​on​a​horse​to​his​hometown​after​ a​long​trip.​In​the​first​medium​close-​up,​with​his​shining​eyes,​he​looks​at​ the​castle​where​he​grew​up,​at​the​rice​fields​and​mountains​that​surround​ the​town.​He​slowly​moves​his​gaze​from​right​to​left​and​cries​out​his​first​ line​of​the​film​in​an​intertitle,​“What​bright​sunlight!”​In​the​following​ medium​close-​up,​the​glare​in​his​eyes​looks​enhanced,​reflecting​the​bright​ sunlight​that​he​mentions.​Then​comes​a​flashback.​Hayashi​remembers​the​ beautiful​past:​in​irised​shot-​reverse-​shot​medium​close-​ups​with​silky​soft​ focus,​Hayashi​intimately​speaks​with​his​fiancée.​She​says​to​Hayashi,​who​ is​about​to​go​on​a​trip,​“I​will​be​waiting​for​you.”​When​the​flashback​ends,​ a​group​of​samurais​approach​Hayashi.​They​are​from​the​castle​and​they​ welcome​the​return​of​their​young​prince.​One​of​the​samurais​is​Hayashi’s​ elder​brother.​The​shot​reverse​shot​between​Hayashi​and​the​brother​is​indicative​in​terms​of​the​film’s​lighting​scheme.​While​the​brother’s​medium​ close-​up​is​in​flat​high​key,​the​reverse​shot​of​Hayashi​is​beautifully​backlit​and​the​rim​of​his​hair​is​shining​in​a​glorious​manner.​His​face​is​not​in​ dark​shade​but​his​eyes​are​glaring,​reflecting​some​light—obviously​not​ the​sunlight​because​the​sun​is​behind​him.​Such​glamor​lighting​is​not​ adopted​in​the​shots​of​other​samurais—despite​the​fact​that​the​brother​is​ the​crown​prince,​not​Hayashi. ​ Hollywood-​style​lighting​thus​glamorizes​Hayashi​in​History of the Fuun Castle,​but​it​is​important​to​note​that​such​lighting​clearly​singles​him​out​ from​other​characters.​Keating​argues​that​“the​cinema​star​phenomenon,​ which​placed​a​high​priority​on​glamour,”​encouraged​“greater​homogenization”​in​cinematography​and​lighting.150​The​phenomenal​success​of​ Hayashi​placed​a​high​priority​on​glamour,​but​it​did​not​encourage​any​ homogenization​in​cinematography​and​lighting.​Instead,​glamour​cinematography​and​lighting​made​Hayashi​exceptional​but​significant​in​the​ history​of​Japanese​cinema. ​ More​ important,​ the​ Hollywood-​style​ three-​point​ lighting​ was​ combined​ with​ other​ distinctive​ techniques​ that​ enhanced​ the​ sensuality​ of​ 102  chapter​2

Hayashi’s​physique​to​its​extreme.​Those​techniques,​which​were​not​easily​ observed​in​any​other​films​of​the​same​period​and​made​Hayashi’s​star​ image​unprecedented​and​novel,​included​movable​lights,​longer​duration​ of​shots​whose​origin​might​have​been​found​in​Kabuki,​and​Kabuki​and​ shinpa–style​theatrical​acting.​According​to​the​cinematographer​Morita​ Fujio,​“this​may​sound​insane,”​but​to​maintain​the​ratio​between​the​key​ and​the​fill​light​on​Hayashi’s​portrait,​the​key​light,​hung​from​the​ceiling,​ was​always​movable,​and​a​lighting​assistant​moved​it​whenever​Hayashi​ changed​ the​ direction​ of​ his​ face.​ The​ close-​ups​ of​ Hayashi’s​ face​ often​ had​a​certain​length​of​shot​duration,​even​though​it​was​not​necessarily​ required​for​the​sake​of​storytelling.​Such​special​treatment​of​Hayashi’s​ face,​achieved​in​careful​and​crafty​lighting​techniques,​had​its​own​Japanized​name:​onobashi​(extension).151​With​onobashi,​a​static​moment​was​ created,​in​which​Hayashi’s​face​was​exclusively​and​extensively​displayed​ on​the​screen.​It​was​as​if​all​the​action​had​stopped​because​of​the​beauty​ of​Hayashi’s​face.​In​Kabuki,​a​focus​on​a​star’s​face​creates​a​static​moment​ in​climactic​scenes.​A​Kabuki​actor’s​exaggerated​and​temporally​static​face​ before​entering​his​climactic​violent​act​is​known​as​mie.​The​term​mie,​“exaggerated​freezes​in​tableaux,”​means​to​stop​one’s​movement​in​the​middle​ of​the​act​and​to​stare​forward​with​eyes​wide​open.​The​actor​circles​his​ head​once,​opens​his​eyes​wide,​raises​his​eyebrows,​and​glares​fiercely.​It​ creates​a​moment​of​static​time​that​expresses​the​enhanced​emotion​of​the​ actor​in​a​“bombastic​gesticulation”​and​“brings​all​action​onstage​to​a​halt​ with​it.”152​In​this​sense,​the​static​moment​of​onobashi​could​be​derived​ from​the​Kabuki​convention,​but​with​strong​help​from​the​cinematic​movable​light. ​ As​Hayashi’s​publicity​and​promotion​was​carefully​planned​and​executed​by​the​Shochiku​executive​head​Shirai​Shintaro,​Hayashi’s​glamorized​image​was​craftily​prepared​by​Shochiku​filmmakers,​most​typically​by​ Kinugasa​Teinosuke,​director​of​many​Hayashi​star​vehicles.​In​addition​to​ adopting​moving​lights​and​onobashi​techniques​to​photograph​Hayashi’s​ face,​ Kinugasa,​ who​ was​ trained​ as​ an​ onnagata​ himself​ in​ “third-​rate”​ shinpa​and​in​shinpa​films​at​Nikkatsu’s​Mukojima​studio,​taught​Hayashi​ how​ to​ use​ his​ trademark​ expression​ of​ the​ eyes,​ nagashi-me​ (a​ sensual​ sidelong​glance),​a​distinctive​facial​acting​technique​of​an​onnagata.153​In​ particular,​Kinugasa​made​Hayashi​glance​left​when​he​made​the​nagashi-​ me​expression.​The​cinematographer​Sugiyama​Kohei,​who​worked​with​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  103

Kinugasa​and​Hayashi​in​numerous​films,​emphasized​that​Hayashi’s​close-​ ups​had​to​be​facing​to​the​left​for​the​star​to​look​at​the​left​side​of​the​ theater,​which​was​generally​occupied​by​the​female​audience​in​Japan​in​ the​early​Showa​period.154​Under​the​regulation​of​The​Rules​of​Controlling​Motion​Pictures​(Katsudo​shashin​kogyo​torishimari​kisoku)​of​the​ police​department​until​1931,​regular​movie​theaters​had​to​have​different​ seating​sections​for​male​and​female​audiences,​with​an​exception​for​married​couples.155​With​a​rare​combination​of​Hollywood​and​Kabuki,​new​ and​old—the​three-​point​lighting,​moving​light,​onobashi,​and​nagashi-​me​ techniques—Hayashi’s​eyes​turned​into​an​seductive​attraction​that​could​ compete​with​the​spectacular​flash​of​the​sword​in​jidaigeki. ​ Despite​the​fact​that​the​film​was​not​directed​by​Kinugasa,​a​brief​extant​print​of​General Mobilization in Satsunan​(Satsunan sodoin,​Fuyushima​ Taizo,​1930),​a​war​film​that​“reminded”​Hayashi​of​“one​of​those​American​war​films,”​has​an​excellent​example​of​the​manipulation​of​lighting,​ onobashi,​and​nagashi-​me​of​Hayashi.156​Fuyushima,​who​highly​respected​ Kinugasa,​declared​that​the​film​was​not​a​film​“blindly​adopting​the​star​ system”​but​“a​new​film​that​used​various​cinematic​senses​in​order​to​depict​groups​of​people​and​their​collective​lives.”157​Hayashi​himself​wrote,​ “I​am​usually​very​conscious​of​displaying​beautiful​lines​of​movement​in​ the​form​of​jidaigeki.​In​this​film,​however,​I​changed​direction​and​acted​ more​ realistically​ in​ the​ role​ of​ Yoshimi​ the​ protagonist.​ That​ was​ what​ both​the​director​and​I​wanted​to​do.”158​Even​so,​the​fact​that​a​brief​segment​of​the​film​has​survived​in​the​form​of​a​toy​film​(omocha eiga),​which​ usually​captured​the​most​notable​scene​of​a​film​for​the​purpose​of​memorabilia,​is​evidence​that​the​standardized​format​and​styles​of​Hayashi​star​ vehicles​were​maintained​in​its​key​scenes.​The​scene​is​set​in​a​jail.​In​extremely​low-​key​lighting,​Yoshimi​(Hayashi)​attempts​to​assassinate​a​spy​ for​the​shogunate.​A​long​shot​shows​the​two​men​grabbing​each​other​ over​a​grating​in​the​prison​cell.​In​this​shot,​lights​come​from​only​two​ directions​and​create​a​strong​contrast​between​light​and​shadow.​The​right​ side​of​Yoshimi’s​face​is​almost​completely​in​dark​shadow​because​lights​ only​come​from​his​frontal​left​and​from​his​posterior​right.​Even​though​ an​intertitle​reads,​“Why​did​you​stab​me?”​we​hardly​see​the​sword​that​ Yoshimi​uses.​There​is​no​flash​of​sword,​which​makes​this​scene​atypical​for​a​jidaigeki.​Instead,​when​the​long​shot​is​followed​by​a​close-​up​of​ Yoshimi’s​face,​the​lighting​of​the​previous​shot​is​completely​transformed​ 104  chapter​2

figure​2.11  Yoshimi​(Hayashi​Chojiro)​narrows​his​eyes​and​slowly​glares​to​ his​left​in​a​typical​example​of​nagashi-​me.​General Mobilization in Satsunan​(1930).​ Courtesy​of​Toy​Film​Project.

into​perfect​three-​point​lighting.​There​is​no​longer​any​thick​shadow​on​ Yoshimi’s​face.​The​fill​light​erases​it.​In​addition,​the​light​from​his​posterior​right​functions​as​a​perfect​backlight​and​creates​a​beautiful​rim​of​ light​over​his​head,​which​is​covered​with​a​silky​black​cloth​(fig.​2.11).​The​ close-​up​has​a​long​duration​(onobashi),​in​which​Yoshimi​narrows​his​eyes​ and​slowly​glares​to​his​left​(nagashi-​me)​where​the​spy​stands—and​the​ female​spectators​hold​their​breath​in​the​dark. ​ A​ sword-​fighting​ scene​ in​ An Actor’s Revenge​ trilogy​ (Yukinojo henge,​ Kinugasa​Teinosuke,​1935–36),​an​unprecedented​hit​for​a​film​produced​at​ Shimokamo,​craftily​combines​onobashi​and​nagashi-​me.​In​addition​to​the​ specific​treatment​of​lighting​that​enhances​Hayashi’s​sensuality,​the​editing​of​the​scene​emphasizes​the​vulnerability​of​Hayashi’s​body.​The​film​ critic​Sato​Tadao​writes​about​Hayashi’s​fight​scenes,​including​those​in​An Actor’s Revenge:​“What​creates​the​enhanced​rhythm​of​Hayashi​Chojiro/ Hasegawa​Kazuo’s​sword​fighting​is​the​tense​close-​ups​of​his​facial​expression,​which​are​appropriately​inserted​between​long​shots​displaying​the​ graceful​dance-​like​movements​of​his​body.”159​Then​Sato​argues,​“Trained​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  105

as​an​onnagata​of​Kabuki,​Hasegawa​Kazuo​[Hayashi’s​real​name]​possesses​excellent​footwork​of​Japanese​dancing.​His​body​always​looks​as​if​it​ is​about​to​lose​control​and​fall​down​during​quick​sword​fighting,​but​from​ moment​to​moment​he​is​able​to​change​this​unbalance​into​graceful​poses​ with​his​excellent​footwork.​This​is​his​special​technique​that​intoxicates​his​ audience​with​the​beauty​of​his​body.​.​.​.​[It​is]​the​beauty​of​vulnerability,​ which​is​not​about​strength​but​the​capability​of​turning​unbalance​into​a​ beautiful​pose.”160 ​ Hayashi’s​onscreen​image​might​be​regarded​as​a​retreat​to​Onoe​Matsunosuke’s​ Kabuki​ style.​ Both​ Hayashi​ and​ Onoe​ created​ static​ moments​ during​sword​fights.​However,​while​Onoe’s​sword​fights​were​mainly​characterized​by​long​shots,​long​takes,​and​with​flat​lighting​(and​such​trick​ editing​as​Onoe​suddenly​turning​into​a​giant​frog​or​some​other​thing),​ Hayashi’s​were​characterized​by​close-​ups,​three-​point​lighting,​onobashi,​ and​nagashi-​me. ​ After​a​series​of​brief​shots​that​depict​a​fight​under​pinewoods​at​night​ between​ Yukinojo​ (Hayashi)​ and​ small-​time​ hired​ samurais​ comes​ a​ close-​up​of​Yukinojo.​In​the​close-​up,​Yukinojo​moves​his​head​to​his​left​ and​turns​almost​directly​ to​the​camera​with​his​eyes​slightly​ narrowed​ (nagashi-​me)​while​his​body​is​still​turned​to​the​right.​Yukinojo​challenges​ Kadokura,​the​leader​of​the​clan,​in​a​sensual​tone​of​voice​(the​film​is​a​ talkie).​Even​the​shot​is​in​low​key;​the​key​light​from​the​left​leaves​the​ right​side​of​Yukinojo’s​face​in​soft​shade​while​the​top​light​makes​the​rim​ of​his​hair—in​a​typical​female​Japanese​style—shine.​The​relatively​contrasty​three-​point​lighting​enhances​the​transition​of​the​battle​without​sacrificing​the​beauty​and​sensuality​of​Yukinojo.​The​shot​is​relatively​long​in​ duration​(onobashi)​compared​to​the​ones​preceding​it. ​ Then,​Kadokura’s​men,​in​better​dress​than​the​defeated​hoodlum​samurais,​attack​Yukinojo.​The​fight​between​Kadokura’s​men​and​Yukinojo​is​ edited​in​almost​exactly​the​same​way​as​the​previous​fight.​There​is​a​certain​pattern​of​editing.​First,​a​long​shot​establishes​the​spatial​configuration​between​Yukinojo​and​the​opponents.​Yukinojo​stands​in​a​spotlit​ area​and​looks​whiter​than​the​others.​The​establishing​shot​is​followed​by​ three​brief​close-​ups​of​the​opponents​raising​their​swords.​Then,​the​first​ long​shot​is​repeated,​when​Yukinojo​takes​off​his​overcoat.​After​two​more​ brief​medium​close-​ups​of​the​opponents,​a​medium​long​shot​depicts​Yukinojo’s​waist,​legs​covered​by​a​woman’s​kimono,​and​the​long​sleeves​of​ 106  chapter​2

figure​2.12  Yukinojo​(Hayashi​Chojiro)​faces​slightly​to​the​left​and​narrows​his​ eyes​(nagashi-​me).​An Actor’s Revenge​(1935–36).

the​kimono.​The​camera​pans​to​the​right​as​Yukinojo​moves​that​way.​He​ swings​his​sleeve​as​if​he​were​avoiding​an​attack​from​one​of​the​opponents.​The​movement​of​Yukinojo’s​body​does​not​look​strong​but​tottering.​But​when​the​camera​swash​pans​to​the​right​again,​what​is​thrown​ aside​is​not​Yukinojo​but​the​man​who​has​just​attacked​him.​After​another​ series​of​close-​ups​of​the​opponents​with​their​swords,​Yukinojo​turns​his​ body​around​in​an​extreme​long​shot,​as​if​he​were​dancing.​Every​time​Yukinojo​turns​his​waist​around,​a​man​falls​down.​The​camera​swiftly​pans​to​ the​right,​following​the​movement​of​a​falling​man.​Yukinojo​never​draws​ his​sword.​Instead​there​comes​a​close-​up​of​Yukinojo’s​face.​He​is​breathing​a​little​heavier​and​looking​slightly​to​the​left.​The​lighting​scheme​is​the​ same​as​the​previous​close-​up:​the​right​side​of​his​face​is​in​soft​shade​and​ the​rim​of​his​hair​is​shining.​In​this​close-​up,​which​is​conspicuously​longer​ in​duration​than​the​shots​of​the​fighting,​Yukinojo​once​again​faces​slightly​ to​the​left,​narrows​his​eyes​(nagashi-​me),​and​challenges​Kadokura​(fig.​ 2.12).161​A​fan​wrote​about​this​scene:​“Making​a​solemn​face​in​the​scene​ at​the​pine​woods,​he​[Hayashi]​was​very​good​with​menacing​intensity.”162 ​ A​ recurrent​ motif​ in​ the​ climactic​ scenes​ of​ Hayashi’s​ star​ vehicles​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  107

served​to​amplify​the​effect​of​the​nagashi-​me​technique.​Fires​occur​at​ night​and​spectacularly​enhance​the​glare​in​Hayashi’s​eyes​in​such​films​as​ Record of the Ocean Country,​Sajimaro the Thief​(Kaito Sajimaro,​Koishi​Eiichi,​1928),​Human Beast​(Hitodenashi,​Tomonari​Yozo,​1928),​Sanji the Wild Fox​(Nogitsune Sanji,​Koishi​Eiichi,​1930,​35​mm​prints​preserved​at​Kobe​ Planet​Eiga​Shiryokan),​and​An Actor’s Revenge.163​Especially​when​artificial​ lighting​equipment​was​in​short​supply,​even​at​Shimokamo​studio,​which​ had​incorporated​incandescent​lamps​earlier​than​the​others,​fire​provided​ for​Hayashi​an​ideal​lighting​source​to​achieve​the​three-​point​lighting​because​it​needs​strong​sources​of​key​light​as​well​as​fill​light​and​backlight.​ In​regard​to​historical​authenticity,​there​was​no​electrical​light​in​the​premodern​period​of​jidaigeki;​fires​provided​a​sufficient​amount​of​source​ light​without​destroying​the​sense​of​realism.​Sachiko,​a​female​fan,​wrote,​ “What​a​fire​at​the​climax!​It​was​fantastic.​We​can​say​it​was​realistic.​I​felt​ the​heat​and​my​hands​were​sweating​as​if​I​had​also​been​burned​in​the​ fire.”164 ​ In​An Actor’s Revenge,​in​a​medium​close-​up,​Yukinojo​stands​right​next​ to​a​house​on​fire​at​night.​He​watches​the​fire,​with​lots​of​smoke,​burning​ down​the​house​of​a​merchant​who​had​deceived​his​parents​in​the​past.​ Yukinojo​faces​left​and​narrows​his​eyes.​Flickering​lights​from​the​fire​provide​strong​sidelight​and​backlight​that​enhance​the​glare​in​Yukinojo’s​eyes​ and​the​shining​rim​of​his​head.​In​the​illumination,​Yukinojo​looks​ecstatic,​ enjoying​the​scene​but​simultaneously​saddened​by​the​success​of​his​revenge.​Moreover,​Yukinojo​covers​his​head​with​a​white​cloth.​The​cloth​ reflects​light​from​the​fire​and​enhances​the​whiteness​of​the​face​of​Yukinojo​(whose​name​means​“the​snow​man”).​At​the​same​time,​reflecting​ light,​the​cloth​creates​a​strikingly​white​spot​within​the​frame,​which​conspicuously​distinguishes​Yukinojo​from​the​background​(fig.​2.13).​It​is​as​if​ Yukinojo​is​three-​dimensionally​popping​out​of​the​screen.​Hayashi​confessed​that​the​lighting​on​his​face​in​this​scene​was​carefully​planned​but​ that​the​operation​was​physically​demanding:​“During​the​shooting​of​An Actor’s Revenge​some​time​ago,​I​was​told​not​to​move​from​a​certain​position​when​fires​were​burning​right​next​to​me.​Moreover,​I​was​captured​in​ a​close-​up.​I​had​to​put​up​with​the​terrible​heat​because​I​had​to​keep​the​ position​for​the​camera.”165

108  chapter​2

figure​2.13  Flickering​lights​from​the​fire​enhance​the​glare​in​the​eyes​ of​Yukinojo​and​the​shining​rim​of​his​head.​An Actor’s Revenge​(1935–36).​ Reprinted​from​Shimokamo​9.11​(November​1935):​29.

dialogic and Photogenic: Hayashi Chojiro’s star Image and a new Film spectatorship

No​matter​how​well​structured​the​publicity​campaign​by​Shirai​Shintaro​ was​and​no​matter​how​innovative​the​lighting​techniques​invented​for​him​ were,​they​alone​did​not​quite​make​Hayashi’s​stardom​a​special​case​in​ the​history​of​Japanese​cinema.​There​were​publicity​campaigns​that​were​ organized​very​well​in​Hollywood.​There​were​numerous​stars​that​received​ groundbreaking​treatments​in​lighting,​even​if​those​treatments​did​not​ necessarily​combine​cinema​and​Kabuki.​The​significant​issue​regarding​ Hayashi’s​stardom​was​the​way​his​fans​received​Hayashi’s​star​image. ​ The​ reception​ of​ Hayashi’s​ stardom​ was,​ in​ fact,​ a​ contested​ field​ of​ negotiations.​It​was​a​combination​of​at​least​three​elements:​active​participation​in​creating​the​star’s​image,​what​could​be​called​conscious​passivity​ to​a​commodified​product,​and​what​the​film​scholar​Vivian​Sobchack​calls​ “the​carnal​sensuality​of​the​film​experience,”​which​is​a​more​direct​perceptive​reaction​to​cinema’s​affect​than​a​passive​reception​of​the​“classical”​ narrative​strategies​of​meaningful​codification.166​While​Hayashi’s​fans​created​distance​between​the​star​and​themselves​by​consciously​and​passively​ accepting​the​commodified​image​of​the​star,​they​erased​that​distance— first​by​participating​in​the​game​of​inventing​the​star​image​and​second​ by​experiencing​the​tactility​of​the​cinematic​medium.​Such​negotiations​ made​the​stardom​of​Hayashi​a​singular​case—although​not​a​subversive​ one—within​Shochiku’s​capitalist-​industrial​system. ​ With​the​specific​lighting​devices​of​nagashi-​me​and​onobashi,​Hayashi’s​ body,​face,​and​especially​eyes​were​conspicuously​presented​as​objects​to​ be​looked​at​by​female​spectators.​The​critic​Hasumi​Chiyoo​points​out​ that​the​sword-​fight​scene​in​An Actor’s Revenge​includes​an​extreme,​long,​ high​angle​shot​with​“an​ambitious​composition,”​in​which​Yukinojo​fights​ against​his​enemy​in​front​and​O-​Hatsu​(Fushimi​Naoe),​a​female​thief,​ crouches​at​the​back​and​is​absorbed​in​admiring​Yukinojo’s​excellent​skills,​ completely​forgetting​that​she​is​also​in​danger.​Hasumi​suggests​that​such​ a​composition​is​“absolutely​impossible​to​be​achieved​on​location”​and​it​ was​Kinugasa’s​“meaningful”​choice​to​photograph​this​scene​in​a​studio​ set.167​Yukinojo’s​status​as​an​object​to​be​looked​at​is​illustrated​in​this​ scene,​with​the​female​spectators​represented​by​O-​Hatsu.​To​use​the​film​

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historian​Gaylyn​Studlar’s​words,​this​scene​displays​a​commodified​male​ star​“in​ways​associated​with​women’s​interest​in​objectifying​men.”168 ​ As​Miriam​Hansen​persuasively​argues,​women’s​increased​significance​ as​consumers​for​the​Hollywood​film​industry​often​proved​contradictory​ to​the​systematic​imposition,​on​the​level​of​film​style,​representation,​and​ address,​of​masculine​forms​of​subjectivity​and​of​a​patriarchal​choreography​of​vision.​The​Valentino​cult​typifies​this​ambivalence.​Hansen​claims​ that​ Valentino’s​ film​ vehicles​ “offer​ women​ an​ institutional​ opportunity​ to​violate​the​taboo​on​female​scopophilia.”169​Studlar​also​points​out​that​ visual​objectification​of​the​male​in​Hollywood​film​and​its​surrounding​ discourses,​ especially​ after​ Valentino​ became​ a​ star​ with​ his​ image​ of​ a​ “woman-​made​man”​or​a​“creation​of,​for,​and​by​women,”​gained​enormous​public​attention,​as​the​act​of​women​looking​at​men​became​symbolic​ of​ the​ tumultuous​ changes​ believed​ to​ be​ taking​ place​ in​ the​ system​governing​sexual​relations​in​the​United​States.170​To​a​certain​extent,​ Hayashi​represented​a​fascinating​consumable​object​for​female​spectators,​ and​in​his​publicity​he​was​conspicuously​positioned​as​an​object​for​female​ audiences. ​ Citing​Louis​Reeves​Harrison’s​comments​from​1911​in​the​film​trade​ journal​Moving Picture World,​“the​eyes​and​the​lips​are​most​effective​in​ facial​expression​of​any​kind,​whether​the​emotion​be​open​or​subdued,”​ the​film​historian​Janet​Staiger​describes​the​change​in​the​style​of​film​acting​in​American​cinema​in​the​early​part​of​the​century​as​follows:​“From​ broad​pantomimic​gestures,​to​the​face​in​general​and,​eventually,​to​the​ eyes​as​‘the​focus​on​one’s​personality.’”171​While​what​Staiger​discusses​ is​more​about​internal​interpretation​of​actors’​facial​expressions​by​the​ viewer,​ Hayashi’s​ nagashi-​me​ eyes​ were​ formulated​ for​ an​ exterior​ purpose—or​an​external​method.​His​nagashi-​me​eyes​were​meant​to​openly​ give​a​sensual​look​to​female​spectators​who​were​fully​aware​of​the​photographic​manipulation​behind​such​images​but​were​willing​from​the​bottoms​of​their​hearts​to​be​joyfully​absorbed​in​such​a​sensual​pose.​It​was​a​ more​openly​dialogic​effect,​which​would​make​the​function​of​the​nagashi-​ me​eyes​closer​to​that​of​the​mie​pose​in​Kabuki​in​the​sense​that​they​dialogically​served​the​audience’s​expectation​for​those​extended​moments. ​ Hayashi​as​an​actor​perfectly​played​his​role​of​formulating​his​image​ of​ a​ woman-​made​ man​ and​ openly​ emphasized​ this​ reflexive​ relation-

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ship​between​his​spectator​and​his​star​image.​He​did​his​best​to​maintain​ his​photographic​image​of​beauty.​Tsuburaya​Eiichi,​who​made​his​debut​ as​a​cinematographer​in​Hayashi’s​debut​film​Kid’s Sword Fight,​advised​ Hayashi:​“A​film​actor’s​life​depends​on​lighting.​Learn​lenses​as​soon​as​ possible​in​order​to​use​lighting​in​the​best​way.”172​According​to​Hayashi,​ Sugiyama​Kohei,​“the​number​one​cinematographer​of​the​time​to​shoot​ photographs​beautifully,”​taught​him​how​to​position​his​body​and​face​ in​front​of​the​camera​and​how​to​catch​lights​in​his​eyes.173​In​a​production​ photo​ of​ a​ Hayashi​ star​ vehicle​ Mad Sword under the Moon​ (Gekka no kyojin,​Kinugasa,​1927),​Hayashi​looks​into​a​hand​mirror​and​adjusts​ his​makeup.​In​this​photo,​compared​to​Kinugasa,​the​director,​and​Sugiyama,​the​cinematographer​behind​a​camera,​Hayashi’s​face​is​extremely​ white​under​the​key​and​fill​lights​that​are​also​visible​in​the​photo.174​The​ critic​Ohashi​Koichiro​reported​on​the​photographing​of​Yakuza Umbrella in Spring Rain​(Kyokaku harusamegasa,​Fuyushima​Taizo,​1933):​“Mr.​Chojiro​fixes​his​makeup​after​each​cut,​looking​into​a​mirror​handed​by​an​ assistant.”175​The​journalist​Kobayashi​Isamu​reported​in​February​1929:​ “Chojiro​is​always​trying​to​make​himself​look​more​beautiful​and​makes​all​ the​requests​that​he​can​in​front​of​a​camera.”176​In​February​1931,​the​film​ critic​Kiso​Juzaburo​wrote,​“There​are​almost​no​other​actors​who​understand​camera​angles​better​than​Mr.​Chojiro.​That​is,​he​is​always​studying​ which​direction​he​should​face​to​the​camera​and​how​to​display​himself​ better​in​either​a​long​shot​or​a​close-​up.”177​Already​in​early​1929​it​was​ reported​that​Hayashi​requested​reshooting​whenever​he​did​not​look​as​ good​as​he​expected​because​of​lighting.178​In​January​1929​in​Kinema Junpo,​ Kubota​Tatsuo​publicized​Hayashi’s​complete​awareness​of​his​audience’s​ gaze​at​him: Chojiro​always​goes​to​the​theaters​where​his​films​are​screened.​He​ does​ not​ only​ go​ to​ Kabuki-za​ Theater​ in​ Kyoto​ but​ also​ theaters​ in​ Osaka,​Kobe,​Nagoya,​and​even​Tokyo​and​watches​his​films​secretly​ among​his​audience.​To​be​more​exact,​he​listens​to​brief​words​that​ his​audience​utters.​He​says​this​is​the​best​way​of​learning​things.​.​.​.​ He​always​thinks​of​how​satisfying​his​films​are​to​his​audience.​Then,​ he​never​forgets​to​do​his​best​to​satisfy​his​audience​and,​at​the​same​ time,​his​conscience​for​producing​quality​films.​Too​much​narcissism​is​ troublesome,​but​a​restrained​one​is​permissible.179 112  chapter​2

Nagashi-​me​ ended​ up​ becoming​ Hayashi’s​ real-​life​ habit.​ A​ female​ fan​ called​his​“gaze​with​his​beautiful​eyes”​his​“bad​habit”​and​even​criticized​ it​as​“unfriendly​and​scary”​if​not​on​the​screen.180 ​ Hayashi​did​not​hide​from​his​fans​the​fact​that​his​beautiful​image​was​ an​artificial​product.​Hayashi​willingly​shared​with​his​fans​the​knowledge​ that​his​photographic​image​of​beauty​was​created​in​the​crafty​operation​ of​cameras​and​manipulation​of​lighting.181​In​the​June​1936​issue​of​All Shochiku​magazine,​Hayashi​impersonated​Yukinojo​and​wrote​about​himself:​ “Hayashi’s​body​cannot​be​called​slender.​It​is​so​well​built​that​he​passed​ the​physical​exam​for​enlistment​with​the​best​grade.​Yet​many​people​are​ impressed​by​the​sensuality​or​by​the​soft​and​subtle​gesture​that​his​body​ delivers.”182​In​a​1935​interview,​he​conspicuously​admitted​that​he​was​“fat,”​ which​ “made​ it​ challenging​ to​ make​ Yukinojo​ look​ slender.”183​ Hayashi​ even​published​an​essay​in​Shimokamo,​“Pain​in​Film​Production,”​an​exposé​of​how​his​beautiful​love​scenes​were​being​photographed​in​reality: What​a​hot​night!​There​was​some​breeze​in​the​evening,​but​it​is​hot​ as​hell​on​the​set.​We​must​photograph​a​love​scene​in​such​suffocating​ humidity.​I​tried​hard​under​the​brutally​hot​sunlight​during​the​day,​ but​I​have​to​work​on​the​set​at​night.​What​a​purgatory.​Sweat​runs​ on​my​face​continuously.​It​is​no​use​wiping​it​off.​I​cannot​count​any​ longer​how​many​times​I​need​to​restore​my​makeup.​Finally,​we​start​ photographing​the​love​scene.​“Camera,​ready.”​Following​the​director’s​ powerful​voice,​I​hold​my​sweetheart​in​my​arms.​All​of​a​sudden,​a​filthy​ smell​of​cheap​oil​and​sweat​has​attacked​my​nose.​Without​any​hesitation,​the​director​said​to​me,​“Full​of​emotion!”​Am​I​happy​when​I​ appear​in​such​a​dreamy​love​scene​here?​I​need​to​speak​of​love​when​ I​am​fully​covered​with​a​terrible​smell.​I​will​certainly​be​dead​if​I​fill​ myself​with​emotion.184 Female​fans​of​Hayashi​were​surely​absorbed​in​his​inescapable​attraction​ when​they​were​looking​at​his​face​and​movements​on​the​screen.​A​fan,​ Matsui​Junko,​wrote,​“When​the​figure​of​Chojiro-​san​quietly​appears​on​ the​screen,​I​feel​like​I​am​seeing​a​prince​from​the​dreamland.​.​.​.​Once​ Chojiro-​san’s​ beautiful​ face​ and​ figure​ rise​ to​ the​ surface​ of​ the​ screen,​ fans,​especially​women,​are​drawn​to​a​kind​of​sweet​ecstasy​as​if​they​were​ struck​by​his​attraction.”185 ​ Yet​the​absorption​was​a​self-​conscious​one.​Female​fans​were​surely​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  113

aware​of​the​mechanism​behind​Hayashi’s​nagashi-​me​eyes​displayed​in​ three-​point​lighting​and​onobashi.​Knowing​the​origin​of​the​attraction,​the​ female​fans​embraced​the​possibly​distractive​mode​of​engagement​to​the​ cinema.​They​recognized​that​there​was​not​even​original​beauty​in​their​ object​of​adoration.​A​fan,​Hasegawa​Shyuko,​wrote,​“The​most​astonishing​thing​for​me​when​I​first​met​[Chojiro]​was​that​he​was​the​owner​of​a​ full-​blown​body.​.​.​.​I​thought,​‘How​could​he​show​such​soft​and​beautiful​ actions​with​such​a​fat​body!’​But​if​I​am​allowed​to​have​a​love​affair,​I​will​ certainly​fall​in​love​with​Cho-​sama’s​thick​arms.”186​Watching​Hayashi’s​star​ vehicle​Kid Benten​(Bentenkozo,​Kinugasa,​1928)​at​a​theater,​Nanbu​Ayako,​ another​fan,​“started​to​understand​Chojiro’s​femininity”​and​beauty​that​ she​“did​not​recognize”​when​she​visited​Shimokamo​studio​and​watched​ the​production​of​the​film.​Nanbu​wrote​of​Hayashi’s​cinematic​feminine​ beauty:​ “That​ chubby​ body,​ soft​ profile,​ and​ the​ ways​ of​ movement​ [of​ Hayashi]​became​fully​alive​in​Kid Benten.​.​.​.​I​see,​he​is​feminine.”187 ​ There​were​other​fans​who​were​more​conscious​specifically​about​the​ lighting​and​cinematography​of​Hayashi’s​image.​One​of​the​first​essays​ published​ in​ Shimokamo,​ by​ a​ devoted​ fan,​ Fukiya​ Katsumi,​ was​ titled​ “Camera.”​Fukiya​showed​her​clear​awareness​of​the​function​of​lighting​ and​cinematographic​technology​that​would​make​the​actors’​faces​look​ different.188​Fukiya​wrote,​“Camera!!​No​matter​how​good​a​screenplay​is​ and​no​matter​how​careful​a​director​is,​bad​cinematography​can​easily​destroy​a​film.​If​an​actor’s​face​looks​flat​or​unattractive,​it​may​be​because​of​ the​actor’s​makeup​but​it​is​mainly​because​of​the​cinematography.​A​previous​film​[of​Hayashi]​had​a​good​story​and​direction,​but​the​lighting​was​ too​dark,​which​made​the​climactic​scene​at​Iriya​too​banal.​Mr.​Sugiyama’s​ cinematographic​technique​in​the​new​film​Disabled Child​[Katawabina,​ 1930]​is​fantastic.​In​the​eyes​of​Kuminosuke​[Hayashi],​a​flash​of​light​ suddenly​appears.​What​a​masterful​technique!”189​Another​fan,​Hayashi​ Sachiko,​wrote​to​Shimokamo​and​stressed​her​awareness​of​lighting​and​ cinematography​that​enhanced​Hayashi’s​attraction:​“It​is​a​great​merit​for​ Chojiro​and​his​films​that​Shimokamo​has​cameramen​with​excellent​techniques.​We​Chojiro​fans​always​appreciate​the​clear​cinematography​and​ vivid​techniques​of​Mr.​Sugiyama​and​Mr.​Tsuburaya.”190​There​was​a​direct​call​and​response​between​cinematographers​and​lighting​technicians​ and​fans​regarding​Hayashi’s​star​image.​Hiroishi​Tsuneo,​a​lighting​technician​at​Shimokamo,​wrote​in​1929,​“The​mood​and​the​tone​of​a​particular​ 114  chapter​2

scene​is​of​course​dependent​on​how​capable​the​actors​are​and​how​clever​ the​director​and​the​cinematographer​are.​But​at​the​same​time,​lighting​ is​as​important​as​those.”191​The​writings​of​Fukiya​and​Hayashi​Sachiko​ were​prompt​responses​to​such​a​claim​about​the​formulation​of​Hayashi’s​ photographic​image. ​ Hayashi​Chojiro​was​a​consumable​object​of​Shochiku’s​version​of​jidaigeki,​which​targeted​libidinal​gazes​of​female​fans.​There​was​no​question​ about​that.​Female​fans​were​absorbed​in​that​commodity.​However,​the​ same​female​fans​were​clearly​aware​that​they​possessed​such​gazes.​While​ passively​receiving​the​prepared​commodity,​female​fans​consciously​cooperated​with​Shochiku​producers​and​filmmakers​to​create​the​stardom​ of​Hayashi​to​be​a​vehicle​of​their​“dreams​and​passions​as​women”​that​ could​challenge​the​customs​and​morals​of​womanhood​that​had​prevented​ female​spectators​from​becoming​fans​of​jidaigeki​films​before​Hayashi’s​ arrival.192​Hayashi’s​stardom​thus​provided​a​new​subjective​position​for​ female​film​spectators​without​jeopardizing​the​capitalist-​industrial​structure​led​by​Shochiku. ​ Last,​but​ significantly,​ with​the​special​ lighting​ techniques​ that​combined​the​theatrical​and​cinematic​in​an​inventive​manner,​the​face​and​ eyes​of​Hayashi,​more​strongly​than​anyone​else’s,​provided​spectators​of​ Japanese​cinema​with​a​modern​experience​of​a​new​medium.​Thomas​LaMarre​calls​it​a​sensory​perceptive​experience​in​cinema​that​collapses​perceptual​distance,​or​an​experience​in​which​the​heightened,​too-​real​quality​ of​the​cinematic​image​forecloses​the​spectator’s​ability​to​see​and​contemplate​the​art​object,​allowing​only​for​a​shock​to​the​body.193​It​is​true​ that​the​luminous​close-​ups​of​Hayashi’s​face​change​the​“real”​body​of​the​ actor​into​something​else:​a​sexualized​object.​But​at​the​same​time,​the​ female​spectator​of​Hayashi​is​“caught​up​in​an​almost​involuntary​mimicry​ of​the​emotion​or​sensation​of​the​body​on​the​screen.”194​A​fan​named​ Matsui​Chieko’s​claim—“Young​female​fans​get​excited​with​Chojiro-​san’s​ close-​ups​and​forget​themselves”—indicates​such​a​reaction.195 ​ Hayashi​called​the​moment​of​onobashi​and​nagashi-​me​that​of​“stillness​in​movements.”196​The​film​historian​Zhang​Zhen​argues,​referring​to​ Siegfried​Kracauer: If​photography​inaugurated​a​mechanically​reproducible​means​to​arrest​reality​and​congeal​life​in​a​split​second,​the​cinema​was​able​to​ fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  115

reassemble​the​“still”​images​and​put​them​into​motion,​or​rather,​as​ Kracauer​saw​it,​back​into​the​“flow​of​life.”​The​cinema​is​a​“new​mode​ of​embodiment”​in​modernity,​not​simply​because​of​its​photographic​ indexicality​and​visual​immediacy,​but​also​because​it​stimulates​and​reorganizes​a​whole​range​of​sensory​experiences,​such​as​tactility,​smell,​ taste,​and​sound​through​mass​mediated​technology.​.​.​.​It​is​through​ the​ (re)enactment​ of​ physiological​ movement​ and​ everyday​ life​ that​ cinema​emerges​as​the​exemplary​“mimetic​machine”​for​embodying​the​ fractured​and​constantly​metamorphosing​experience​of​​modernity.197 If​so,​when​the​cinema​achieves​“a​moment​of​stillness”​as​Hayashi​insists,​ such​an​“experience​of​modernity”​looks​frozen—again.​However,​it​is​not​ a​ reversal​ of​ fortune.​ It​ is​ a​ reenactment​ of​ the​ sensory​ experience​ of​ a​ time-​stopping​moment​“in​movement.”​This​could​be​called​the​moment​ of​photogénie. ​ The​film​critic​Jean​Epstein​calls​the​close-​ups​of​the​Japanese​silent​film​ actor​and​star​Sessue​Hayakawa’s​face​on​the​screen​“photogénie,​cadenced​ movement.”198​The​drama​critic​Louis​Delluc​argues​that,​using​the​camera​and​screen,​“photogénie”​changes​“real”​into​something​else​without​ eliminating​the​“realness”​and​makes​people​“see​ordinary​things​as​they​ had​never​been​before.”199​Through​viewing​Hayakawa’s​face​in​close-​ups,​ Epstein​ and​ Delluc,​ among​ others,​ developed​ the​ “utopian​ vision​ of​ an​ originary,​phenomenological​plentitude​of​perception,​preserved​and​extended​by​the​cinematic​apparatus.”200​The​“phenomenological​plentitude​ of​perception”​is​possibly​rephrased​as​the​reflexive​relationship​that​the​ film​scholar​Linda​Williams​discusses.​Viewed​in​this​light,​we​might​understand​Hayakawa’s​immense​appeal​as​a​type​of​mimetic​relationship,​the​ likes​of​which​the​film​historian​Jennifer​M.​Bean​develops​in​the​context​ of​early​fandom​by​elaborating​Walter​Benjamin’s​notion​of​the​“mimetic​ faculty.”​She​writes:​“Mimesis​stresses​the​reflexive,​rather​than​reflection;​ it​brings​the​subject​into​intimate​contact​with​the​object,​or​other,​in​a​tactile,​performative,​and​sensuous​form​of​perception,​the​result​of​which​is​ an​experience​that​transcends​the​traditional​subject-​object​dichotomy.”201 ​ To​speak​of​such​a​response​to​Hayakawa’s​screen​body​also​means​to​ speak​of​a​carnal​experience​measured​by​a​reflexive​relationship​ to​the​ utter​desolation​and​intensified​agony​of​what​it​means​to​be​human.​Delluc​writes: 116  chapter​2

Of​Hayakawa,​one​can​say​nothing:​he​is​a​phenomenon.​Explanations​ here​are​out​of​place.​.​.​.​Once​more​I​am​not​speaking​of​talent.​I​consider​a​certain​kind​of​actor,​especially​him,​as​a​natural​force​and​his​face​ as​a​poetic​work​whose​reason​for​being​does​not​concern​me​when​my​ avidity​for​beauty​finds​there​the​expected​chord​or​reflection.​.​.​.​It​is​ not​his​cat-​like,​implacable​cruelty,​his​mysterious​brutality,​his​hatred​ of​anyone​who​resists,​or​his​contempt​for​anyone​who​submits;​that​ is​not​what​impresses​us,​and​yet​that​is​all​we​can​talk​about.​.​.​.​And​ especially​his​strangely​drawn​smile​of​childlike​ferocity,​not​really​the​ ferocity​of​a​puma​or​jaguar,​for​then​it​would​no​longer​be​ferocity.202 In​ the​ most​ general​ and​ obvious​ way,​ Delluc’s​ language​ is​ riddled​ with​ racism,​locating​Hayakawa’s​appearance​as​“cat-​like”​and​“childlike,”​as​well​ as​“mysterious”—a​“natural​force.”​The​primitivist​associations​with​Hayakawa​as​an​embodiment​of​the​premodern​East,​however,​are​trumped​by​ Delluc’s​overriding​proclamation:​that​the​actor’s​presence​on​the​screen​ renders​Western​audiences​inarticulate.​Incapable,​that​is,​of​civilized​and​ communicative​speech:​“One​can​say​nothing.​.​.​.​Explanations​are​here​ out​of​place.”​The​point,​quite​simply,​is​that​Hayakawa’s​screen​presence,​ especially​the​close-​ups​of​his​face,​had​a​phenomenal​effect​that​is​difficult​to​describe.​It​is​clear​that​French​intellectuals​were​“dumfounded”​ by​ Hayakawa’s​ body​ on​ the​ screen.203​ “The​ beauty​ of​ Sessue​ Hayakawa​ is​painful,”​writes​Delluc​in​his​essay​“Beauty​in​the​Cinema.”204​He​continues,​“I​well​believe​that​all​lonely​people,​and​they​are​numerous,​will​ discover​their​own​recourseless​despair​in​the​intimate​melancholy​of​this​ savage​Hayakawa.”205​“All​lonely​people”​can​be​rephrased​as​spectators​of​ cinema​who​place​their​bodies​in​the​darkness​of​movie​theaters​and​face​ the​plays​of​light​and​shadow​on​the​screen. ​ Hayashi’s​beauty​was​as​painful​as​Hayakawa’s.​A​fan,​Mizuo​Sakuko,​felt​ pain​in​Hayashi’s​face:​“A​beam​of​light​came​out​of​the​deep​inside​of​your​ eyes​and​shot​through​my​chest.​I​was​mesmerized​by​the​sensual​light​and​ could​not​help​staring​at​the​eyes​of​Kichizo​[played​by​Hayashi].​One​second!​Two​seconds!!​I​exhaled.​At​that​moment,​I​sensed​the​sharp​edge​of​the​ Koshimaru​sword​[that​Kichizo​holds]​penetrate​my​heart.​I​do​not​remember​anything​after​that.”206​The​critic​and​fan​Furukawa​Roppa​also​claimed,​ “The​rookie​Chojiro​is​beautiful.​.​.​.​In​Chojiro’s​sword​fighting,​there​is​no​ spectacular​style.​Instead,​I​would​like​to​praise​the​sense​of​fear​that​I​feel.”207 fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star  117

​ It​is​worthwhile​to​note​that​the​theories​of​such​leading​French​film​ intellectuals​ as​ Delluc​ (April​ 1924),​ Marcel​ L’Herbier​ ( June​ 1925),​ and​ Léon​Moussinac​(March​1926)​were​translated​and​introduced​to​Japanese​audiences​together​with​such​French​films​as​L’Herbier’s​L’Inhumaine​ (1925)​ and​ The Late Mathias Pascal​ (Feu Mathias Pascal,​ 1926),​ Alexandre​Volkoff’s​Edmund Kean: Prince among Lovers​(Kean,​1924),​and​Abel​ Gance’s​La Roue​(1923),​which​were​part​of​what​was​called​French​impressionism.​As​Aaron​Gerow​points​out,​French​films​and​French​film​theories​achieved​a​dominant​status​in​film-​circle​discussions.208​The​notion​of​ photogénie​that​regarded​cinema​as​a​purely​visual​medium​and​offered​ a​new​means​of​perceiving​reality​had​a​significant​influence​on​a​certain​ number​of​film​critics​and​filmmakers​in​Japan. ​ As​the​critic​Fuji​Mineo​claimed,​“Chojiro​does​not​need​to​kill​people​ with​his​sword​but​he​can​deliver,​full​of​emotions​in​a​way​that​no​other​ actors​ can​ imitate.”209​ The​ choreographer​ Miyauchi​ Shohei,​ who​ later​ worked​with​Hayashi,​wrote​in​1958,​“His​beautiful​techniques​of​sword​ have​incredible​sensuality.​.​.​.​When​captured​in​a​long​shot,​his​sword​fighting​does​not​look​sharp​enough,​but​numerous​close-​ups​of​Mr.​Hasegawa​ fully​cover​up​such​a​shortcoming.​That​is,​his​expression​ is​so​passionate​that​it​looks​as​if​he​indeed​has​slaughtered​a​person.​.​.​.​We​call​this​ ‘killing​with​a​face’​[kao de kiru].”210​The​intensity​registered​by​Hayashi’s​ face,​its​veritable​assault​on​the​enemy​as​well​as​the​viewer,​comes​close​to​ what​Epstein​described​on​the​face​of​Sessue​Hayakawa​when​he​likened​ the​actor’s​face​to​a​gun:​“Hayakawa​aims​his​incandescent​mask​like​a​revolver.​Wrapped​in​darkness,​ranged​in​the​cell-​like​seats,​directed​toward​ the​source​of​emotion​by​their​softer​side,​the​sensibilities​of​the​entire​ auditorium​converge,​as​if​in​a​funnel,​toward​the​film.​Everything​else​is​ barred,​excluded,​no​longer​valid.”211​If​Hayakawa’s​face​were​a​revolver,​ Hayashi’s​face​could​be​likened​to​a​sword​that​flashes.​These​two​extraordinary​Japanese​stars​of​the​early​decades​of​the​twentieth​century,​one​ in​Hollywood​and​the​other​in​Japan,​one​in​the​films​that​problematized​ the​racial​conditions​of​the​American​society​and​the​other​in​the​films​ that​complicated​the​gendered​spectatorial​positions​of​Japanese​cinema,​ shared​a​carnal​sensuality​and​a​phenomenological​shock​with​their​fans​in​ the​dark—by​way​of​incandescent​light.

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chApter 3

street​fiLMs Shochiku and Germany

Shochiku’s​ prominent​ plan​ to​ counterattack​ jidaigeki​ was​ to​ place​ less​ significance​ on​ the​ sword​ and​ to​ emphasize​ a​ star’s​ face​with​special​glamour​lighting.​With​the​phenomenal​success​ of​Hayashi​Chojiro​as​the​studio’s​star,​in​addition​to​managing​ categories​of​capitalist​production—commodity​production​and​ labor​ management—in​ a​ rationalized​ manner,​ Shochiku​ confirmed​its​dominant​financial​status​in​the​film​industry​by​the​ early​1930s.​Under​the​dominance​of​Shochiku​over​the​film​industry,​“the​cinema’s​aesthetic​norms​and​the​modes​of​film​production,​distribution,​and​exhibition​were​established,”​according​to​Mitsuyo​Wada-​Marciano.1​The​bright​and​cheerful​Kamata​ tone​that​prioritized​visibility​over​expressivity​was​representative​ of​such​aesthetic​norms. ​ However,​I​want​to​stress​that​the​“cinema’s​aesthetic​norms​ and​ the​ modes​ of​ film​ production”​ that​ Shochiku​ apparently​ established​were​not​undisputed.​Behind​the​seeming​coherence,​ there​were​numerous​negotiations​within​the​company.​Hayashi’s​ stardom​was​a​special​case​in​that​sense​because,​despite​its​status​ as​a​capitalist​commodity​that​Shochiku​had​created,​it​did​not​ necessarily​ go​ along​ with​ the​ rationalization​ policy​ that​ Kido​ Shiro,​the​Kamata​studio​head,​fully​pursued.​In​the​process​of​ formulating​ Hayashi’s​ star​image,​ both​filmmakers​ and​fans​ of​

films​produced​at​Shochiku’s​Shimokamo​studio​became​more​conscious​ of​and​sensitive​to​expressive​and​experimental​use​of​lighting​instead​of​ mere​visibility​of​the​images.​Moreover,​with​Hayashi’s​stardom,​for​the​ first​time​in​Japanese​film​culture​a​modern​spectatorial​position​emerged,​ which​was​based​on​a​dialogic​relationship​between​the​producer​and​the​ consumer​as​well​as​a​tangible​connection​between​the​star​and​the​fan. ​ Two​Shochiku​films,​Crossways​(Jujiro,​a.k.a.​Crossroads​and​Shadows of the Yoshiwara,​Kinugasa​Teinosuke,​1928)​and​That Night’s Wife​(Sono yo no tsuma,​Ozu​Yasujiro,​1930),​are​notable​examples​of​further​internal​challenges​to​the​formulation​of​norms​and​dominant​modes​of​film​production.​Challenges​might​not​be​an​appropriate​word​because,​no​matter​how​ expressive​and​experimental​they​might​have​looked,​especially​in​terms​ of​their​lighting​schemes,​these​two​films​were​not​meant​to​subvert​Shochiku’s​capitalist​enterprise.​Both​of​them​were​produced​and​distributed​ as​part​of​the​company’s​commercial​strategy​and​as​a​means​of​attaining​ cultural​capital.​Both​films​succeeded​critically​and​probably​financially,​ even​though​there​is​no​official​record​of​that.​In​this​regard,​these​two​films​ were​examples​of​diversity​of​Shochiku​cinema,​despite​its​relentless​exertion​of​the​bright​and​cheerful​mode. ​ These​ two​ films​ distinguished​ themselves​ from​ other​ sweet​ jidaigeki​ films​of​Shimokamo​and​from​the​bright​and​cheerful​Kamata​tone​through​ exceptional​sensitivity​to​the​expressive​use​of​lighting,​for​which​Kido​had​ little​use.​In​these​films,​the​city​was​depicted​as​an​extremely​attractive​but​ seriously​problematic​space​that​captured​the​rhythms​and​tone​of​modern​ life.​In​this​regard,​these​films​became​closer​to​the​street​films​produced​in​ Weimar​Germany,​including​Karl​Grune’s​The Street​(Die Straße,​1923)​and​ F.​W.​Murnau’s​The Last Laugh​(Der Letzte Mann,​1924),​which​were​released​in​Japan​in​1925​and​1926,​respectively.​In​these​street​films,​the​modern​technological​world​was​revisualized​and​resensitized​in​a​critical​manner​by​way​of​lighting.​The​special​lighting​techniques​for​Hayashi​Chojiro​ provided​either​a​sensory​perceptive​experience​that​collapsed​the​perceptual​distance​or​an​experience​in​which​the​heightened​too-​real​quality​of​ the​cinematic​image​foreclosed​the​spectator’s​ability​to​see​and​contemplate​the​art​object.​Those​filmmakers​at​Shochiku​who​were​directly​or​ indirectly​involved​in​the​creation​of​such​a​star​image​of​Hayashi​were​ aware​of​such​effects​that​cinema​could​achieve.​They​turned​to​exploring​

120  chapter​3

the​senses​of​vision​and​touch​within​the​innate​nature​of​cinema​as​a​new​ medium​that​was​flourishing​in​the​period​of​modernity​in​Japan. Crossways : “tainted Harmony” of shochiku, Jidaigeki, and street Films

No​matter​how​unique​the​technological​and​spectatorial​conditions​surrounding​ the​ Hayashi​ phenomenon,​ Kinugasa​ Teinosuke,​ who​ directed​ numerous​star​vehicles​for​Hayashi,​claimed​in​1928​that​he​was​not​fully​ satisfied​with​his​films​with​the​star.​It​was​true​that​Kinugasa’s​critical​engagement​with​lighting​and​cinematography​had​a​significant​impact​on​ the​creation​of​Hayashi’s​onscreen​image.​As​the​flash​of​the​sword​became​an​obsession​among​cinematographers​and​the​fans​who​were​discontent​ with​ the​ dominant​ style​ of​ cinema​ (i.e.,​ clarity​ first),​ Hayashi’s​ onobashi,​nagashi-​me,​and​special​movable​lighting,​which​were​arranged​ by​Kinugasa​and​his​cinematographer,​Sugiyama​Kohei,​became​a​sensual​ and​sensory​attraction.​This​was​especially​true​for​female​audience​members,​who​would​go​beyond​the​economic​signification​system​of​images​ typified​by​classical​Hollywood​cinema​as​well​as​beyond​the​bright​and​ cheerful​policy​of​Shochiku.2 ​ However,​Kinugasa​did​not​like​the​commercialized​and​conventionalized​aspect​of​the​star​system​in​Shochiku’s​capitalist​enterprise:​“After​the​ release​of​A Page of Madness​[Kurutta ichipeiji,​1926],​I​was​forcefully​absorbed​in​making​too​commercial​films.​During​that​time,​I​was​longing​to​ produce​a​work​to​which​I​could​devote​my​soul​and​that​would​satisfy​my​ artistic​conscience.”3​In​her​diary,​Chihaya​Akiko,​a​female​star​at​Shimokamo​who​was​having​an​affair​with​Kinugasa​at​that​time,​called​Hayashi’s​ star​vehicles​“nothing​but​a​pastime”​for​Kinugasa.4​Even​though​Chihaya​ costarred​in​numerous​Hayashi’s​star​vehicles,​she​said​she​was​not​satisfied​ with​her​work​in​those​films​and​was​longing​for​a​film​in​which​she​would​ be​“valued​much​better.”5 ​ In​ the​ midst​ of​ his​ continuous​ work​ with​ Hayashi​ at​ Shimokamo,​ Kinugasa​ wrote,​ “The​ continuous​ revolutionary​ big​ wave​ caused​ by​ the​ introduction​of​panchromatic​film​has​gradually​calmed​down​these​days,​ and​now​the​time​ has​come​ to​objectively​criticize​ lighting,​ cinematography,​and​developing,​based​on​our​own​experiences​and​results.”6​In​fact,​ by​the​time​he​started​working​with​Hayashi,​Kinugasa​had​been​deeply​

street​fiLMs  121

involved​in​the​various​cinematic​and​artistic​trends​of​the​time,​including​ critical​discourses​on​lighting.7 ​ After​participating​in​a​third-​rate​touring​shinpa​troupe​as​an​onnagata​ and​in​a​theater​group​of​the​shingeki​actor​Inoue​Masao,​Kinugasa​appeared​in​shinpa​films​at​Nikkatsu’s​Mukojima​studio​beginning​in​1917.​ Even​though​many​shinpa​productions​were​using​flat​shinpa-​style​lighting,​Kinugasa​also​had​a​chance​to​work​with​Tanaka​Eizo,​a​filmmaker,​ and​Fujiwara​Kozaburo,​a​cinematographer,​who​experimented​with​cinematic​lighting.8​Kinugasa​quit​Nikkatsu​when​the​company​started​using​ actresses.​ After​ producing​ a​ rensageki​ (chain​ drama),​ which​ combined​ filmed​scenes​with​sections​acted​onstage​in​a​single​story,​Kinugasa​was​ invited​in​1923​to​join​Makino​Production​in​Kyoto,​Makino​Shozo’s​independent​company,​as​a​director.​He​worked​there​for​four​years​and​directed​both​gendaigeki​and​jidaigeki,​coproduced​with​the​United​Associations​ of​ Film​ Artists​ (Rengo​ Eiga​ Geijutsu​ Kyokai),​ an​ independent​ production​alliance​modeled​on​United​Artists,​including​the​shinkokugeki​ production​Tsukigata Hanpeita​(1925),​starring​Sawada​Shojiro​himself.​The​ sword-​fight​scene​in​the​film​used​an​experimental​lighting​scheme.​Thus,​ Kinugasa​had​already​experienced​most​of​the​popular​currents​of​film​productions​in​Japan:​shinpa,​rensageki,​and​jidaigeki.9 ​ Then,​Kinugasa​directed​a​film​with​his​own​independent​group.​The​ film,​A Page of Madness,​is​filled​with​numerous​formal​experiments​and​has​ been​regarded​by​many​critics,​historians,​and​fans​as​a​remarkable​masterpiece,​an​experimental,​modernist,​avant-​garde​film.​Aaron​Gerow’s​book​ on​the​film​elegantly​illustrates​the​diverse​and​complicated​backgrounds​ of​the​production,​exhibition,​and​reception​of​the​film,​including​the​modernist​shinkankaku​(new​impressionist)​school​in​literature,​the​shingeki​ movement,​French​impressionist​or​jidaigeki-​style​fast​and​rhythmic​editing,​and​Shochiku’s​strategic​investment​and​advertising.​I​do​not​intend​ to​replicate​here​what​Gerow​has​extensively​discussed.​What​I​would​like​ to​stress​here​is​how​conscious​Kinugasa​was​of​his​lighting​scheme​for​the​ film​and​that​the​audience​and​critics​at​the​time​were​aware​of​it​as​well.​ Together​they​tried​to​locate​the​film,​particularly​its​use​of​lighting,​within​ the​ discourses​ of​ French​ impressionist​ and​ German​ expressionist​ films.​ The​film​critic​Tanaka​Junichiro’s​review​of​the​film​for​the​Hochi Shinbun​ newspaper​was​one​typical​example​of​such​a​discourse:

122  chapter​3

The​director​has​parted​from​the​old​notion​in​cinema​of​trying​to​film​ “things”​and​has​become​conscious​of​the​attempt​to​take​in​“light.”​The​ play​of​light,​the​melody​of​light,​the​speed​of​light—this​is​the​way​films​ will​be​made.​No​matter​how​much​cinema​tries​to​make​things​its​object,​the​images​captured​on​the​film​stock​are​the​commemoration​of​ light.​In​the​end,​it​is​just​light.​Because​it​is​light,​it​conquers​all​forms​ of​space​and​time.​Light​is​not​troubled​by​anything. ​ Light​and​movement—when​these​two​elements​combine,​cinematic​ expression​is​accomplished.​Lichtspiel​[moving​picture]​is​realized.​Isn’t​ it​only​natural​to​consider​A Page of Madness—expressionist​and​without​intertitles,​containing​only​a​two-​or​three-​line​theme​in​6,500​feet​ of​film—as​the​preeminent​guidebook​for​the​trip​to​cinema’s​future​ essence?10 Similarly,​the​film​critic​Ishimaki​Yoshio​wrote​of​A Page of Madness:​“See​ A Page of Madness.​The​cinematic​value​of​this​film​is​exclusively​reliant​on​ the​cinematographic​techniques​in​it.​That​is,​with​its​new​cinematographic​ styles,​the​film​expresses​strong​emotions​in​the​world​of​sensuality.​.​.​.​ [And]​everything​is​expressed​by​positioning​of​the​camera​and​lighting.”11 ​ Despite​such​high​praise​from​the​artistic​and​journalistic​community,​ A Page of Madness​made​little​money.​Gerow​argues​that​the​film​lost​money​ mostly​because​of​the​lack​of​venues—films​made​money​those​days​only​ by​showing​at​many​theaters​across​the​country​over​a​period​of​months.12​ The​praise​of​A Page of Madness​was​limited,​and​the​film​was​not​exhibited​ across​the​country.​In​order​to​make​up​his​debt​to​Shochiku​for​investing​ in​A Page of Madness,​Kinugasa​had​to​accept​an​offer​from​Otani​Takejiro,​ then​vice​president​of​Shochiku,​for​a​long-​term​contract.​Kinugasa​would​ produce​two​jidaigeki​films​a​month​for​Shochiku​in​its​scarcely​used​Shimokamo​studio,​and​in​return​Shochiku​would​pay​10,000​yen​for​each​ film.13​Film​magazines​speculated​that​the​financial​obligations​that​Shochiku​was​imposing​on​Kinugasa​could​be​seen​as​the​company’s​effort​to​ acquire​the​Makino​veteran​Kinugasa​in​order​to​boost​its​jidaigeki​production.14 ​ Producing​Hayashi​star​vehicles​proved​to​be​not​entirely​useless​for​ Kinugasa.​ Under​ the​ guise​ of​ glamorizing​ Hayashi’s​ star​ image​ on​ the​ screen,​ Kinugasa​ was​ able​ to​ become​ more​ sensitive​ and​ expressive​ in​ the​use​of​lighting​than​by​directing​any​other​Shochiku​films,​especially​ street​fiLMs  123

those​produced​at​Kamata.​Moreover,​he​did​not​need​to​make​straightforward​sword-​fight​films.​He​was​not​an​ardent​fan​of​sword-​fight​films,​and​ while​he​was​still​at​Makino​Shozo’s​production​company,​Kinugasa​had​ requested​that​Bando​Tsumasaburo​play​“a​love​scene”​in​Love and Samurai​(Koi to bushi,​1925)​right​after​Bando’s​success​in​Record of an Edo Thief: The Shadow Monk​(Edo kaizoku den: Kageboshi,​Futagawa​Fumitaro,​1925)​ with​a​“crafty​sword​fight.”​It​was​obvious​that​he​did​not​receive​a​positive​ reaction​from​either​the​star​or​his​fans.15​In​contrast,​swords​were​never​ very​important​in​the​Hayashi​star​vehicles.​It​was​a​prevalent​discourse​in​ the​fan​magazine​Shimokamo​that​swords​were​not​necessary​in​jidaigeki.​ The​back​cover​of​the​May​1928​issue​of​the​magazine​declared:​“Deprive​ jidaigeki​of​swords.​Exterminate​sword-​fighting​films.​We​are​fed​up​with​ sword-​fighting​films.​No​more​sword​fighting.​It​has​lost​the​attraction.”​In​ December​1927,​Yukie,​a​Hayashi​fan,​wrote,​“It​is​about​time​that​sword-​ fighting​jidaigeki​be​reborn​into​a​film​free​of​swords,​such​as​[Kinugasa’s]​ Star of Woman and Man.”16​Another​fan,​Nanako,​agreed:​“To​Ms.​Yukie,​ who​asked​why​jidaigeki​must​kill​people​with​swords.​I​completely​agree​ with​you.​I​hate​those​people​who​can​only​think​of​sword​fighting​in​jidaigeki.”17​This​antisword​discourse,​mostly​uttered​by​female​audiences​ and​publicized​by​Shochiku,​was​not​dominant​among​all​movie​fans​of​ the​ time​ but​ was​ formulated​ for​ the​ purpose​ of​ product​ differentiation​ of​Hayashi​star​vehicles​from​other​jidaigeki.​The​critic​Mizumachi​Seiji​ wrote​in​April​1926,​“It​is​a​natural​fact​that​people​do​not​applaud​jidaigeki​without​sword​fights.”18​Hayashi​himself​claimed​in​June​1929,​“Probably,​financially​speaking,​the​company​will​not​stop​making​sword-​fighting​ films​because​they​have​been​successful​at​the​box​office.”19​Even​under​ such​conditions,​Kinugasa​was​able​to​experiment​with​swordless​jidaigeki​ in​Hayashi’s​star​vehicles.​Kinugasa​wrote​later,​“After​Hayashi​Chojiro’s​ name​became​widely​popular​in​the​market​as​a​result​of​our​efforts​to​promote​him​as​the​only​star​of​the​[Shimokamo]​studio,​we​finally​had​a​little​ room.​We​wanted​to​do​something​strange​and​interesting.​Jidaigeki​was​at​ its​peak,​and​we​started​to​feel​its​limitations​too.​I​wanted​to​create​something​ new​ that​ would​ go​ beyond​ the​ popularity​of​ sword​ fighting.​ Why​ don’t​we​make​a​jidaigeki​film​without​a​sword​fight?”20 ​ Kinugasa​ was​ deeply​ involved​ in​ the​ various​ cinematic​ and​ artistic​ trends​of​the​time,​so​he​did​not​want​to​be​regarded​simply​as​a​director​of​ star​vehicles​and​a​supporter​of​a​capitalist​enterprise,​even​though​it​was​ 124  chapter​3

not​clear​that​his​ambition​of​cinematic​experiments​would​go​beyond​Shochiku’s​bright​and​cheerful​tendency​and​its​star​system,​which​was​quickly​ being​conventionalized.​Shimokamo​studio’s​attitude​of​exception​toward​ jidaigeki​worked​for​Kinugasa.​As​a​result​a​truly​matchless​film​was​born.​ Crossways​was​supposed​to​be​a​star​vehicle​for​Bando​Junosuke,​the​second​most​popular​star​of​Shimokamo,​and​Chihaya​Akiko.​Probably​because​Bando​was​so​far​behind​Hayashi​in​popularity​among​female​fans,​ Kinugasa​had​greater​artistic​freedom​in​this​film.21 ​ When​Crossways​was​released​in​1928,​the​critic​Shibata​of​Eiga Zuihitsu,​ a​film​journal​published​in​Kyoto,​noted​that​the​film​distinguished​itself​ from​the​jidaigeki​films​from​other​studios​that​had​“nothing​but​the​flash​ of​the​sword.”22​According​to​Shibata,​the​significant​issue​of​Crossways​was​ that​the​film​displayed​“serious​concerns​of​the​modern​period.”23​If​jidaigeki​was​considered​by​many​to​be​representative​of​the​“modern”​because of​the​“flash​of​the​sword”​despite​the​premodern​setting,​Shibata’s​claim,​ then,​was​contradictory.​The​critic​Takeda​Chuya​also​wrote,​“I​do​not​even​ want​to​call​Crossways jidaimono​[a​period​drama],”​despite​the​fact​that​all​ dramas​set​in​the​Edo​period​had​been​so​called.24 ​ Neither​Shibata​nor​Takeda​clarified​how​Crossways​showed​“concerns​ of​the​modern​period”​without​resorting​to​sword​fighting.​But​it​was​revealing​that​Kinugasa​stated​that​he​made​Yoshiwara,​the​entertainment​ district​depicted​in​Crossways,​look​“something​like​a​café”​from​the​1920s.25​ Even​though​the​narrative​of​Crossways​was​set​in​the​premodern​period,​ such​a​specific​claim​by​the​director​indicated​his​concern​about​Japanese​ modernity,​particularly​about​the​problematic​social​issues​in​urban​areas,​ including​the​chaotic​conditions​of​the​entertainment​districts,​class​relations,​gender​relations,​and​commodification​of​human​beings.​A​café,​in​ the​social​and​cultural​discourse​of​1920s​Japan,​was​a​typical​space​that​ signified​those​particular​issues.​Yoshiwara​in​Crossways​is​a​place​full​of​ light​and​movement,​both​mechanical​and​human.​The​first​scene​at​Yoshiwara​begins​with​a​close-​up​of​a​white​spinning​object​(perhaps​a​roulette​ for​gambling),​whose​continuous​circular​movement​is​followed​by​that​of​ a​ball​on​the​ground.​A​close-​up​of​a​hand,​a​body​part​fragmented​by​the​ camera,​follows​the​ball.​Then,​another​moving​object,​an​archery​target,​ appears,​spinning​clockwise.​A​man​is​playfully​shooting​arrows​at​the​target.​The​camera​pans​to​the​right​and​displays​a​street​of​Yoshiwara,​which​ is​brightly​lit​from​below.​We​see​paper​lanterns,​paper​dolls,​and​a​huge​ street​fiLMs  125

and​white​spherical​wheel​(another​paper​lantern?).​A​man​becomes​furious,​and​a​woman,​possibly​a​prostitute,​laughs;​her​face​with​thick​white​ makeup​shines​in​a​spotlight.​In​double​exposure,​the​wheel​object​keeps​ turning​behind​the​woman. ​ With​its​sensitivity​to​the​technology​of​lighting​and​the​problematic​ social​issues​in​urban​areas,​Crossways​became​close​to​a​Weimar​street​film​ despite​its​form​of​jidaigeki.​In​the​October​1925​issue​of​the​journal​Bungei Jidai,​Kinugasa​selected​The Last Laugh​as​his​“ideal​film”​and​claimed​that​ he​watched​the​film​five​times.26​As​was​the​case​with​A Page of Madness,​ Kinugasa​tried​to​locate​Crossways​within​the​discourse​of​European​art​ films.​Beyond​the​discursive​level,​there​certainly​was​the​same​thematic​ motif​between​Crossways​and​Weimar​street​films.​Despite​the​different​ social​and​cultural​settings​in​both,​the​politics​and​economy​of​modernizing​societies​were​represented​as​a​cause​of​distress.​In​this​sense,​Crossways​ was​a​typical​example​of​what​Harry​Harootunian​calls​“co-​eval​modernity,”​which​suggests​the​narrative​of​modernity​in​Japan​to​be​“contemporaneity​yet​the​possibility​of​difference,”​without​ignoring​the​complex​ global​power​relations.27 ​ Crossways​satisfied​the​decade-​long​aspiration​of​some​Japanese​spectators​to​export​Japanese-​made​films​to​the​international​market.​Kinugasa​ brought​Crossways​to​Europe​in​1928.​The​film​was​received​“with​sensation”​ by​ European​ audiences.28​ Shirai​ Shintaro,​ the​ Shimokamo​ studio​ head,​among​others,​once​hoped​to​export​Shochiku​films​to​the​international​market​“in​order​to​develop​film​drama​in​this​country​[Japan].”29​ His​mission​was​partly​accomplished​with​Crossways.​With​excitement,​the​ critic​Yanome​Genichi​translated​a​French​review​of​Crossways​and​quoted​ it​fully​in​his​article​in​Kinema Junpo:​“If​Crossways​is​not​a​fortunate​and​ exceptional​success​but​one​of​many​powerful​results,​we​want​other​films​ made​in​this​Far​East​island​of​Japan​to​be​screened​one​after​another.​With​ its​uniqueness,​perfection,​and​seriousness,​Japanese​cinema​will​occupy​a​ dominant​position​over​all​of​the​European​ones,​which​have​been​in​a​chaotic​condition.​We​cannot​find​anything​superior​to​Japanese​cinema.​Only​ Russian​ and​ American​ films​ could​ be​ comparable​ to​ Japanese​ ones.”30​ Yanome​concluded​his​article​by​saying,​“This​may​be​too​high​a​praise,​ but​it​is​a​great​pleasure​to​know​that​the​film’s​strength​is​recognized​as​it​ is.​.​.​.​I​think​that​Japanese​people​need​to​dig​deeply​into​their​emotions​

126  chapter​3

and​create​something​unique.​Then,​we​can​proudly​present​an​outstanding​ art​form​to​the​world.”31​Iwasaki​Akira,​who​established​his​status​as​a​leading​Marxist​film​critic​in​Japan​by​writing​on​German​expressionist​films,​ wrote​of​Crossways,​“Kinugasa​Teinosuke​should​be​proud​of​himself​for​ presenting​Crossways​to​the​film​world​in​Japan.​I​also​want​him​to​take​it​ to​the​international​market.​The​most​successful​achievement​of​Kinugasa​ in​Crossways​was​its​form.​He​tried​to​abandon​the​commonsensical​props​ of​period​dramas.​.​.​.​Instead,​what​he​realized​was​a​beautiful​structure​ that​integrated​sets,​lights,​camera​angles,​and​so​on.​.​.​.​Apart​from​attempting​to​make​a​pure​film​[as​he​did​in​A Page of Madness],​his​main​goal​ was​to​go​for​tainted​harmony.”32​By​“tainted​harmony,”​Iwasaki​pointed​ out​Kinugasa’s​compromising​but​strategic​integration​of​the​“commonsensical”​techniques​of​jidaigeki,​Shimokamo’s​own​conventionalized​techniques​for​the​prominent​star,​and​his​own​ambitious​experiments​in​sets,​ lights,​and​camera.​Such​integration​was​exactly​the​form​that​Iwasaki​believed​to​be​exportable​and​globally​marketable​as​a​distinctive​representative​of​Japanese​cinema. ​ The​dream​of​export​was​strongly​attached​to​a​nationalist​tendency​to​ believe​that​the​potential​profit​of​Japanese​films​had​been​stolen​by​foreign​ films​that​depicted​stereotypical​Japanese​culture​and​landscapes.33​Therefore,​ there​ were​ some​ Japanese​ critics​ who​ criticized​ the​ style​ of​ Crossways​despite​its​international​success.​The​film​critic​Otake​Jiro​pointed​ out​that​the​film​imitated​“German​expressionist​film”​and​claimed​that​ “Crossways​is​a​good​and​unique​film,​but​should​not​be​appreciated​as​a​ representative​of​Japanese​cinema.​This​is​because​the​film​does​not​have​ enough​of​the​Japanese​spirit​and​traditional​Japanese​aesthetics.”34​Another​critic,​Kiyotomo​Hideo,​wrote,​“In​Crossways,​the​staircase​that​leads​ us​to​the​room​that​the​brother​and​sister​are​renting​is​a​good​example.​ Its​expressionistic​deformation​is​appropriate​to​narrate​the​atmosphere​ of​their​home.”35​Muromachi​Kyoji,​the​editor-​in-​chief​of​the​film​magazine​Katsudo Gaho,​emphasized​the​importance​of​imitating​the​techniques​ of​foreign​films​“without​losing​the​essence​of​Japanese​cinema.”36​Mukai​ Shunko​of​Katsudo Gaho​insisted​on​making​films​that​would​use​Western​ techniques​but​express​yamato damashi​(the​pure​Japanese​spirit),​which​ he,​and​others,​considered​to​represent​Japan’s​power​and​strength​as​a​nation.37​What​these​critics​implied​was​their​anxiety​that​the​Japanese​spirit​

street​fiLMs  127

could​be​in​a​position​of​periphery​in​opposition​to​the​West​as​the​center​ of​global​power​relations.​As​the​pure​film​advocates​insisted,​they​understood​the​necessity​of​a​certain​degree​of​imitation​of​cinematic​and​technical​ innovations​ in​ the​West​ to​ attain​ an​internationally​ viable​ level​ of​ narrational​clarity​and​create​exportable​and​marketable​products.​But​they​ requested​a​proper​mixture​of​it​with​an​exclusively​Japanese​content.​To​ them,​Crossways​was​a​borderline​case. ​ No​matter​how​nationalistic​those​critics​wanted​to​be​in​complex​global​ power​relations​and​or​how​much​they​questioned​whether​Japanese-​made​ films​mimicked​the​styles​of​foreign​products,​it​seems​more​significant​to​ note​that​Crossways​shared​concerns​on​the​issues​of​modernity​and​technology​of​lighting​with​Weimar​street​films.​Historical​audiences,​including​ intellectual​film​critics,​regarded​Crossways​as​a​street​film.​The​Hungarian​ film​theorist​Béla​Balázs​watched​Crossways​in​Germany​when​it​was​released​and​juxtaposed​the​film​with​The Street.​Balázs​points​out​the​similarity​between​Crossways​and​Weimar​street​films​without​emphasizing​the​ origin​of​the​influence​(which​film​influenced​which);​instead​he​focuses​ their​shared​attitudes​and​treatment​of​lighting.​Despite​different​cultural​ origins,​Balázs​calls​them​“absolute​films”​by​“expressionists”​who​tried​to​ “project​outwards​the​internal​landscape​of​the​soul.”38​Balázs​writes,​“Karl​ Grune​was​the​first​to​show​in​his​film​The​Street​the​picture​of​a​city​as​it​ is​reflected​in​the​inner​vision​of​a​young​man​thirsting​for​life.​In​the​film​ Shadows​of​Yoshiwara​someone​goes​blind​and​in​the​last​flash​of​sight​sees​ the​colourful​bustle​of​a​festival.​These​pictures​flow​on​to​the​screen​without​outline​or​shape,​like​the​blood​out​of​the​injured​eye.”39 ​ When​Iwasaki​Akira​called​Crossways​“one​of​the​best​films​ever​made​ in​Japan,”​he​was​not​simply​thinking​of​the​dream​of​export;​he​was​simultaneously​sharing​his​thoughts​with​Balázs​regarding​the​“absolute​film.”​ Iwasaki​discussed​ the​effects​of​lighting​ in​The Last Laugh​ and​claimed,​ “We​should​not​see​only​black-​and-​white​dots,​but​should​feel​the​flight​ of​human​souls​because,​on​the​screen,​actual​human​beings​with​depths​ and​‘tactile​values’​and​with​reason​and​emotions​are​in​motion.”40​According​to​Iwasaki,​“autonomous​from​worldly​objects,”​such​a​film​as​The Last Laugh,​which​he​regarded​as​the​“absolute​film,”​reveals​the​innate​nature​ of​cinema​and​would​“directly​insert​the​composer’s​spiritual​contents​into​ ours​and​deliver​aesthetic​emotions​[to​the​spectators].”41​Another​critic,​ Takeda​Chuya,​points​out​a​similar​issue​in​Crossways: 128  chapter​3

His​[Kinugasa’s]​ sense​ is​“perfectly​cinematic.”​An​imminently​ modern​sense,​which​cannot​be​called​anything​but​cinematic,​is​breathing​ vigorously​in​him.​It​is​banal​to​say​this,​but​he​is​a​man​who​“paints​ with​light.”​Therefore,​if​the​viewer​looks​at​his​work​with​a​pure​sense​ of​mind,​he​or​she​can​directly​receive​what​Kinugasa​wants​to​say.​.​.​.​ However,​some​criticize​that​his​method​is​too​inclined​to​techniques.​ Why​do​they​impurely​and​superficially​pick​only​techniques?​Why​can’t​ they​accept​the​film​purely​as​it​is?​.​.​.​Why​can’t​they​see​the​cinematic​ power​in​it?​.​.​.​If​the​viewer​is​pure,​he​or​she​sees​that​Crossways​is​a​ work​that​is​least​conscious​of​techniques​per​se​but​one​in​which​cinematic​expressions​are​coherently​adopted​to​deliver​Kinugasa’s​spiritual​ desire.42 What​“spiritual​contents”​and​“aesthetic​emotions”​did​Crossways​visually​ deliver​to​the​spectators?​How​were​the​images​in​the​film​painted​with​ light? killed by light

When​ Crossways​ was​ released,​ reviewers’​ major​ focus​ was​ on​ the​ film’s​ techniques​rather​than​its​story.​The​critic​Tokuda​Shonosuke​wrote,​“I​felt​ that​ in​ Crossways​ the​ story​ has​ only​ secondary​ importance.​ .​ .​ .​ That​ is,​ expression​is​most​important​for​the​author.”43​Another​critic,​Okudaira​ Hideo,​called​Crossways​“a​masterpiece​that​cannot​be​ignored​in​the​history​of​cinema”​because​of​the​“beauty​of​the​fluid​camera​movements​and​ contrasts​of​lights​and​shadows.”44​Similarly,​Kubota​Tatsuo​of​Shimokamo​ regarded​Crossways​as​“an​artistically​challenging,​conscientious,​and​innovative​film​with​a​completely​new​style,​which​ambitiously​attempted​to​ create​a​new​genre​in​jidaigeki​films.”45​In​particular,​Kubota​pointed​out​ the​innovative​use​of​lighting​in​Crossways​in​specific​terms:​“Shimokamo​ studio​had​only​one​glass​stage​back​then.​It​was​one​of​the​most​primitive​ pieces​of​equipment​of​filmmaking,​where​films​were​shot​only​under​natural​light​with​the​help​of​the​sun.​However,​Crossways​was​not​made​under​ the​sunlight​but​lit​by​lamps,​as​was​the​previous​film,​A Page of Madness.​.​.​.​ In​fact,​no​shot​in​this​film​was​photographed​under​the​sun.​.​.​.​Probably​ there​were​no​other​films​at​that​time,​other​than​A Page of Madness​and​ Crossways,​that​did​not​have​any​shots​photographed​on​location.”46 ​ The​director​Kinugasa​was​fully​aware​of​his​lighting​scheme​in​the​prostreet​fiLMs  129

figure​3.1  A​high-​angle​extreme​long​shot​of​dark​streets​at​night​looks​as​if​it​ were​from​a​Weimar​street​film.​Crossways​(1928).

duction​of​Crossways.​He​was​mindful​of​how​many​lamps​he​was​able​to​ use​at​Shimokamo.​Kinugasa​made​a​list​of​lamps​that​were​available​to​ him:​“Sun​spotlight,​1;​Spotlights,​8;​Ewing​lights,​20.”47​With​those​numbers​in​mind,​he​decided​to​photograph​Crossways​entirely​at​night​on​a​ glass​stage​in​order​to​achieve​the​best​effects​of​lighting.48​The​cinematographer​Sugiyama​Kohei​was​extremely​conscious​of​lighting​in​this​film​as​ well.​He​complained​that​due​to​the​lack​of​sufficient​lighting​equipment​it​ was​impossible​to​make​the​climactic​hallucinatory​scene​set​in​the​entertainment​district​of​Yoshiwara​brighter​than,​and​clearly​contrastive​to,​the​ previous​“more​depressing”​scenes.49​In​order​to​make​up​for​the​insufficiency,​the​crew​needed​to​paint​the​set​to​indicate​bright​and​shadowy​ sections.50​As​a​result​of​their​efforts,​despite​the​lack​of​a​sword​fight,​the​ hallucinatory​scene​in​this​jidaigeki​film​certainly​looks​strikingly​flashy— like​white​lightning. ​ From​the​opening​shot,​the​effects​of​lighting​are​clearly​noticeable.​The​ first​shot​of​Crossways​is​a​high-​angle​extreme​long​shot​of​dark​streets​at​ night,​as​if​it​came​out​of​one​of​the​Weimar​street​films​(fig.​3.1).​Lights​ from​off-​screen​left​create​strong​lines​of​shadows​on​the​street.​A​man​ 130  chapter​3

runs​along​the​street​in​a​hurry.​Strong​contrasts​of​light​and​shadow​create​a​sense​of​a​spider’s​web​that​is​about​to​capture​the​man.​The​following​ close-​ups​of​the​body​parts​of​the​man—his​face,​hand,​and​foot—and​his​ point-​of-​view​shot​of​the​street​that​appear​one​after​another​in​extremely​ quick​editing​enhance​the​psychological​and​emotional​intensity,​even​insanity,​of​this​character,​who​turns​out​to​be​the​protagonist​of​the​film​ (Bando​Junosuke),​known​as​the​brother,​desperately​running​back​to​his​ home.​When​the​man​reaches​his​apartment,​he​runs​up​stairs.​In​a​long​ shot,​his​body​casts​a​thick​dark​shadow​on​the​wall.51 ​ The​economically​impoverished​man​and​his​sister​(Chihaya​Akiko),​ who​works​in​the​clothing​industry,​are​severely​harassed​by​people​with​ financial​and​political​authority.​They​try​in​vain​to​escape​from​them.​One​ of​those​people​is​a​courtesan,​O-​Ume​(Ogawa​Yukiko),​who​unreasonably​ enhances​the​brother’s​sexual​desire​with​her​love​for​sale.​When​O-​Ume​ is​first​introduced​in​the​narrative,​the​camera​tilts​down​from​a​close-​up​ of​her​face​and​shows​numerous​hands​of​men,​who​want​her​insanely.​The​ shot​of​the​hands​dissolves​into​another​shot​of​crowds.​The​camera​moves​ back​to​a​medium​shot​of​O-​Ume​as​if​the​movement​represents​the​desires​ of​the​men.​Another​harasser​is​O-​Ume’s​new​lover​(Ozawa​Meiichiro),​ who​has​much​more​monetary​power​than​the​brother​and,​in​front​of​the​ brother,​even​tears​up​a​kimono,​a​commodity,​that​the​sister​has​produced.​ There​is​also​a​toothless​man​posing​as​a​constable​(Soma​Ippei)​with​jitte​ (a​ visual​ sign​ of​ a​ police​ force).​ He​ sexually​ attacks​ the​ sister​ using​ his​ false​or​imaginary​strength​(he​pretends​to​be​a​policeman​and​promises​ the​sister​to​protect​her​brother​if​she​agrees​to​give​her​body​to​him;​but​ he​confesses​to​his​friend,​the​stingy​landlord​of​the​apartment​where​the​ brother​and​sister​live,​that​he​has​picked​up​the​jitte​on​the​street).​The​ final​harassers​are​a​doctor​who​tells​the​sister​that​he​can​cure​an​injury​the​ brother​sustained​only​for​a​payment​and​a​grinning​old​woman,​the​owner​ of​a​whorehouse,​who​is​always​counting​money​whenever​she​appears​in​ the​film. ​ In​Crossways,​the​peril​of​the​brother​and​sister​is​almost​always​displayed​ in​a​conspicuous​manipulation​of​lighting.​In​other​words,​their​hardship​is​ treated​as​a​visual​spectacle​of​modern​consumer​society​via​lighting.​In​this​ sense,​the​lighting​scheme​of​this​film​goes​beyond​the​duality​between​visibility​and​expressivity​and​excels​in​the​function​of​glamorization​as​well,​ often​drawing​the​viewers’​attention​to​it.​Crossways​is​constructed​as​a​film​ street​fiLMs  131

about​the​modern​technology​of​lighting​and​its​fatal​attraction.​To​be​more​ specific,​in​Crossways,​especially​with​its​conspicuous​lighting​scheme,​the​ sense​of​vision​in​the​modern​world​is​critically​examined.​The​protagonist​of​this​film​goes​blind​about​halfway​through.​In​the​spectacularly​lit​ entertainment​district​of​Yoshiwara,​the​brother​frantically​tries​to​attack​ O-​Ume’s​new​lover.​In​response,​the​enemy​throws​balls​of​ashes​into​his​ eyes.​In​an​intertitle,​the​brother​cries​out,​“All​is​darkness!”​The​screenplay​ with​handwritten​notations,​included​in​Kinugasa’s​personal​papers​preserved​in​the​Sorimachi​Collection​of​the​National​Film​Center​at​the​National​Museum​of​Modern​Art,​Tokyo,​describes​the​scene:​“The​sight​has​ turned​into​pitch​blackness​all​of​a​sudden.​Something​thrown​into​his​eyes​ has​blinded​him.”52​White​dots​of​ashes​spread​not​only​on​the​brother’s​ face​but​also​on​the​camera​that​is​photographing​the​scene​(fig.​3.2).​As​a​ result,​the​vision​of​the​camera​as​well​as​the​spectator​is​obstructed.​When​ the​brother​is​blinded​by​the​ashes,​so​are​the​camera​and​the​spectator. ​ The​ film​ historian​ William​ O.​ Gardner​ reads​ the​ brother’s​ blindness​ “as​a​correlative​for​the​impairment​of​his​rational​faculties​and​his​moral​ blindness,​for​he​is​unable​to​distinguish​between​reality​and​virtue,​represented​by​the​sister,​and​illusion​and​depravity,​represented​by​O-​Ume.”53​ In​addition​to​such​a​symbolical​reading,​I​would​argue​that​the​blindness​ in​this​scene​reveals​the​materiality​of​cinema.​Different​from​the​brother’s​ experience​of​darkness​or​pitch​blackness,​what​the​viewers​of​this​film​perceive​is​the​effect​of​whiteout.​The​white​dots​literally​stick​onto​the​camera​and​reflect​the​strong​lighting​of​the​scene.​As​a​result,​on​the​verge​of​a​ potential​sword​fight​between​the​brother​and​the​enemy,​the​screen​turns​ almost​solid​white.​Neither​a​sword​of​a​samurai​nor​a​face​of​a​star​shines,​ but​the​scene​produces​extreme​violence​to​the​eyes​of​both​the​brother​ (sudden​darkness)​and​the​viewers​(sudden​brightness).​The​sudden​appearance​of​white​dots​not​only​reveals​the​existence​of​the​camera,​but​also​ draws​the​viewers’​attention​to​the​very​fact​that​cinema​is​a​visual​medium​ and​a​spectacle​of​light. ​ I​ want​ to​ expand​ this​ interpretation​ to​ a​ sociopolitical​ level​ as​ well.​ Gerow​argues,​“A​story​of​mental​delusion​[in​A Page of Madness]​would​ have​been​attractive​both​to​modernist​writers​interested​in​perception​and​ to​film​reformers​hoping​to​show​the​potential​of​cinema​as​a​pure​art​for​ it​allowed​for​a​variety​of​experiments​within​the​bounds​of​narrative.”54​At​ the​same​time,​Gerow​points​out: 132  chapter​3

figure​3.2 ​

The​brother​ (Bando​Junosuke)​ is​blinded​by​balls​ of​ashes​thrown​ into​his​eyes.​ Crossways​(1928).

In​ the​ context​ of​ 1920s​ Japan,​ the​ cinema​ was​ related​ to​ insanity​ in​ another,​ more​ problematic​ fashion.​ From​ early​ on,​ motion​ pictures​ were​frequently​the​object​of​censor​by​government​officials​and​social​ leaders​as​a​medium​that​was​corrupting​youth​and​undermining​social​ values.​Central​to​this​critique​was​a​view​of​spectator​psychology​that​ saw​the​cinema​as​breaking​down​normal​modes​of​reasoning​and​socialized​self-​control,​encouraging​the​expression​of​irrational​and​asocial​ thoughts.​.​.​.​In​this​discursive​context,​attempting​to​depict​the​psychology​of​the​mentally​unstable​in​film​would​have​to​appear​as​a​discussion​of​the​psychology​of​cine​itself.55 Gerow​claims​that​A Page of Madness​certainly​intervenes​in​“the​struggles​ over​the​place​of​cinema”​in​modernity,​whether​it​might​be​“a​Foucauldian​ technology​of​surveillance​and​separation​that​reproduces​efficient​modes​ of​knowledge​under​a​strict​hierarchy”​or​more​radically​and​subversively​ “crossing​ boundaries​ and​ undermining​ that​ division​ of​ epistemological​ labor.”56​Gerow​concludes​that​the​film​is​“far​more​interesting​than​the​ one​celebrated​as​the​avant-​garde​masterwork​of​a​lone​genius”​because​ it​“ambivalently​stands​in​the​middle”​and​does​not​take​any​side​in​these​ debates.57 ​ Focusing​on​the​unstable​mental​state​of​the​protagonist​and​attempting​ to​visually​depict​the​psychology,​Crossways​similarly​intervenes​in​such​debates​over​the​place​of​cinema​in​the​1920s.​Kinugasa’s​conspicuous​awarestreet​fiLMs  133

ness​of​the​discourse​of​film​theories​and​criticisms​and​critics’​enthusiastic​ reactions​to​the​film​were​the​clear​evidence.​What​makes​Crossways​interesting​to​me​is​that​despite​the​fact​that​(or​because)​the​film​was​made​as​ a​capitalist​commodity​at​Shochiku’s​Shimokamo​studio,​where​the​most​ popular​ star​ of​ the​ time​ resided,​ Kinugasa​ and​ his​ collaborators​ took​ a​ potentially​subversive​side​in​such​debates.​With​the​motif​of​blindness,​ Crossways​critically​reveals​the​nature​of​cinema​as​a​visual​medium​and​as​ a​consumer​product​in​Japanese​modernity.​The​film​shared​the​concerns​ about​the​primacy​of​vision​with​contemporaneous​criticism​and​literature. ​ As​in​Europe,​the​process​of​modernization​in​Japan​appeared​as​“a​pervasive​ ‘separation​ of​ the​ senses’​ and​ industrial​ remapping​ of​ the​ body,”​ especially​when​various​imported​medical​terms​hierarchized​these​senses​ and​particularly​privileged​the​sense​of​vision,​as​the​historian​Tsuboi​Hideto​points​out,​referring​to​Jonathan​Crary’s​work​on​vision​and​modernity.58​The​critic​Matsuyama​Iwao​argues​that​the​1920s​were​“the​period​ when​visual​culture​flourished​extensively”​and​the​status​of​the​sense​of​ physical​ touch​ diminished​ and​ human​ senses​ were​ centralized​ toward​ vision.59​It​is​indicative​that​the​ethnologist​Yanagita​Kunio​begins​his​1930​ book​on​the​social​history​of​modern​Japan​with​a​chapter​on​vision​(“Social​Conditions​That​the​Eyes​Can​See”).60​And​as​Harry​Harootunian​argues,​he​conceded​the​importance​of​the​eyes​that​see​society​in​the​“progressive​fragmentation​and​destabilization​of​cultural​forms.”61 ​ The​ remapping​ of​ the​ body​ was​ conducted​ under​ the​ supervision​ of​ the​modernizing​state,​the​Meiji​(1868–1912)​and​Taisho​(1912–26)​governments.​By​the​early​1930s,​Japanese​scholars​and​practitioners​in​medicine,​ psychiatry,​psychology,​and​sexology,​as​well​as​philosophers​and​bureaucrats,​developed​a​new​understanding​of​the​management​of​the​Japanese​ body​and,​through​it,​of​the​entire​population.​They​increasingly​employed​ scientific​knowledge​to​guide​policies​aimed​at​well-​regulated​bodies​that​ would​constitute​a​modern​nation.62​The​development​of​the​fingerprint​ system​was​an​example​of​such​a​control. ​ The​regulation​of​benshi​was​another​example.​In​the​early​period​of​ film​culture​in​Japan,​as​in​Europe​and​the​United​States,​spectators​were​ not​simply​quiet​viewers​and​interpreters​of​narratives​on​the​screen.​As​ Gerow​ points​ out,​ the​ experience​ of​ early​ cinema​ in​ Japan​ was​ not​ defined​as​the​dominance​of​visual​attractions​but​as​“a​plethora​of​equally​ viable​ modes​ of​ enjoyment,”​ including​ the​ verbal​ narrative​ of​ benshi​ as​ 134  chapter​3

one​of​many​“attractions.”63​Spectators​were​“kinetic”​and​physical​participants​of​the​space,​occasionally​crying​out​toward​the​screen,​calling​and​ responding​to​benshi,​projectionists,​and​orchestra​members.64​The​historian​Kitada​Akihiro​argues​that​throughout​the​Taisho​period,​the​optical​ (or​exclusive​and​intensive​visual​observation​of​represented​images​on​the​ screen)​and​a​self-​sufficiency​of​filmic​narrative​that​promoted​a​subject​divorced​from​the​physical​became​more​privileged​than​the​voice​of​benshi,​ which​represented​the​mode​of​perception​and​subjectivity​in​bodily​form​ and​is​participatory​and​kinetic​in​the​space​of​cinematic​experiences.65​As​ Gerow​suggests,​such​a​clear​binary​division​between​the​optical​and​the​ kinetic​could​ignore​a​more​complex​history.​Instead,​Gerow​persuasively​ argues​that​film​reformers​of​the​Taisho​period​wanted​to​incorporate​benshi​within​the​film​in​order​to​increase​the​visual​experience​of​cinema.​At​ the​same​time,​according​to​Gerow,​internalization​of​benshi​was​meant​to​ control​the​volatility​of​the​image​by​the​word.66​Such​a​practice​that​could​ control​a​multiplicity​of​meanings​would​function​to​reinforce​the​primacy​ of​vision​because​the​voice​was​used​to​unify​the​meaning​of​the​visual​ image.​The​sense​of​vision​never​stood​alone,​especially​with​the​coming​of​ sound,​but​was​enhanced​by​the​auditory.67 ​ Critics,​poets,​and​novelists​in​Japan​became​concerned​about​the​primacy​of​vision​in​modern​culture​and​society,​which,​they​argued,​could​ turn​cinema​into​“the​state​apparatus​of​vision.”68​They​started​discussing​ sensory​perception​of​cinema​in​order​to​critique​the​primacy​of​vision.​ In​1931,​for​instance,​the​popular​detective​novelist​Edogawa​Rampo​published​“Blind​Beast”​(“Moju”),​in​which​he​introduced​his​“theory​of​haptic​art”​(shokkaku geijutsu ron).69​The​protagonist​of​“Blind​Beast”​is​blind​ and​is​only​able​to​appreciate​art​and​the​beauty​of​women’s​bodies​with​ his​hands.​Through​the​mouthpiece​of​the​protagonist​as​he​addresses​the​ heroine,​Rampo​writes,​“It​is​really​strange​that​we​have​only​thought​about​ the​visual​art​and​have​not​cared​anything​about​the​haptic​art.​Why?​Only​ because​we​have​eyes.​Because​we​are​not​blind.​.​.​.​If​we​did​not​have​eyes,​ the​haptic​art​would​have​developed​in​this​world.”70​In​another​novella​by​ Rampo,​“Caterpillar”​(“Imomushi,”​1929),​the​wife​of​a​former​soldier,​who​ has​lost​his​arms,​legs,​auditory​sense,​and​voice​in​the​battlefield,​damages​his​eyes​and​makes​him​blind.​She​becomes​so​irritated​and​scared​ of​his​round​eyes​gazing​at​one​place​continuously​that​she​turns​him​into​ an​object​that​only​has​the​fragmentary​sense​of​touch.​The​historian​Yostreet​fiLMs  135

shikuni​Igarashi​suggests​that​the​primacy​of​vision​is​“thoroughly​problematized”​in​Rampo’s​stories.​Igarashi​writes,​“Rampo’s​stories​remind​his​ readers​of​the​centrality​of​the​body​and​its​senses​in​these​modern​experiences.​.​.​.​Rampo’s​fiction​demonstrates​that​vision​cannot​satisfactorily​integrate​fragmentary​bodily​senses.”71​When​Rampo’s​novella​“Tom​ Thumb”​(“Issunboshi,”​1926)​was​made​into​a​film​in​1927,​which​unfortunately​is​not​extant,​the​director​Shiba​Seika,​according​to​a​contemporary​ review,​inserted​shots​of​a​human​hand​at​various​times​and​places​for​no​ particular​narrational​reason.​The​reviewer​confessed​that​the​shots​were​ “incomprehensible”​and​regarded​them​as​“mistakes”​that​needed​some​explanation​from​the​filmmaker.​It​is​possible​that​insertion​of​these​shots​of​ hands​was​the​filmmaker’s​strategy​to​refer​to​Rampo’s​thematic​concern​ with​the​primacy​of​vision​and​the​notion​of​the​haptic.72 ​ The​ motif​ of​ temporary​ blindness​ in​ Crossways​ enhances​ the​ critical​ awareness​of​the​sense​of​vision.​It​is​more​significant​to​note​that​it​is​not​ his​blindness​but​his​subsequent​regained​vision,​or​hallucinations​in​light,​ that​accelerates​the​brother​into​insanity.​The​declaration​by​the​cinematographer​Sugiyama​Kohei​on​his​lighting​scheme​in​Crossways​is​indicative:​“When​his​[the​brother’s]​eyes​open,​we​used​andon​with​double​exposure.​ Or,​ we​ used​ a​ paper​ with​ a​ hole​ and​ showed​ a​ beam​ of​ carbon​ light​through​the​hole​to​make​andon​stand​out.”73​Thus,​when​the​brother​ regains​his​vision,​Sugiyama​conspicuously​and​consistently​used​special​ lighting​techniques​not​to​emphasize​the​brother’s​renewed​vision​but​to​ indicate​ his​ illuminated​ hallucinations.​ In​ his​ new​ world​ of​ luminosity,​ visual​hallucinations​attack​the​brother​and​kill​him​in​the​end.​In​other​ words,​the​modern​technology​of​lighting​was​used​here​for​the​purpose​of​ suggesting​that​the​primacy​of​vision​could​be​fatally​betraying. ​ The​peril​of​the​sister,​who​is​about​to​be​attacked​by​a​man​posing​as​a​ constable,​is​crosscut​to​a​close-​up​of​the​frowning​face​of​the​brother,​who​ is​asleep.​The​brother​suddenly​opens​his​eyes​in​a​close-​up.​In​the​next​ shot,​supposedly​his​point-​of-​view​shot,​we​see​an​abstract​image​of​light,​ which​looks​like​a​surface​of​shimmering​water.​Then​a​shot​of​dim​light​ precedes​a​close-​up​of​his​face,​this​time​brightly​lit​by​a​spotlight.​Then,​ a​shot​of​the​bright​light​is​inserted​again.​After​a​shot​of​the​constable’s​ hand,​an​extreme​long​shot​of​the​rain​outside​emphasizes​light​again.​The​ raindrops​shine​white​as​if​they​fully​reflect​the​light​from​an​andon​lamp​ and​surround​the​brother​(and​sister)​in​luminosity.​When​the​scene​cuts​ 136  chapter​3

back​to​the​sister,​what​we​see​is​a​close-​up​of​a​debabocho​( Japanese-​style​ cooking​knife),​ominously​shining,​held​by​the​sister’s​hands—another​reference​to​jidaigeki,​but​without​using​a​sword.​As​if​being​attacked​by​the​ flash​of​the​debabocho,​the​brother​falls​down​the​stairs.​This​falling​movement​is​accompanied​by​another​motif​of​luminosity:​a​shot​of​a​bucket,​ full​of​shining​rainwater,​falling​from​a​wall​because​of​its​own​weight​is​inserted​here. ​ In​this​world​full​of​luminosity,​what​the​brother​first​witnesses​with​ his​wide-​open​eyes​is​a​sight​that​is​nightmarishly​lit.​In​his​point-​of-​view​ shot,​as​the​false​constable’s​back​falls​down​on​the​floor,​he​sees​his​loving​ sister​holding​a​knife​in​her​hands.​Strong​sidelight​that​comes​through​ shoji​screens​creates​numerous​crossing​lights​and​shadows​on​her.​Then,​ a​close-​up​of​her​hands​and​one​of​her​face​are​inserted,​both​of​which​are​ brightly​lit​from​below​and​look​extremely​white.​In​the​strong​sidelight,​ the​brother​and​the​sister​embrace​each​other​over​the​dead​body.​In​the​ brother’s​point-​of-​view​shot,​the​raindrops​outside​shine​extremely​white.​ As​if​being​attracted​by​such​brightness,​the​brother​and​sister​flee​outside.​ Their​bodies​are​surrounded​by​dazzlingly​white​smoke—evaporation​of​ the​rain​and​sweat​because​of​their​body​heat.​The​sister’s​hair​holds​numerous​white​and​shiny​drops​from​the​rain. ​ On​their​way,​the​brother​declares,​“I​can​see​everything.”​But​it​is​nothing​but​another​visual​hallucination​that​attacks​the​brother.​It​is​a​luminous​vision​of​O-​Ume​in​a​flashback​that​drives​him​insane.​Leaving​his​sister​behind,​he​desperately​starts​running​toward​the​entertainment​district.​ The​brother​cannot​help​going​back​to​Yoshiwara—the​bright​city​of​consumerism​and​modern​technology—to​see​O-​Ume.​The​sight​of​O-​Ume​ makes​his​vision​go​out​of​control.​An​extremely​quick​montage​displays​ numerous​ objects​ in​ luminosity​ one​ after​ another,​ over​ and​ over​ again:​ spinning​white​balls,​shadows​on​shoji​screens,​the​sister’s​white​face,​rain,​ white​ashes,​flower​petals,​and​white​lit​crossways​under​the​stars​as​shining​ little​dots​(fig.​3.3).74​The​screenplay​describes​the​scene​after​the​brother​ looks​at​O-​Ume:​“The​brother​felt​a​blow​of​an​iron​hammer​on​the​head.​ He​writhed​from​too​much​brutality​on​his​mind​and​body.​Intertitle​(12):​ The​brother​‘No.’​Reality​had​already​vanished​from​his​unclear​head,​and​ his​very​old​memories​came​back.​Nostalgia​of​happiness​in​the​past— with​his​sister.​Intertitle​(13):​The​brother​‘Sis.’​The​brother’s​eyes​cannot​ see​anything​any​longer.”75​His​black​eyes​insanely​move​to​the​center​as​ street​fiLMs  137

figure​3.3 ​

The​brother’s​ vision​goes​out​of​ control.​Crossways​ (1928).

figure​3.4 ​

The​brother’s​ black​eyes​move​ insanely​to​ the​center​as​if​ imitating​the​mie​ expression​of​a​ Kabuki​actor.​ Crossways​(1928).

if​imitating​the​mie​expression​of​a​Kabuki​actor​(fig.​3.4).​(Compared​to​ Hayashi’s​nagashi-​me,​which​is​a​more​subtle​movement​of​the​eyes,​mie​ conspicuously​ emphasizes​ the​ act​ of​ gazing​ with​ a​ strong​ movement​ of​ the​eyes.)​Then,​helplessly,​the​brother​covers​his​eyes​with​his​hands​in​ vain.​His​body​moves​back​and​forth,​even​moving​away​from​the​camera​ frame​until​finally​falling​to​the​ground.​The​brother​is​killed​by​the​power​ of​vision.​Kinugasa​said​he​originally​wanted​to​show​that​“the​brother​dies​ in​happiness,”​but​obviously​decided​against​that.76 ​ The​critic​Hatano​Mitsuo​discusses​the​finale​of​Crossways​in​his​review: 138  chapter​3

It​ is​ true​ that​ Crossways​ is​ much​ more​ cinematically​ expressive​ than​ other​ sword-fighting​ films,​ which​ are​ filled​ with​ grotesque​ dances​ with​ swords.​ Particularly​ in​ the​ scenes​ in​ an​ entertainment​ district,​ Mr.​Kinugasa’s​goal​is​accomplished​completely.​Spinning​archery​targets,​circling​white​balls,​and​red​paper​lanterns​are​used​to​establish​ comfortable​tones​of​the​film.​They​are​in​nice​harmony​with​stylized​ and​mechanical​facial​expressions​of​the​people​there​and​successfully​ express​the​beautiful​and​fantastic​atmosphere​of​the​place.​.​.​.​However,​ even​though​we​are​mesmerized​by​such​fantastic​imagery​of​the​entertainment​district,​we​cannot​help​being​aware​of​another​issue.​We​see​ poor​pantomimes​under​inadequately​shimmering​beams​of​light,​which​ are​supposed​to​express​the​fate​of​the​miserable​sister​and​brother​who​ are​at​a​loss​on​the​crossways​between​beautiful​friendship​and​a​[cruel]​ love​affair.​When​these​actors​appear​in​the​scenes​in​the​entertainment​ district,​our​fantasy​is​recklessly​destroyed.​What​we​witness​are​awful​ remnants​of​old​dramas.​The​director​does​not​seem​to​be​aware​of​this​ ambivalence​in​Crossways​and​allows​coexistence​of​two​elements.​The​ coexistence​of​the​two​unrelated​elements​may​have​been​adopted​to​ differentiate​the​lives​of​the​sister​and​brother​and​those​people​in​the​ entertainment​ district,​ but​ instead​ it​ has​ become​ the​ fatal​ force​ that​ completely​destroys​the​cinematic​fantasy​in​Crossways.​.​.​.​Can’t​we​ hope​for​the​filmmakers​in​this​country​to​create​“motion​pictures”​with​ possibilities​of​temporal​movements​of​lights​and​spatial​visualization​ of​images?77 Thus,​whether​it​was​used​successfully​or​not,​Crossways​made​this​critic​ extremely​aware​of​the​significant​function​of​lighting​in​cinema.​Hatano​ pointed​out​the​dichotomy​between​theatricality​and​the​cinematic—the​ shinpa-​style​acting​and​the​effective​use​of​lighting,​which​to​him​was​not​ fully​integrated​in​this​film.​He​was​rather​disturbed​by​the​elevated​function​of​lighting​in​Crossways.​Hatano’s​disturbance​was​caused​by​the​fact​ that​Crossways​put​the​mechanism​of​the​spectacle​of​lighting​in​cinema​in​ the​forefront.​Kinugasa​responded​to​Hatano’s​claim​and​said,​“I​did​not​ think​it​was​important​to​let​the​audience​reasonably​understand​the​spatial​and​temporal​relationships​of​the​story.​Many​of​the​ordinary​films​are​ worthless​because​they​only​pay​attention​to​telling​stories​with​numerous​ intertitles.​I​do​not​think​that​is​very​interesting.​.​.​.​I​do​not​care​about​ street​fiLMs  139

plots.​As​long​as​the​film​and​the​characters​in​it​look​moving​as​they​should​ without​any​interruption,​I​am​satisfied.”78​For​Kinugasa,​movement​produces​the​cinematic.​Even​though​Kinugasa​did​not​name​lighting​per​se,​ Crossways​problematized​the​sense​of​vision​through​the​motif​of​temporary​blindness,​and​the​enhanced​luminosity​that​followed​revealed​the​innate​nature​of​cinema​as​a​medium​of​light.​The​film​portrays​the​scene​as​ if​the​brother​were​literally​blinded​and​killed​by​light. ​ In​ jidaigeki,​ whether​ the​ authentic​ ones​ or​ Hayashi’s​ star​ vehicles,​ people​are​killed​by​the​shining​sword​or​by​the​beautiful​face​or​eyes.​The​ lethalness​of​the​weapons​was​enhanced​by​light,​and​both​the​eyes​of​the​ enemy​and​the​spectator​are​mesmerized​by​light.​Such​an​expressive​use​ of​lighting​technology​made​jidaigeki​a​modern​genre.​In​jidaigeki,​though,​ the​mechanism​of​special​lighting​treatments​was​hidden.​In​this​sense,​distinguished​from​other​jidaigeki​films,​Crossways​was​a​modernist​film. ​ The​fact​that​people​are​blinded​and​killed​by​light​connects​Crossways​ to​Weimar​street​films.​In​Murnau’s​The Last Laugh,​the​protagonist,​who​ has​lost​his​job​as​a​hotel​doorman,​sneaks​into​the​hotel​at​night​and​looks​ at​his​uniform​that​has​been​taken​away​from​him.​As​the​film​historian​ Marc​Silberman​describes,​with​effects​lighting,​the​uniform​“glows​.​.​.​with​ an​inner​light”​as​if​it​were​“infused​with​a​life​of​[its]​own.”79​The​elderly​ former​doorman​cannot​help​but​take​away​the​shining​object,​but​as​soon​ as​he​goes​out​into​the​nighttime​street,​tall,​white​illuminated​buildings​fall​ down​upon​him​in​his​hallucination. ​ In​Grune’s​The Street,​when​the​streetlights​come​into​the​window​of​ his​crammed​living​room,​a​tired-​looking​middle-​aged​office​worker​cannot​ help​ being​ drawn​ out​ to​ the​ streets​ of​ Berlin.​ He​ watches​ the​ light​ effects​from​the​far-​right​bottom​of​the​frame.​As​the​film​historian​Anton​ Kaes​describes,​in​this​mock​shadow​play,​pedestrians​rush​by;​a​flaneur​ addresses​a​woman​and​deliriously​follows​her;​passing​vehicles​refract​the​ light​into​a​myriad​of​luminous​rays.80​Aroused​by​the​spectacle​of​light,​the​ man​sits​up​and​looks​out​the​window,​down​on​to​the​street.​A​close-​up​ of​his​face​registers​his​captivated​gaze.​In​a​pseudo​point-​of-​view​shot,​the​ film​shows​the​viewers​what​the​man​sees​in​his​hallucinatory​state:​cars​ and​trains​in​wild​motion,​thrill​seekers​enjoying​themselves​on​amusement​park​rides,​a​circus​clown​making​up​his​face,​an​organ​grinder,​and​a​ smiling​young​woman.​In​other​words,​the​window​functions​like​a​movie​ screen.​As​his​wife​calls​the​man​to​dinner,​gripped​by​a​sudden​impulse,​ 140  chapter​3

the​man​grabs​his​hat​and​umbrella,​runs​out​the​door​and​down​the​stairs,​ and​plunges​into​the​street,​just​as​the​brother​in​Crossways​runs​out​into​ the​street​despite​his​sister’s​cry. ​ The​sense​of​vision​via​the​technology​of​light​is​always​at​stake​in​street​ films.​People​are​blinded​and​killed​by​the​vision​of​light​on​the​streets.​ Crossways​asks​its​viewers:​Are​you​safe​gazing​at​this​vision​of​light? streets of kamata

While​Crossways​came​close​to​the​street​films,​some​Shochiku​films​produced​at​the​Kamata​studio​also​approached​cinematic​lighting​in​a​sensitive​manner​in​the​form​of​gendaigeki,​despite​the​studio’s​“Bright​and​ cheerful​ Shochiku​ cinema”​ slogan.​ In​ the​ films​ of​ Ozu​ Yasujiro,​ for​ instance,​“there​is​a​deep​current​of​darkness​at​the​bottom​of​the​nihilistic​brightness​on​the​surface​of​shoshimin​[petit​bourgeois,​or​the​middle​ class],”​argued​the​critic​Ando​Sadao​in​his​essay​“About​Darkness,”​which​ was​published​in​the​May​1938​issue​of​a​new​film​journal​Eiga.81​No​matter​ how​strongly​Ando’s​framework​was​inclined​to​a​Marxist​dichotomy​between​capitalists​and​workers,​it​is​noteworthy​that​he​used​the​metaphor​ of​lighting—darkness​versus​brightness—in​describing​Ozu’s​commercial​ films​produced​at​Shochiku​Kamata​in​the​late​1920s​and​1930s.​In​fact,​ lighting​played​a​significant​role​in​terms​of​the​content​and​visual​means​in​ Ozu’s​films​of​this​period.​Ozu​did​not​openly​challenge​Shochiku’s​policy.​ He​stayed​at​the​studio​until​he​died​in​1963.​Still,​his​work​in​the​late​1920s​ to​1930s​went​beyond​the​simple​bright​and​cheerful​tone. ​ Ozu’s​films​of​the​late​1920s​and​1930s​are​often​discussed​in​canonical​auteur​studies​to​be​good​examples​of​the​Kamata​style,​a​vernacular​ form​that​appropriated​American​mass​culture,​particularly​classical​Hollywood​cinema.​Ozu,​a​tremendous​fan​of​Charlie​Chaplin,​Ernst​Lubitsch,​ and​King​Vidor,​among​others,​incorporated​or​even​imitated​the​styles​of​ their​films.​For​example,​examining​the​weather​in​Ozu’s​films,​where​“the​ sky​can​only​be​sunny,”​the​critic​Hasumi​Shigehiko​calls​Ozu​“a​broad-​ daylight​ director.”82​ Hasumi​ argues,​ “Ozu’s​ eternally​ cloudless​ skies​ are​ much​more​closely​connected​to​the​fine​weather​of​California,​the​land​ Jean​Renoir​chose​as​his​retreat​from​the​world,​or​to​the​sky​of​John​Ford’s​ Monument​Valley.​Like​the​West​Coast​of​California,​where​the​cinema​ was​born,​where​it​grew​and​matured,​the​sunny​skies​of​Ozu​must​be​clear​ as​far​as​the​eye​can​see.​His​exclusion​from​the​screen​of​the​rainy​season,​ street​fiLMs  141

the​damp​climate​unique​to​Japan,​was​a​choice​made​in​order​to​insist​on​ a​specifically​filmic​reality.”83​Similarly,​David​Bordwell​writes,​“Ozu​insisted​on​a​bright,​hard-​edged​look​to​evoke​the​crisply​defined​images​he​ had​visualized​in​his​notebooks.​Even​a​film​noir​like​Dragnet Girl,​which​ is​shot​in​a​lower​key​than​most​of​his​works,​remains​generally​committed​ to​a​high-​key​tonal​scale.”84​According​to​Bordwell,​Ozu’s​persistence​with​ brightness​even​went​beyond​what​Hasumi​calls​“the​fine​weather​of​California.”​Bordwell​points​out​that​Ozu​did​not​employ​“Hollywood​edge​ lighting​to​outline​planes”​and​did​not​“dim​the​background​light​levels​to​ throw​more​emphasis​on​the​performer,”​but​instead,​lit​the​background​ and​foreground​“uniformly.”85​With​such​brightness,​Ozu’s​film​appeared​ to​ faithfully​ follow​ Shochiku’s​ official​ slogan,​ “Bright​ and​ cheerful​ Shochiku​cinema,”​at​least​on​the​surface. ​ However,​the​situation​was​not​that​simple,​as​indicated​in​Ando’s​essay.​ Ozu’s​films,​among​others,​diversified​the​dominant​“clarity​first”​tendency​ at​Shochiku​Kamata​from​within.​Ozu’s​lighting​scheme​was​not​a​rejection​ of​bright​and​cheerful.​But,​curiously,​Ozu​was​eloquent​about​the​innovative​use​of​lighting​in​Kabuki.​In​1935​he​appreciated​the​Kabuki​actor​Onoe​ Kikugoro’s​challenging​choice​of​dark​lighting​for​the​sake​of​realism​in​his​ Kabuki​play​Ushimatsu in the Dark​(Kurayami no Ushimatsu).86​Once​asked​ if​he​wanted​to​work​with​Ozu,​Hayashi​Chojiro​said​that​he​did​not​want​ to​because​he​was​afraid​that​he​“would​be​destroyed.”87​If​we​take​Ozu’s​ sensitivity​to​lighting​and​his​concern​about​Kabuki​into​consideration,​we​ may​need​to​say​that​Hayashi​was​wrong.​Hayashi​might​not​have​been​lit​ simply​in​a​glamorous​manner,​but​he​would​have​received​a​careful​treatment​in​lighting. ​ The​1930​film​That Night’s Wife,​directed​by​Ozu,​is​particularly​noteworthy​because​it​not​only​looks​like​a​Weimar​street​film​but​also​engages​ directly​with​the​contested​discourses​on​the​politics​and​economy​of​Japanese​modernity,​primarily​by​resorting​to​the​technology​of​lighting.​Moreover,​while​the​closure​of​the​film​certainly​appears​bright​and​cheerful,​the​ film​does​not​simply​subscribe​to​Shochiku​Kamata’s​dominant​tendency​ of​shinpa-​style​lighting.​As​in​Crossways,​the​notions​of​visibility​and​tactility​are​in​question.​In​particular,​in​That Night’s Wife,​the​figure​of​hands​ is​enhanced​with​specific​lighting​and​functions​as​a​knot​that​connects​this​ street​film​produced​at​Kamata​to​the​ambivalence​of​modernity—anxiety​ and​attraction—in​Japan​as​well​as​in​Weimar​Germany. 142  chapter​3

figure​3.5  A​glimpse​of​a​modern​city​street​at​night.​Opening​of​ That Night’s Wife​(1930). the glowing Hands

That Night’s Wife​opens​with​a​glimpse​of​a​modern​city​street​at​night.​In​ an​extreme​long​shot,​we​see​two​electrical​streetlamps​and​seven​or​eight​ extremely​tall​columns​of​a​Western-​style​building​(fig.​3.5).​A​police​officer​walks​down​the​street.​His​figure​casts​a​long​shadow​on​the​street​as​a​ strong​light​comes​from​the​off-​screen​left.​The​police​officer​finds​a​homeless​man​asleep​at​the​base​of​the​building​and​chases​him​off. ​ The​ hands​ of​ the​ police​ officer​ are​ noticeably​ visible​ in​ this​ opening​ scene,​with​the​help​of​conspicuous​lighting.​In​the​first​extreme​low-​key​ (dark)​long​shot,​the​hands​of​the​police​officer​placed​behind​his​back​are​ the​only​bright​white​spots​on​the​screen​besides​the​two​streetlamps.​In​ the​third​long​shot​of​the​police​officer,​he​moves​his​hands​to​the​front.​His​ hands​in​white​gloves​shine​at​the​center​of​the​frame,​supposedly​reflecting​the​streetlamps.​After​his​point-​of-​view​shot​that​looks​at​the​homeless​ man,​the​police​officer​adjusts​his​gloves​in​front​of​his​body,​walks​over​to​ the​man,​and​waves​his​right​hand​to​chase​the​homeless​man​off.​The​quick​ movement​of​the​officer’s​hand​makes​his​white​glove​flash​shockingly,​mostreet​fiLMs  143

figure​3.6  A​police​officer’s​white​gloves​and​hands​are​illuminated​by​an​ extremely​strong​spotlight.​That Night’s Wife​(1930).

mentarily​reflecting​the​streetlamps.​In​the​following​extreme​long​shot,​ the​police​officer​lights​a​cigarette.​The​fire​emphasizes​the​hard​contrast​ between​bright​light​and​darkness.​As​a​result,​his​gloves​look​strikingly​ white​even​though​they​are​only​tiny​spots​on​the​screen.​After​a​shot​of​ the​homeless​man​in​a​state​of​fatigue​lying​under​another​tall​building,​ the​police​officer​walks​off​toward​his​colleague​in​a​long​shot,​takes​off​ his​gloves,​and​plays​with​them​at​his​back.​A​close-​up​of​the​hands​and​ the​white​gloves,​illuminated​by​an​extremely​strong​spotlight,​is​inserted​ here,​even​though​there​was​no​strong​light​in​the​previous​shot​(fig.​3.6).​ Thus,​the​spotlight​is​used​only​to​emphasize​the​whiteness​of​the​hands​ and​gloves. ​ The​close-​up​of​the​police​officers’​hands​and​white​gloves​is​followed​by​ another​close-​up​of​a​hand​that​puts​white​gloves​into​a​police​cap​on​a​desk​ (fig.​3.7).​Right​next​to​the​police​cap,​we​also​see​a​small​black​tripod​with​ three​Chinese​characters​written​in​white​ink,​which​read​“ei-​sei-​gakari”​ (the​Sanitary​Bureau).​This​close-​up​turns​out​to​be​the​first​one​of​the​ scene​at​the​police​station.​The​police​station​is​rather​flatly​lit​compared​to​ 144  chapter​3

figure​3.7  Another​pair​of​white​gloves​at​the​Sanitary​Bureau.​ That Night’s Wife​(1930).

the​extremely​dark​street​of​the​previous​scene,​but​it​is​still​photographed​ in​low​key.​The​shots​of​the​hard-​lit​white​gloves​of​the​police​officers​function​as​the​glue​that​connects​these​two​scenes​at​different​spatial​locations. ​ In​his​seminal​work​on​the​films​of​Ozu,​Bordwell​claims​that​hands​“recur​throughout”​That Night’s Wife​and​argues​that​Ozu​patterned​them​“in​ abstract​fashion.”88​However,​I​would​argue​that​the​conspicuously,​or​even​ harshly,​illuminated​hands​of​the​police​officers​in​the​film​should​be​specifically​located​in​the​sociopolitical​and​socioeconomic​contexts​of​Japan​ as​well​as​the​global​film​culture​in​1930.89​First​of​all,​the​motif​of​hands​ positions​this​film​at​the​intersection​of​the​technologies​of​criminal​investigation​and​surveillance​and​the​discourses​on​subjectivity​in​the​modernizing​nation.​Second,​with​such​a​motif,​this​film​celebrates,​or​at​least​fully​ appreciates,​the​arrival​of​the​technology​of​modernity,​which​created​a​ spectacle​of​light​in​the​form​of​a​new​visual​medium​for​a​mass-​consumer​ society. ​ The​year​1930​was​full​of​contradictions—anxiety​and​comfort,​dread​ and​confidence—in​Japan.​On​one​hand,​Japan​was​in​the​midst​of​a​fistreet​fiLMs  145

nancial​and​political​crisis,​especially​among​bureaucrats​and​political​and​ economic​elites.​Following​the​banking​crisis​of​1927​and​the​Wall​Street​ crash​of​1929,​in​1930​the​number​of​unemployed​rose​to​a​disastrous​level,​ reaching​four​hundred​thousand.​A​year​later,​the​Imperial​Japanese​Army​ invaded​Manchuria.​The​parliamentary​government​collapsed​in​the​hands​ of​right-​wing​terrorists​in​May​1932.​On​the​other​hand,​the​metropolitan​ sites​were​expanding,​and​that​enabled​Japan​to​“dramatize​the​production​of​desire​inspired​by​a​new​life​promising​new​commodities​for​consumption,​new​social​relationships,​identities,​and​experience.”90​In​1930​ the​city​of​Tokyo​celebrated​its​full​recovery​from​the​Great​Kanto​Earthquake​of​1923,​which​had​destroyed​approximately​554,000​of​2.3​million​ homes,​killed​more​than​105,000​people,​and​deprived​250,000​people​of​ their​jobs.91​The​celebration​“showcased​brightly​lit​department​stores​and​ hanadensha​(illuminated​tram​cars)​as​a​testament​to​the​success​of​reconstruction.”92​The​huge​neon​sign​of​General​Motors​appeared​in​Ginza,​a​ district​in​Tokyo,​in​1930​and​was​rapidly​followed​by​other​dazzling​urban​ illuminations,​which​provided​ordinary​people​with​a​fantasy​view​of​modern​ life.93​ Under​ these​ contradictory​ conditions,​ which​ were​ similar​ to​ other​contemporaneous​films,​photographs,​and​posters​of​modern​cities​ and​skyscrapers,​such​as​Metropolis​(Fritz​Lang,​1926),​That Night’s Wife​and​ its​execution​of​lighting​invited​the​viewer​to​“experienc[e]​the​world​in​a​ new​defamiliarizing​light,”​both​as​a​social​critique​and​as​a​visual​spectacle​ at​a​specific​historical​moment​in​Japan.94 Critique of the scopic Field

The​opening​scenes​of​That Night’s Wife,​most​of​which​were​photographed​ on​location,​appear​to​faithfully​depict​the​surface​of​a​concrete​metropolis​ and​offer​viewers​self-​conscious​engagement​with​the​harsh​and​thrilling​ modern​urban​life​of​1930.​As​in​the​Weimar​street​films,​the​extremely​tall​ columns​of​the​Western-​style​building​and​the​large,​crisp​shadows​of​the​ police​officer​on​the​street​in​That Night’s Wife​registered​the​social​issues​ of​class,​desolation​of​the​modern​city,​and​authoritative​political​reality​as​ understood​by​the​homeless​man​(though​there​is​no​point-​of-​view​shot​ of​the​tall​columns​from​his​vantage​point)​and​the​protagonist​of​the​film,​ Hashizume​(Okada​Tokihiko),​a​would-​be​painter.​Hashizume​has​a​critically​ill​daughter​at​his​apartment​but​has​no​money​to​pay​for​a​doctor.​Out​ of​necessity,​he​robs​a​bank. 146  chapter​3

​ The​film​director​Yoshida​Kiju,​who,​like​Ozu,​started​his​career​at​the​ Shochiku​studios,​claims: Although​Ozu-​san​began​his​film​career​by​imitating​American​films,​he​ soon​began​to​reflect​the​actual​social​and​political​conditions​in​Japan​ in​his​films.​The​Great​Depression,​which​started​with​the​New​York​ stock​market​crash​on​Black​Thursday​in​the​fall​of​1929,​destroyed​the​ American​cinema​that​Ozu-​san​regarded​as​a​magical​mirror​through​ which​he​could​express​himself.​The​Great​Depression​eventually​spread​ to​Japan,​and​cities​filled​with​the​unemployed.​The​Japanese​government​invaded​China​as​a​way​out​of​its​trouble,​and​the​transient​modernism​ of​ the​ early​ Showa​ period​ faded​ away.​ Ozu-​san​ quit​ making​ nonsensical​ slapstick​ comedies​ with​ college​ students​ as​ protagonists​ and​started​making​films​about​the​difficult​lives​of​unemployed​office​ workers.​The​uncertainty​of​the​period​affected​his​films​and​marked​a​ turning​point​in​his​career.95 With​this​in​mind,​That Night’s Wife,​as​well​as​Crossways,​could​be​regarded​ as​one​of​the​keiko eiga​(tendency​films,​or​films​with​leftist​tendencies),​ which​were​popular​in​Japan​for​a​short​period​from​1927​to​1930.​Questioning​the​authoritative​capitalist​conditions​in​modernizing​society,​the​ keiko​eiga​frequently​thematized​“the​gap​between​the​fashionable​‘modern’​consumption​that​prevailed​in​the​rapidly​expanding​mass​media​of​the​ 1920s​and​the​realities​of​everyday​life​for​the​majority​of​Japanese​subjects​ during​the​stagnant​economic​conditions​of​that​decade.”96​Shochiku’s​Shimokamo​studio​announced​the​production​of​two​trilogies​of​“proletariat​ films”​in​1930—Challenge​(Chosen),​Bullet​(Dangan),​and​Fire Starter​(Hibuta)​for​the​first​series,​and​Flag​(Hata),​Spear​(Hoko),​and​Shield​(Tate)​ for​ the​ second.​ Even​ though​ these​ films​ were​ severely​ censored​ by​ the​ Home​Ministry​and​were​not​released,​by​1930​Shochiku​was​considering​ the​popularity​of​the​genre​and​trying​to​incorporate​the​keiko​eiga​into​its​ production.97 ​ Among​the​problematic​issues​in​the​“realities​of​everyday​life,”​That Night’s Wife​appears​to​be​critically​engaged​with​what​Yoshikuni​Igarashi​ has​described​as​the​“reorganization​of​the​body​in​the​scopic​field​of​modern​Japan.”98​The​lighting​and​the​camera​work​of​the​film,​in​particular,​are​ foregrounded​to​articulate​the​effects​of​social​transformations​spawned​by​ modern​technologies. street​fiLMs  147

​ It​ is​ significant​ to​ note​ that​ the​ opening​ scenes​ of​ That Night’s Wife​ clearly​ included​ the​ Chinese​ characters​ for​ the​ Sanitary​ Bureau,​ which​ are​not​written​into​the​original​screenplay.99​The​film​does​not​directly​ claim​that​the​Sanitary​Bureau​was​responsible​for​the​bleak​situation​of​ the​workers,​but​in​reality,​the​bureau​was​one​of​the​most​powerful​departments​within​the​Home​Ministry​that​policed​the​big​cities​in​Japan.​ As​a​governmental​institution,​the​Central​Sanitary​Bureau​was​founded​as​ part​of​the​Ministry​of​Education​in​1872​to​collect​nationwide​data​effectively​and​scientifically​control​people’s​lives.​In​1874,​the​bureau​was​incorporated​into​the​Home​Ministry,​the​agency​that​officially​started​censoring​films​in​1925.100​The​shining​white​gloves​of​the​police​officers​in​ That Night’s Wife​emphasize​the​presence​of​the​officers​from​the​Sanitary​ Bureau​in​the​city​streets​as​the​cleansers​of​society,​who​police​but​never​ leave​any​physical​trace​of​themselves.​In​the​screenplay​of​That Night’s Wife,​the​police​officer​in​the​opening​scene​wakes​up​the​homeless​man​ “by​shaking​him​up.”​But​in​the​film​version,​they​never​touch.​The​policeman​just​observes​and​simply​waves​his​right​hand​over​the​homeless​man​ to​force​him​to​leave. ​ The​body​of​Hashizume​is​more​obviously​placed​in​the​scopic​field​of​ control.​After​the​scene​of​the​robbery,​there​is​a​clearly​noticeable​tracking​in​to​a​handprint​of​Hashizume​(fig.​3.8).​After​robbing​the​bank,​Hashizume​leaves​through​a​white​frosted​glass​door,​yet​the​camera​stays​ inside​the​room​and​conspicuously​tracks​in​to​his​handprint​left​on​the​ frosted​glass.101​Hard​lighting​on​the​frosted​glass​door​in​the​low-​key​scene​ enhances​the​contrast​between​the​whiteness​of​the​frosted​glass​and​the​ blackness​of​Hashizume’s​handprint. ​ Curiously,​despite​the​magnified​display​of​the​handprint,​as​Bordwell​ also​suggests,​the​narrative​of​That Night’s Wife​never​comes​back​to​the​ visual​ evidence​ of​ the​ crime.102​ No​ matter​ how​ diegetically​ misguiding​ this​tracking​in​to​Hashizume’s​handprint​is,​the​very​fact​that​the​camera​clearly​displays​the​handprint​in​a​conspicuous​close-​up​emphasizes​ that​Hashizume’s​physical​presence​is​captured​within​the​scopic​field​of​a​ policing​power​that​is​capable​of​controlling​human​bodies​even​if​it​does​ not​physically​exist​at​the​exact​moment​of​a​crime.​The​tracking​in​and​ close-​up​connect​the​eyes​of​the​camera​to​those​of​the​police​officers​and​ also​those​of​the​spectators,​who​are​invisible​but​omnipresent​observers​ of​the​crime​scene. 148  chapter​3

figure​3.8  A​handprint​of​Hashizume​(Okada​Tokihiko)​is​left​on​a​frosted​glass​ door.​That Night’s Wife​(1930).

​ Here​the​state​power​over​one​economically​distressed​citizen​is​represented​through​lighting​and​camera​movement.103​Igarashi​argues​that​ the​fingerprinting​system​was​one​typical​“way​to​control​human​bodies​ within​ the​ scopic​ field.”104​ According​ to​ Igarashi,​ fingerprints​ were​ severed​from​their​connections​to​their​bodies​and​transformed​into​“decipherable​signs.”105​The​Ministry​of​Justice​first​adopted​fingerprinting​as​ a​viable​method​of​identification​in​1908​in​order​to​improve​the​record-​ keeping​system​for​imprisoned​criminal​offenders.​The​use​of​fingerprinting​in​criminal​investigations​by​Tokyo’s​police​department​began​in​1911​ in​a​robbery​case​in​Kanda,​an​area​in​downtown​Tokyo.​In​1917,​the​Ministry​of​Justice​required​fingerprinting​for​all​persons​entering​prison.106​As​ Igarashi​argues,​with​such​a​system​as​fingerprinting,​human​bodies​were​ transformed​from​an​“anatomical”​and​kinetic​existence​to​a​“topological”​ and​visual​one.107 ​ Cinema​fully​incorporated​fingerprints​and​handprints​as​topographical​and​visual​elements​in​the​scopic​field​by​the​early​1930s​in​Japan​as​ well​as​in​Germany.​For​instance,​in​the​July​15,​1918,​issue​of​Chuo Koron,​ the​aesthete​poet​and​novelist​Sato​Haruo​published​the​detective​novella​ street​fiLMs  149

“Fingerprints”​ (“Shimon”),​ which​ used​ a​ motion​ picture​ as​ an​ essential​ element​ of​its​narrative.​ In​“Fingerprints,”​the​fingerprints​ of​the​ criminal,​which​are​the​result​of​touch,​are​the​essential​element​in​the​plot.​The​ narrator​and​R.N.,​his​childhood​acquaintance,​happen​to​watch​the​(fictional)​detective​film​Gun Moll Rosario​(Jozoku Rosario)​at​a​movie​theater​ in​Asakusa,​Tokyo.​R.N.,​an​opium​addict,​is​afraid​that​he​might​have​committed​murder​at​an​opium​den​in​his​hometown,​Nagasaki,​before​he​came​ to​Tokyo.​In​Gun Moll Rosario,​a​fingerprint​is​shown​in​a​close-​up​“as​if​it​ were​a​germ​ominously​expanded​under​a​microscope.”108​After​obsessively​ consulting​sixteen​reliable​scientific​books​on​fingerprints,​R.N.​concludes​ that​“no​two​fingerprints​are​identical”​and​he​has​seen​exactly​the​same​ fingerprint​on​the​back​of​a​gold​watch​that​he​accidentally​picked​up​at​an​ opium​den​in​Nagasaki.​Based​on​this​scientific​fact,​R.N.​comes​to​believe​ that​the​minor​Hollywood​actor​in​the​film,​William​Wilson—an​obvious​ reference​to​Edgar​Allan​Poe’s​famous​story​about​a​doppelganger,​another​ figuration​of​the​uncanny—is​the​one​who​committed​murder.​The​body​is​ thus​reduced​to​pure​visual​surface,​exteriority​without​depth,​“a​movable​ theater​of​the​self.”109 ​ Ozu​creates​a​comical​scene​out​of​a​handprint​in​the​beginning​of​Student Romance: Days of Youth​(Gakusei romansu: Wakaki hi,​1929),​the​oldest​ extant​film​by​the​director.​A​student​(Saito​Tatsuo)​leans​his​left​hand​on​ a​pole​marked​“wet​paint”​while​his​foot​scuffs​at​a​glove​on​the​ground.110​ When​he​pulls​his​palm​away,​he​finds​it​covered​with​paint.​In​the​next​ scene​at​a​café,​he​absently​rests​his​palm​on​his​cheek​in​front​of​a​girl​with​ whom​he​is​in​love.​A​big​black​shape​of​his​palm​is​clearly​left​on​his​face.​ He​leaves​fingerprints​on​his​cup​as​well.​Even​though​he​tries​to​act​normally,​the​fingerprints​turn​out​to​be​obvious​visual​evidence​of​his​affection​for​the​girl.111 ​ In​Germany,​a​huge​blowup​of​a​thumbprint​appears​in​Fritz​Lang’s​M,​ which​was​produced​in​the​same​year​as​That Night’s Wife,​as​a​clue​to​a​ murder.​As​in​That Night’s Wife,​the​magnified​fingerprint​is​not​actually​ used​to​solve​the​case.​Moreover,​the​credit​sequence​of​M​is​a​graphic​ drawing​of​a​hand​reaching​toward​us​showing​its​palm,​on​which​the​single​ letter​M​is​inscribed​as​if​it​were​a​magnified​handprint.112​In​the​scene​that​ follows​the​shot​of​Hashizume’s​handprint​on​the​frosted​glass,​Hashizume​ is​undoubtedly​placed​in​the​scopic​field​of​both​the​police​officers​and​the​ spectators—under​bright​lights​in​the​big​city​at​night.​He​runs​desper150  chapter​3

figure​3.9  A​shot​of​a​streetlamp​is​inserted​when​Hashizume​runs​away​from​the​ police.​That Night’s Wife​(1930).

ately​through​the​streets​in​search​of​a​hiding​place,​but​his​path​is​exposed​ through​the​harsh​lights​of​the​streets.​In​an​extremely​long​shot​of​a​dark​ city​street,​numerous​bright-​white​spots​come​closer​until​they​turn​out​to​ be​the​headlights​of​police​motorcycles​with​sidecars​that​are​chasing​the​ fugitive.​Then,​a​long​shot​of​a​round​electrical​streetlamp​in​front​of​a​tall​ building​and​a​tree​(fig.​3.9)​is​inserted​before​a​long​shot​of​Hashizume’s​ legs​running​up​stairs​on​the​dark​side​of​the​street. ​ The​brief​shot​of​the​electrical​streetlamp​is​regarded​by​Noël​Burch​ as​one​of​Ozu’s​typical​“pillow​shots”​that​“appear​rather​to​serve​as​sheer transition.”113​Similarly​differentiating​the​styles​of​Ozu’s​films​from​those​ of​classical​Hollywood​cinema,​Bordwell​considers​that​this​“transition”​is​ based​on​“noncausical​principles”​without​any​connotative​function​within​ the​shot​of​the​streetlamp.114​Yet​by​considering​the​image​of​the​streetlamp​ to​be​a​noncausical​shot​of​transition​and​locating​it​within​cultural​or​artistic​singularity,​these​critics​have​overlooked​the​heterogeneous​potentiality​ that​the​shot​could​bring​to​the​entire​film.​Now​that​the​shot​connects​the​ police​officers​with​the​bright​searchlights​chasing​the​suspect​and​the​fugistreet​fiLMs  151

tive​trying​to​hide​in​the​dark,​the​streetlamp​could​symbolically​embody​ the​ surveillance​ system​ of​ technological​ modernity​ that​ reveals​ everything​under​bright​light​and​leaves​nothing​hidden​from​policing.​The​shot​ should​not​be​regarded​as​a​sheer​shot​of​transition,​which​entirely​deviates​from​the​causality​of​classical​Hollywood​cinema.​It​has​a​certain​dramatic​function​both​visually​and​connotatively.​The​film​historian​Frances​ Guerin,​in​her​book​A Culture of Light: Cinema and Technology in 1920s Germany​ (2005),​ one​of​the​first​ critical​ studies​ of​motion​ picture​ lighting,​ categorizes​three​uses​of​light​technology​in​cinema:​“material,”​“subject,”​ and​“referent.”​Guerin​explicates,​“Light​as​the​medium​of​film​also​has​the​ capacity​to​be​developed​as​the​content​of​representational​images.​These​ images​might​represent​developments​in​light​technology​that​take​place​ in​the​historical​world.​Such​representations​can​then​potentially​analyze​ the​sociological​function​of​artificial​light​formations​such​as​the​cinema​ itself.”115​In​That Night’s Wife,​electrical​lights​are​used​as​the​“material”​to​ illuminate​the​scenes,​as​the​“subject”​to​represent​the​historical​prevalence​ of​electrical​lights​on​city​corners​in​Tokyo​in​1930,​and​as​the​“sociological”​ or​ sociopolitical​ “referent”​ to​ indicate​ the​ technological​ modernity​ that​ illuminates​a​dark​corner​on​the​street​under​constant​police​gaze. ​ In​fact,​after​the​shot​of​the​streetlamp,​Hashizume​keeps​trying​to​stay​ away​from​the​searchlights​but​is​unsuccessful.​The​camera​persistently​follows​ him​ with​ strong​ spotlights.​ Thick​ shadows​ of​ his​ body​ are​ cast​ on​ the​streets​and​the​walls​of​buildings.​Hiding​at​the​corner​of​a​tall​building,​Hashizume​cautiously​reveals​his​head​into​the​light​and​peeks​at​the​ gathering​ police​ officers​ with​ the​ shining​ white​ gloves.​ In​ the​ midst​ of​ the​chase,​we​see​a​brightly​lit​phone​booth​that​occupies​the​left​half​of​ the​frame.116​Like​a​moth​drawn​to​light,​Hashizume​cannot​help​running​ up​to​the​shining​phone​booth​from​farther​back​in​the​distance​and​going​ in​(fig.​3.10).​In​the​following​medium​shot​of​the​booth,​Hashizume​looks​ as​if​he​has​been​captured​and​put​in​a​prison​cell,​harshly​lit​from​above.​ Even​though​he​crouches​in​order​to​hide​from​the​police​officers,​his​face​ and​body​are​clearly​seen​under​the​bright​electrical​light​as​if​he​were​not​ only​a​prisoner​but​also​a​mannequin​in​the​display​window​of​a​department​store.​He​is​trying​to​hide,​but​the​electrical​light​exhibits​his​body​to​ the​spectator.​In​the​booth,​Hashizume​makes​a​phone​call​to​a​doctor,​who​ strongly​recommends​that​Hashizume​go​home​right​away​to​take​care​of​ his​sick​daughter.​Here,​narrationally,​modern​technologies​enhance​the​ 152  chapter​3

figure​3.10  Hashizume​runs​into​a​brightly​illuminated​phone​booth.​ That Night’s Wife​(1930).

suspenseful​spectacle​of​the​scene:​the​phone​connects​the​two​separated​ narratives​and​the​bright​light​of​the​booth​clearly​draws​Hashizume​back​ into​the​spectacular​chase​filled​with​shocking​lights.​But​the​modern​technologies​are​presented​as​double-​sided.​The​phone​surely​works​as​Hashizume’s​hopeful​lifeline​that​lets​him​know​about​his​daughter’s​condition,​ but​in​order​to​obtain​that​information,​he​needs​to​expose​his​vulnerable​ self​to​the​spectacular​lights. ​ Eventually,​Hashizume​is​captured​within​the​gaze​of​a​police​detective,​ who​also​wears​white​gloves.​Hashizume​takes​a​cab​to​stay​away​from​the​ search,​but​the​driver​of​the​cab​is​the​police​detective​in​disguise​(fig.​3.11).​ In​the​cab,​we​see​in​the​mirror​the​driver’s​point-​of-​view​shot​of​Hashizume​feeling​anxious​and​lighting​a​cigarette​in​the​backseat​(fig.​3.12).​The​ light​from​the​match​illuminates​the​face​of​the​fugitive.​In​this​point-​of-​ view​shot,​which​is​connected​to​the​spectator’s​gaze,​the​detective​visually​ captures​ Hashizume’s​ face.​ The​ light​ and​ the​ frame-​within-​a-​frame​ composition​make​Hashizume’s​face​appear​to​be​popping​out​of​the​void.​ With​the​help​of​this​spotlighting,​Hashizume’s​face,​fragmented​within​the​ frame​of​the​back​mirror,​clearly​becomes​an​object​of​gaze​from​the​austreet​fiLMs  153

figure​3.11  The​driver​of​the​cab​is​the​detective​in​disguise.​He​also​wears​white​ gloves.​That Night’s Wife​(1930).

figure​3.12  Hashizume​is​captured​in​a​mirror​and​by​the​detective’s​gaze.​ That Night’s Wife​(1930).

thority​who​observes​the​urban​space:​both​the​police​and​Sanitary​Bureau​ and​the​spectator​of​the​film.​Here​as​well​the​fugitive’s​face​looks​completely​severed​from​his​body​and​is​turned​into​the​object​in​the​scopic​ field​of​the​detective​and​the​spectator.117 ​ The​ electrical​ lights​ and​ the​ camera​ are​ clearly​ used​ to​ “articulate​ a​ mode​ of​ visual​ surveillance”​ that​ captures​ Hashizume’s​ body,​ and​ body​ parts,​within​a​scopic​field.118​Under​the​streetlamp,​Hashizume​crouches​ on​the​street​near​an​edge​of​a​concrete​building,​strongly​lit​from​the​right​ off​the​screen.​A​close-​up​of​his​hand​nervously​grabbing​pebbles​on​the​ street,​ again​ brightly​ lit​ from​ the​ side,​ is​ inserted.​ Hashizume​ is​ illuminated​under​the​dazzling​electrical​lights​of​the​metropolis​at​night,​which​ conspicuously​declare​their​historical​presence​in​all​of​these​shots​of​the​ streets​at​night.​Thus,​in​addition​to​composing​mise-​en-​scène​for​more​ specific​narrative​and​stylistic​purposes,​light​and​lighting​are​used​in​That Night’s Wife​to​represent​the​transformation​of​space​and​everyday​life​for​ individual​citizens​fashioned​by​intense​technological​advance​in​Japan.​In​ other​words,​as​Guerin​claims​about​1920s​German​cinema,​That Night’s Wife​“uses​the​media​of​cinema​and​electrical​lighting,​two​inventions​of​ technological​modernity,​to​interpret​the​modern​life​they​both​help​to​ fashion.”119 ​ Moreover,​in​addition​to​the​policemen,​there​is​another​modern​figure​ in​the​narrative​of​That Night’s Wife​who​functions​to​“articulate​a​mode​ of​visual​surveillance.”​A​medical​doctor​looks​at​Hashizume’s​critically​ill​ daughter​while​the​police​are​pursuing​Hashizume.​After​examining​Hashizume’s​daughter,​the​doctor​washes​his​hands​and​dries​them​with​his​ handkerchief,​ which​ is​ shining​ as​ white​ as​ the​ policemen’s​ gloves​ lit​ by​ spotlight.​Like​the​officers​of​the​Sanitary​Bureau,​the​doctor​observes​but​ leaves​no​trace​behind.​Near​the​end​of​the​film,​at​Hashizume’s​apartment,​ the​detective​finds​a​chart​in​a​notebook,​in​which​Hashizume’s​daughter’s​ temperatures​were​recorded.​Thus,​with​the​guidance​of​the​doctor,​bodily​ conditions​of​human​beings​are​translated​into​a​scopic​field. ​ In​fact,​like​the​police​officers,​the​doctor​is​symbolically​and​politically​ bound​to​the​Sanitary​Bureau​in​Japan.​Since​the​Meiji​era,​the​field​of​ medicine​in​Japan​mainly​followed​German​technologies.120​In​its​attempt​ to​ build​ a​ modern​ nation-​state,​ the​ Meiji​ government​ was​ eager​ to​ update​Japanese​technology​in​the​field​of​medicine,​and​beginning​in​the​ late​nineteenth​century,​many​medical​professionals,​mostly​German,​were​ street​fiLMs  155

recruited​ to​ train​ Japanese​ students​ in​ the​ fields​ of​ ophthalmology​ and​ surgery.​Nagayo​Sensai,​who​studied​medicine​in​Prussia​and​coined​the​ term​eisei​(sanitation),​a​translation​of​the​German​term​Gesundheitspflege,​ founded​the​Central​Sanitary​Bureau​in​1872. ​ With​the​crosscutting​between​Hashizume​and​his​daughter,​both​being​ observed​by​the​modern​figures​of​detective​and​doctor,​the​narrative​of​ That Night’s Wife​indicates​that​not​only​the​public​sphere​(city​streets)​but​ also​domestic​space​(Hashizume’s​apartment)​are​open​to​surveillance​in​ technological​modernity.​In​fact,​according​to​Bordwell,​in​the​1920s​and​ 1930s​the​Tokyo​government​controlled​all​domestic​lighting​by​turning​it​ on​in​the​evening​and​off​at​dawn.121​Later​in​the​narrative,​the​detective,​ who​pretended​to​be​a​cab​driver,​forces​his​way​into​Hashizume’s​apartment​to​find​the​fugitive.​He​simply​says​to​Hashizume’s​wife,​who​desperately​tries​to​get​him​to​leave,​“I​am​from​you​know​where”​and​“I​am​ supposed​to​be​here​even​if​you​don’t​like​it.”​Thus​the​public​world​easily​ penetrates​the​private.​Public​and​private​space​were​redefined​by​the​surveillance​system​under​powerful​new​electrical​lights.122 spectacular light and tactile light

What​makes​That Night’s Wife​remarkable​is​its​resilience,​which​moves​beyond​social​criticism​of​the​oppression​of​forms​of​social​organization​with​ its​ dynamic​ exploration​ of​ films’​ technological​ and​ technical​ capacities.​ No​matter​how​critically​That Night’s Wife​looks​at​the​sociopolitical​and​ socioeconomic​conditions​of​modern​Japan​in​1930,​at​the​level​of​expressive​means,​through​the​police​officers’​outrageously​white​gloves​in​particular,​the​film​presents​a​technological​celebration​of​cinema’s​capacity​ to​vibrantly​represent​urban​lives,​especially​the​nighttime​streets,​in​the​ splendor​of​light​and​to​vividly,​or​phenomenally,​present​the​materiality​ of​lighting​technology​in​the​form​of​visual​attraction.​The​uses​of​lighting​ that​spawn​the​narrative​of​That Night’s Wife​are​extraordinary​displays​in​ and​of​technical​light​and​certainly​represent​a​technologically​sophisticated​industry​and​society.123​By​relying​on​technical​development​in​electrical​lighting​in​modern​Japan,​That Night’s Wife​replicates​the​spectacular​ scenes​of​bright​lights​in​the​big​city​at​night.​The​physical​chase​scene​is​a​ spectacle​of​light,​enhanced​by​expressive​use​of​lighting.​The​excitement​of​ the​lights​mesmerizes​both​the​camera​and​the​spectator. ​ The​potentiality​of​cinema​as​a​visual​medium​is​dramatically​explored​ 156  chapter​3

here.​Curiously,​in​the​original​short​story​on​which​That Night’s Wife​is​ based,​there​is​no​scene​on​the​nighttime​streets.​That Night’s Wife​is​based​ on​ Oscar​ Schisgall’s​ “Nine​ to​ Nine,”​ which​ appeared​ in​ Detective Story Magazine​ in​ the​ United​ States​ on​ April​ 9,​ 1927,​ and​ was​ translated​ into​ Japanese​and​published​in​Shinseinen​magazine​in​March​1930.​Noda​Kogo,​ who​wrote​numerous​screenplays​for​Ozu​at​Shochiku,​added​all​the​street​ scenes​with​the​electrical​lights,​whose​entire​events​occur​in​one​apartment​room​in​the​short​story.​There​are​few​references​to​lighting​in​the​ short​story,​such​as​a​gas​lamp​that​the​wife​leaves​dim​in​order​to​let​her​ daughter​sleep​and​the​golden​morning​sunlight​coming​into​the​room,​but​ no​description​of​streetlamps​or​police​search​lights.​Noda​and​Ozu​conspicuously​added​the​spectacular​use​of​lighting​in​That Night’s Wife. ​ Historically,​technologically​generated​light​made​its​presence​felt​on​ the​ landscape​ of​ everyday​ life​ in​ Tokyo,​ which​ had​ recovered​ from​ the​ earthquake,​ by​ the​ late​ 1920s.​ As​ the​ historian​ Gennifer​ Weisenfeld​ describes,​“A​flood​of​electric​light​transforms​the​street​scene​[of​Ginza​in​the​ late​1920s]​into​an​even​more​dramatic​theatrical​stage​illuminated​from​ above.”124​A​popular​song​of​1932,​“Flowering​Tokyo”​(“Hana​no​Tokyo”),​ which​was​the​theme​song​of​the​film​with​the​same​title,​attractively​but​ critically​captured​ the​vision​ of​Ginza​ at​night​ as​a​brightly​ illuminated​ spectatorial​space: Yoru​no​Ginza​wa​hotaru​kago Koi​no​kokoro​o​chirachira​to Maneku​hikari​ni​manekarete Kite​miru​tsuki​no​hosoi​koto [Ginza​at​night​is​a​firefly​cage The​flickering​of​love Drawn​by​the​inviting​lights I​came​and​saw​the​moon;​how​thin​it​was]125 ​ Movie​theaters​that​showed​films​were​palaces​of​illumination​(fig.​3.13).​ The​critic​Tawarada​Tatsuo​published​the​essay​“Movie​Theaters​and​the​ Notion​of​Lighting,”​in​a​1927​issue​of​Eiga Zehi​journal.​In​the​essay,​Tawarada​strongly​recommended​using​“diffused​lighting”​in​order​to​illuminate​ the​outside​of​movie​theaters​and​“let[ting]​the​theaters​stand​out​clearly​in​ the​dark”​so​that​“the​people​should​be​attracted​to​them.”126 street​fiLMs  157

figure​3.13  Dai​Tokyo​Eigakan​was​an​example​of​movie​theaters​in​Tokyo,​ many​of​which​were​palaces​of​illumination.​Reprinted​from​Shomei​Gakkai,​​ ed.,​Shomei Nippon,​149.

​ Electrical​light​was​celebrated​not​only​in​the​public​sphere​of​the​urban​ milieu​in​terms​of​the​culture​of​consumption,​but​also​in​the​domestic,​private​space​in​terms​of​art.​Again,​in​1930,​Sasaki​Shintaro,​the​president​of​ Sasaki​Shokai,​the​lighting​equipment​company​at​Kanda,​Tokyo,​initiated​ the​art​of​lighting​movement​(shomei geijutsu undo).​Sasaki,​who​had​been​ trying​to​popularize​lighting​equipment​since​the​early​part​of​the​century,​ insisted​on​using​light​for​vernacular​art​forms.​Sasaki​wrote,​“I​don’t​think​ it​is​considered​to​be​good​taste​to​purchase​expensive​goods​in​contemporary​society.​What​is​the​best​taste​now?​That​is​appreciation​of​lighting.​.​.​.​ Tasteful​lighting​equipment​makes​light​look​artistic​in​every​home.​It​is​ not​only​necessary​for​daily​lives​but​also​essential​for​tasteful​lives.”127 ​ Under​these​social​and​cultural​conditions​of​1930s​Tokyo,​That Night’s Wife​ is​ a​ visceral​ attraction,​ both​ commercially​ and​ artistically,​ with​ its​ series​of​technical​manipulations​of​light​and​lighting.​That Night’s Wife,​ whose​story​begins​when​the​city’s​lights​are​on​and​ends​when​they​are​ turned​off,​clearly​displays​the​technical​and​technological​experimentation​of​lighting​by​Ozu​and​Mobara​Hideo,​his​cinematographer,​at​Shochiku​Kamata,​no​matter​how​reluctant​Kido​Shiro,​the​studio​head,​was​ to​experiment​with​lighting.​That Night’s Wife​was​one​of​the​earliest​examples​in​Japan​of​the​conscious​use​of​electrical​light​and​panchromatic​ film​stock.128​The​electrical​city​lamps​are​displayed​in​long​shots​throughout​the​first​half​of​the​film.​Even​though​there​is​no​record​of​production,​it​ was​probably​only​possible​to​photograph​the​dark​city​streets​in​panchromatic​film.​A​review​of​the​film​in​Kinema Junpo​did​not​mention​the​issue​ of​ social​ criticism​ but​ noted​ the​ lighting:​ “Cameras,​ development,​ and​ lighting​are​excellent​in​displaying​extraordinary​illumination​radiance.”129​ Another​reviewer​in​Kinema Junpo​claimed​that​That Night’s Wife​had​the​ “dignified​appearance​of​Paramount​films”​because​of​its​cinematography,​ development,​and​lighting.130 ​ The​significance​of​That Night’s Wife​was​not​limited​to​the​fact​that​it​ used​new​technologies​in​an​experimental​manner​in​a​commercial​product.​The​lighting​on​the​white​gloves​of​the​policemen​in​That Night’s Wife​ fits​with​what​the​film​historian​Thomas​Elsaesser​calls​“tactile​values”​in​ the​lighting​of​some​Weimar​films.​What​That Night’s Wife​displays,​as​do​ some​Weimar​films​and​Hayashi​Chojiro’s​star​vehicles,​if​we​consider​his​ face​and​eyes​to​be​photogénie,​is​a​phenomenal​and​perceptual​function​

street​fiLMs  159

of​lighting,​in​addition​to​its​referential​or​metaphorical​function—that​is,​ a​function​of​being​a​social​criticism.​Examining​the​Universum​Film​ag​ (ufa)​studio’s​lighting​styles​in​Weimar​Germany,​Elsaesser​argues: Lighting​turns​the​image​into​an​object​endowed​with​a​special​luminosity​ (being​ lit​ and​ at​ the​ same​ time​ radiating​ light)[,]​ which​ is​ to​ say,​light​appears​as​both​cause​and​effect,​active​and​passive.​In​short​ it​suggests​“authenticity”​and​“presence,”​while​remaining​“hidden”​and​ “ineffable.”​The​object,​and​the​human​actor​as​object[,]​become​irreducibly​immanent,​more-​than-​real​in​their​“there-​ness”​and​“now-​ness,”​ but​by​a​process​that​confers​this​presence​on​them​from​off-​frame,​off-​ scene[,]​.​.​.​the​luminous​becomes​ominous​becomes​numinous.​.​.​.​ The​special​kind​of​luminosity​that​comes​from​objects​being​lit​and​at​ the​same​time​radiating​light,​brings​forth​the​illusion​of​a​special​kind​ of​“essence.”131 The​concept​of​the​tactile,​or​the​sense​of​touch,​existed​in​the​contemporaneous​criticism​on​German​expressionism​and​Weimar​cinema.​It​was​ Alois​Riegl,​an​art​history​professor​at​the​University​of​Vienna,​who​proposed​an​idea​of​the​tactile​alongside​his​reformulation​of​spatiality​in​art​ theory.​Riegl​writes: We​modern​men​have​gradually​grown​accustomed​to​such​an​extent​ to​operating​with​countless​mental​images​that​the​colored​impression​ of​a​thing​suffices​to​awaken​our​conception​of​that​thing​in​our​consciousness,​the​depot​of​our​experience,​and​we​don’t​even​feel​an​urge​ to​explore​its​limitations​and​qualities.​The​sensual​act​of​seeing​appears​ thus​to​have​been​reduced​in​us​moderns​to​a​bare​minimum,​pushed​ back,​as​it​were,​by​the​intellectual​act​of​conceptual​completion​from​ the​realm​of​our​actual​experience;​this,​however,​constitutes​an​obvious​ threat​to​the​fine​arts,​which​could​not​exist​were​it​not​for​sensual​perception,​and​it​is​for​this​reason​that​the​aforementioned​reformers​are​ convinced​that​people​need​once​again​to​be​stimulated​to​resume​seeing​ as​a​sensual​act.​.​.​.​It​is​thus​in​any​case​essentially​through​the​sense​of​ touch​that​we​experience​the​true​quality,​the​depth​and​delimitation​of​ objects​in​nature​and​works​of​art.​I​have​therefore​called​these​qualities​ of​things​the​tactile​(from​tangere​=​to​touch),​as​opposed​to​the​optical​ (visible)​qualities,​like​color​and​light.132 160  chapter​3

Walter​Benjamin​reformulated​Riegl’s​spatial​configuration​in​art​between​ the​tactile​and​the​optical​when​he​applied​it​to​his​analysis​of​cinema​as​ a​new​visual​medium.​Benjamin​argues​that​in​cinema,​despite​its​optical​ immateriality,​the​viewer​is​tactilely​engaged​with​the​profilmic​material​because​of​the​camera’s​function​that​perplexingly​combines​far​and​near.133 ​ Following​the​critical​success​of​Robert​Weine’s​The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari​(Das Kabinett des Dr. Caligari,​1919),​throughout​the​1920s​there​was​ sustained​interest​and​lively​discussion​on​the​techniques,​technologies,​ and​ theories​ of​ German​ cinema​ among​ film​ critics​ and​ filmmakers​ in​ Japan.134​Those​critics​and​filmmakers​were​keenly​aware​of​the​centrality​ of​ light​ and​ lighting​ to​ a​ certain​ number​ of​ films​ from​ Germany.​ Even​ popular​magazines​for​young​women​often​published​articles​on​how​to​ appreciate​German​expressionist​films​and​emphasized​the​significance​of​ lighting​and​compositions​in​such​films​as​The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.135​In​ particular,​Iwasaki​Akira,​a​young​German-​speaking​Marxist​film​critic,​investigated​the​consequences​of​the​relationship​between​film​and​light​in​ Weimar​cinema.​Iwasaki​translated​Rudolf​Kurtz’s​Expressionism and Film​ (Expressionismus und Film,​1926)​into​Japanese​and​theoretically​substantiated​his​argument​on​the​lighting​in​German​expressionist​cinema.​As​early​ as​in​the​second​part​of​his​series​of​translations,​which​eventually​continued​for​more​than​a​year​in​Kinema Junpo​and​Eiga Orai,​Iwasaki​translated​Kurtz’s​argument​on​lighting​in​German​expressionist​cinema,​which​ appears​almost​in​the​middle​of​Kurtz’s​book:​“Light​has​given​birth​to​ expressionist​cinema.​And​the​most​difficult​task​for​expressionist​cinema​ has​been​where​to​place​lamps:​lighting.​Expressionist​cinema​has​made​ people​recognize​the​ability​of​light​to​display​movements​and​construct​ spaces.”136 ​ Highly​ valuing​ the​ way​ German​ films’​ lighting​ functioned​ with​ the​ viewer’s​ perception,​ Iwasaki​ pointed​ out​ the​ “tactile​ value”​ or​ the​ phenomenological​function​that​lighting​in​cinema​should​have​in​nature.​In​ 1926,​discussing​a​German​film​New Year’s Eve​(Sylvester,​Lupu​Pick,​1923),​ Iwasaki​claimed,​“The​purely​cinematic​style​means​lights,​shadows,​and​ movements.”137​His​argument​centered​on​lighting​and​its​function:​“The​ optical​fascination​of​the​plaza​that​mesmerizingly​changes​from​dusk​into​ night.​ Advertising​ illumination​ that​ circles​ around.​ Lit​ windows​ of​ elevated​railway​trains​that​go​back​and​forth​like​centipedes.​Headlights​of​ automobiles.​Complex​nuances​of​reflecting​lights​emerge​from​an​infinite​ street​fiLMs  161

mix​of​such​illuminations.​Also,​the​rhythmical​but​delicate​movements​ that​ means​ of​ transportation​ unconsciously​ construct​ in​ the​ sea​ of​ illuminations.​.​.​.​These​are​essentially​cinematic.”138​With​these​lights​and​ movements​that​the​lights​create,​Iwasaki​concluded,​as​did​Elsaesser,​that​ German​ expressionist​ cinema​ achieved​ “inward​ expression”​and​“tactile​ value.”139​The​inward​expression​and​tactile​value,​according​to​Iwasaki,​ would​challenge​the​“superficial​imitation​and​representation​of​the​world”​ in​“naturalism​and​realism.”140 ​ In​particular,​Iwasaki​extensively​used​the​concept​of​“absolute​cinema”​ in​order​to​emphasize​the​tactile​nature​of​cinema.​Absolute​cinema​was​ most​notably​practiced​in​Weimar​Germany​by​Walter​Ruttmann​and​his​ films,​including​Opus I–IV​(1921–25)​and​Berlin: Symphony of a Great City​ (Berlin: Die Sinfonie der Grosstadt,​1927),​but​he​did​not​necessarily​focus​on​ the​tactile.​According​to​the​art​historian​William​Moritz,​“the​term​‘Absolute​Film’​was​coined​by​analogy​with​the​expression​‘Absolute​Music,’​referring​to​music​like​Bach’s​Brandenburg Concertos​which​had​no​reference​ to​a​story,​poetry,​dance,​ceremony​or​any​other​thing​besides​the​essential​ elements—harmonies,​rhythms,​melodies,​counterpoints,​etc.—of​music​ itself.”​Moritz​argues,​“Cinema​even​more​than​music​seems​dominated​by​ documentary​and​fiction​functions,​both​of​which​relied​on​film​recording​ human​activities​which​had​their​primary​existence​and​meaning​outside​ the​film​theatre.​Absolute​Film,​by​contrast,​would​present​things​which​ could​be​expressed​uniquely​with​cinematic​means.​.​.​.​The​most​unique​ thing​that​cinema​could​do​is​present​a​visual​spectacle​comparable​to​auditory​ music,​ with​ fluid,​ dynamic​ imagery​ rhythmically​ paced​ by​ editing,​ dissolving,​superimposition,​segmented​screen,​contrasts​of​positive​and​ negative,​color​ambiance​and​other​cinematic​devices.”141 ​ Iwasaki​expanded​Moritz’s​concept​of​absolute​film,​which​was​mainly​ used​ for​ rather​ experimental​ films​ in​ Weimar​ Germany,​ to​ mainstream​ films.142​When​he​translated​the​term​absolute cinema​into​the​Japanese​zettai eiga,​Iwasaki​emphasized​that​the​ultimate​shokkakuteki​(tactile)​relationship​between​filmmakers​and​spectators​could​be​achieved​in​zettai​ eiga.143​Iwasaki’s​extended​concept​of​absolute​cinema,​with​the​emphasis​on​the​notion​of​the​tactile,​is​close​to​the​notion​of​“the​haptic​visuality”​that​the​film​theorist​Laura​U.​Marks​suggests.​Marks​argues​that​it​ is​“a​bit​unnecessary”​to​focus​on​the​filmic​images​of​hands​to​evoke​the​ haptic.​Iwasaki​was​not​concerned​much​about​representations​of​hands​ 162  chapter​3

on​the​screen​either.​According​to​Marks,​“looking​at​hands​would​seem​ to​evoke​the​sense​of​touch​through​identification,​either​with​the​person​ whose​hands​they​are​or​with​the​hands​themselves,”​and​the​“haptic​bypasses​such​identification​and​the​distance​from​the​image​it​requires.”144​ Marks​takes​a​phenomenological​approach​and​regards​the​act​of​viewing​ as​a​form​of​sensuous​contact​(“the​eyes​themselves​function​like​organs​ of​touch”).145​She​defines​“haptic​visuality”​in​such​a​way​that​“vision​itself​ can​be​tactile,​as​though​one​were​touching​a​film​with​one’s​eyes.”146​For​ Marks,​in​the​haptic​visuality,​“identification”​does​not​need​“an​illusionistic​picture​plane”​that​makes​“a​greater​distance​between​beholder​and​object,”​but​leads​the​spectator​into​a​“contingent”​space​and​lets​them​“interact”​with​objects​(discards​the​distance,​in​other​words).147 ​ Iwasaki​did​not​write​specifically​about​That Night’s Wife,​but​he​distinguished​Ozu’s​films​of​this​period—from​I Graduated, But . . .​(Daigaku wa detakeredo,​1929)​to​I Was Born, But . . .​(Umarete wa mitakeredo,​1932)— from​other​films​produced​at​Shochiku​Kamata.​Iwasaki​noted​that​Ozu’s​ films​ “more​ directly​ depicted​ the​ psychological​ depression​ of​ the​ ‘dark​ period’​than​any​other​films.”148​Iwasaki​could​have​called​That Night’s Wife​ an​absolute​film.​Even​if​figures​of​hands​are​essentially​unnecessary​to​invoke​the​sense​of​touch​as​Marks​argues​and​Iwasaki​suggests,​they​could​ still​become​visual​metaphors​or​indexes​of​the​tactile,​enhanced​by​special​ lighting.149​In​fact,​That Night’s Wife,​especially​with​its​recurrent​images​of​ hands,​coalesces​the​optical​and​the​tactile.​While​the​spectacular​lighting​ in​That Night’s Wife​politically​engages​in​the​issues​of​primacy​of​vision​ and​the​development​of​a​visual​surveillance​system​by​the​state,​it​simultaneously​shares​discursive​concerns​with​Weimar​intellectuals​and​filmmakers​about​cinema​as​a​new​medium​whose​“dynamic​materiality”​could​ “open​up​new​and​constantly​divergent​unperceived​modes​of​sensory​perception.”150​In​That Night’s Wife,​hard​and​contrasty​lighting​exaggerates​ the​significance​of​certain​objects.​Again,​according​to​Elsaesser,​the​illumination​ in​ the​ film​ enhances​ the​ “‘authenticity’​ and​ ‘presence’”​ of​ the​ policemen’s​gloves,​which​are​pulled​forward​from​a​vague​and​dark​background,​and​makes​them​“more-​than-​real​in​their​‘there-​ness’​and​‘now-​ ness.’”​The​outrageous​whiteness​of​the​gloves​originates​from​a​“special​ kind​of​luminosity​that​comes​from​objects​being​lit​and​at​the​same​time​ radiating​light”​that​“brings​forth​the​illusion​of​a​special​kind​of​‘essence.’” ​ At​the​same​time,​the​chase​on​the​nighttime​streets​in​That Night’s Wife​ street​fiLMs  163

can​be​called​a​symphony​of​light,​which​goes​beyond​the​“superficial​imitation​and​representation”​of​the​city.151​The​chase​scene​becomes​closer​ and​ closer​ to​ the​ absolute​ cinema​ of​ Ruttmann’s​ Opus II​ and​ the​ night​ scenes​in​Berlin.​In​these​films,​numerous​white​or​bright​dots​of​various​ sizes​and​shapes,​including​abstract​images​and​electrical​neon​signs,​pop​ out​and​move​freely​on​the​screen,​in​opposition​to​the​black​or​dark​backgrounds.​In​the​midst​of​the​chase​scene​in​That Night’s Wife,​if​we​only​follow​the​whiteness​of​streetlights​and​brightness​of​the​headlights​of​police​ motorcycles,​the​sequence​looks​like​abstract​art​with​white​electrical​light​ bulbs.​At​all​the​street​corners​and​in​most​of​the​shots​of​the​chase​scene,​ electrical​lights​are​present,​occupy​the​brightest​white​spots​within​the​ frames,​dominate​the​movement​of​the​film​“as​they​fly​through​the​darkness,”​ and​ catch​ the​ eyes​ of​ the​ spectators.152​ Then,​ shots​ of​ assembled​ patrolmen​standing​in​line​are​inserted​in​the​middle​of​the​chase​scene.​ Hard​lighting​emphasizes​the​police​officers’​white​gloves,​which​appear​ rather​comically​as​a​series​of​moving​white​dots​in​line. ​ Elsaesser​claims​that​the​tactile​lighting​style​in​Weimar​cinema,​which​ was​developed​by​German​cinematographers​such​as​Karl​Freund​(The Last Laugh)​and​Fritz​Arno​Wagner​(M),​“remarkably”​contributed​to​international​cinema.153​Ozu​and​his​cinematographers​were​keenly​aware​of​the​ discursive​and​practical​trends​of​German​cinematography​and​photography​that​were​introduced​to​Japan​via​films,​photographs,​and​articles​in​ journals​in​the​late​1920s​and​throughout​the​1930s.​Atsuta​Yuharu,​the​assistant​cinematographer​of​That Night’s Wife,​who​would​become​Ozu’s​preferred​cinematographer​in​his​later​films,​retrospectively​said​in​the​1980s​ that​he​learned​gacho​(tones​of​lighting)​by​viewing​German​films:​“The​ first​name​[of​a​cinematographer]​that​I​remembered​was​Karl​Freund.”154​ In​fact,​the​influential​film​journal​Eiga Hyoron​translated​an​essay​by​Karl​ Freund,​“Revolution​der​Filmphotographie,”​into​Japanese​and​published​ it​in​the​journal’s​September​1927​issue.​Freund’s​essay​was​on​the​emergence​of​panchromatic​film​stocks​and​his​innovative​use​of​them​in​Berlin,​ particularly​for​“night​shootings​of​everywhere​in​the​city”​that​had​not​ been​possible​before​the​development​of​panchromatic​film.155 ​ As​an​enthusiastic​amateur​photographer​and​avid​fan​of​German​cameras,​Ozu​purchased​a​Leica​camera​in​1930,​the​year​when​That Night’s Wife​was​produced,​and​subscribed​to​the​photo​journal​Koga​that​followed​ the​avant-​garde​photography​movement​that​had​started​in​the​late​1920s​ 164  chapter​3

in​Germany.​Ozu​contributed​two​photographs,​Weapons​(Heiki)​and​Still Objects​(Seibutsu),​to​Monthly Leica​magazine​in​January​and​February​1934.​ These​photos​are​not​merely​bright​and​the​images​are​not​crisply​defined​ in​a​simple​manner.​Kimura​Ihei,​the​editor​of​Koga,​noted​on​the​former:​ “The​photo​does​not​only​have​a​well-​constructed​composition.​From​the​ photo,​something​essential​of​army​life​comes​out​alive.”156​In​Weapons,​ a​ hard​ spotlight​ from​ the​ frontal​ left​ creates​ a​ strong​ contrast​ between​ lights​and​shadows​within​the​frame.​The​left​sides​of​the​leather​boxes​and​ knives​are​lit,​but​a​strong​shadow​penetrates​the​frame​diagonally​from​ the​bottom​left​to​the​upper​right​and​hides​some​weapons​in​complete​ darkness.157​The​lit​weapons​stand​out​in​the​darkness​and​seem​to​suggest​“‘authenticity’​and​‘presence,’”​making​them​“more-​than-​real​in​their​ ‘there-​ness’​and​‘now-​ness.’” ​ Yet​to​me​it​is​more​interesting​to​think​about​the​simultaneity​(“co-​ eval​modernity”)​through​which​directors​and​cinematographers​in​Germany​and​Japan​in​the​late​1920s​to​early​1930s​became​intrigued​by​the​ sense​of​tactility​in​the​visual​medium​than​it​is​to​clarify​who​was​influenced​ by​ whom.​ Moreover,​ it​ is​ fascinating​ to​ wonder​ how​ those​ filmmakers​negotiated​with​the​conditions​of​film​production​and​reception​ while​they​pursued​the​diverse​potentiality​of​lighting​in​cinema.​As​I​have​ already​mentioned,​it​is​widely​known​that​Ozu​preferred​films​by​such​ directors​as​Chaplin,​Lubitsch,​and​Vidor,​who​would​“generally​content​ themselves​ with​ even,​ general​ lighting,”​ in​ contrast​ to​ such​ directors​ as​ Sternberg,​ whose​ lighting​ “is​ an​ indispensable​ means​ of​ expression.”158​ Bordwell​ points​ out​ that​ Ozu​ “insisted​ on​ a​ bright,​ hard-​edged​ look​ to​ evoke​the​crisply​defined​images​he​had​visualized​in​his​notebooks.”159​At​ the​same​time,​obviously​That Night’s Wife​did​not​use​merely​“bright”​and​ “crisply​defined​images”​but​was​conscious​that​lighting​was​“an​indispensable​means​of​expression.”​According​to​Atsuta,​Ozu​was​“obsessed​with​ tones”​and​hated​“flat”​images.160​Atsuta​claimed​that​Ozu​rejected​Shochiku’s​request​for​the​tinting​of​his​films,​saying​that​tinting​would​make​ images​look​flat.161 ​ Hence,​negotiations​had​to​be​made.​Because​Crossways​was​a​distinctive​product​of​a​mixture​of​Shochiku’s​star​system,​the​popularity​of​jidaigeki,​and​Kinugasa’s​profound​involvement​with​the​critical​discourses​on​ cinema,​its​technologies,​and​its​theories,​That Night’s Wife​emerged​at​a​ dialogic​focal​point​of​Shochiku’s​bright​and​cheerful​policy​in​its​gendaistreet​fiLMs  165

geki​production,​its​development​of​a​culture​of​electric​light​in​the​urban​ space​of​Tokyo,​and​Ozu’s​awareness​of​the​critical​discourses​on​cinematography​from​both​Hollywood​and​Weimar​Germany. the Return of the kamata tone

Let’s​fast-​forward​the​narrative​of​That Night’s Wife.​The​detective​follows​ Hashizume​to​his​apartment,​where​his​daughter​is​sick​in​bed.​When​Hashizume​is​about​to​be​arrested,​his​wife​(Yakumo​Emiko)​points​a​gun​ at​the​detective​from​his​back.​The​hierarchal​relationship​ in​the​scopic​ field​between​the​pursuing​and​the​pursued,​the​gazer​and​the​gazed,​is​reversed.​However,​no​matter​how​fatigued,​Hashizume’s​ wife​cannot​ fall​ asleep​from​then​on.​She​has​to​keep​her​eyes​and​gun​on​the​detective​in​ order​to​prevent​him​from​arresting​her​beloved​husband,​who​needs​to​ take​care​of​their​sick​daughter​through​the​night.​Yet​soon​after,​as​if​implying​that​she​has​fallen​asleep,​the​camera​pans​left​to​hanging​laundry​and​ stops​at​an​ornamented​window,​from​which​the​supposed​sunlight​starts​ to​illuminate​the​apartment.​The​following​shot​shows​an​electrical​lamp​ on​the​outside​wall​of​a​building​being​turned​off.​Under​the​strong​morning​sunlight,​ a​milkman​ arrives​ and​exchanges​ milk​bottles.​The​camera​ comes​back​to​the​apartment​and​pans​right​from​the​window​to​the​laundry.​When​Hashizume’s​wife​wakes​up,​she​sees​two​guns​being​pointed​at​ her​by​the​detective.​The​spectacle​of​lights​in​That Night’s Wife​comes​to​ an​end​at​this​point. ​ The​rest​of​the​story​is​played​out​in​the​evenly​lit​bright​rooms​of​the​ working-​class​apartment.​Hashizume​decides​to​give​himself​up​and​the​ detective​ mercifully​ waits​ until​ his​ daughter​ wakes​ up​ to​ take​ him​ to​ the​police​station.​The​film​ends​with​a​surprisingly​optimistic​tone,​despite​the​fact​that​Hashizume​is​about​to​be​sent​to​jail​for​several​years.​ Furthermore,​there​is​no​presentation​of​a​structural​plan​to​improve​the​ industrial​economy​that​put​Hashizume​into​a​distressed​position.​The​detective​offers​a​cigarette​to​Hashizume​(fig.​3.14).​Then​the​two​walk​along​ a​sunny​street​interlocking​their​arms​like​close​friends,​without​handcuffs:​ there​is​no​longer​any​emphasis​on​shining​white​gloves. ​ There​is​no​sensitivity​to​light​here,​which​makes​a​strong​contrast​to​the​ darkened​street​with​city​lights​in​the​opening​of​the​film.​The​film​seems​to​ compromise​its​overt​critique​of​the​social​distress​caused​by​technological​ modernity​and​its​direct​engagement​with​the​issue​of​a​new​sensory​per166  chapter​3

figure​3.14  The​detective​offers​a​cigarette​to​Hashizume.​That Night’s Wife​(1930).

ception​accelerated​by​lighting​technology​by​presenting​a​melodramatic​ happy​ending​with​an​apparently​humanistic​and​socially​moralistic​relationship​between​the​observer​and​the​observed.​It​looks​as​if​the​bright​but​ flat​sunlight​has​a​numinous​and​omnipotent​function​that​goes​beyond​the​ phenomenological​attraction​of​electrical​lighting​in​the​nighttime​streets,​ or​at​least​overcomes​the​social​distress.​The​film​critic​Kishi​Matsuo​wrote​ in​a​cynical​tone:​“If​it​is​not​allowed​in​the​current​business​system​[of​ Shochiku]​to​fully​depict​the​reality​of​shoshimin,​then​it​is​not​really​a​bad​ idea​to​support​the​conjunction​between​melodrama​and​realism,​no​matter​how​compromising​that​looks.”162 ​ Such​a​“compromising”​conclusion​could​be​understood​to​be​an​implicit​prerequisite​of​the​Kamata​tone​for​any​films​commercially​produced​ at​Shochiku​Kamata.​The March​(Shingun,​Ushihara​Kiyohiko)​was​a​good​ example​of​the​bright​and​cheerful​Kamata​tone​in​1930​because​it​was​a​ film​made​to​commemorate​the​ten-​year​anniversary​of​Shochiku​Kamata,​ which​ was​ established​ in​ 1920.​ Ushihara​ Kiyohiko,​ whom​ Iwasaki​ Akira​ named​as​“one​of​the​first​and​most​typical”​directors​of​the​Kamata​tone,​ was​assigned​to​direct​this​film.​In​1926,​Ushihara​visited​Hollywood​and,​ according​to​Iwasaki,​after​that​he​“decided​to​make​bright​and​vigorous​ street​fiLMs  167

films.”163​The​screenplay​of​The March​was​written​by​Noda​Kogo,​who​also​ wrote​the​screenplay​of​That Night’s Wife.​Both​films​deal​with​the​issue​of​ the​poverty​of​the​working​class.​In​The March,​Koichi​(Suzuki​Denmei),​a​ peasant​farmer’s​son,​falls​in​love​with​Toshiko​(Tanaka​Kinuyo),​a​wealthy​ landowner’s​daughter,​but​feels​unworthy​of​her​because​of​his​financial​ condition​under​the​feudal​structure.​He​enlists​in​the​aviation​school​attached​to​the​Japanese​army​and​puts​himself​in​danger​to​overcome​financial​difficulty. ​ Lighting​schemes​that​realize​a​shared​thematic​motif​at​first​seem​oppositional​between​That Night’s Wife​and​The March.​Ushihara​said​about​The March,​“The​tone​[of​lighting]​was​soft​and​delicate.​That​was​the​characteristic​ of​ the​ Kamata​ tone.”164​ Indeed,​ most​ of​ the​ sequences​ of​ The March​are​photographed​in​“soft​and​delicate”​tones​with​even​lighting.​ There​is​almost​no​difference​in​brightness​between​the​landowner’s​luxurious​Western-​style​house​and​the​farmer’s​house,​even​though​we​see​only​ one​electrical​lamp​in​the​latter.​Even​the​climactic​battle​scene​at​night​ is​photographed​in​high​key.​There​are​only​a​few​scenes​in​The March​in​ which​ dramatic​ styles​ of​ lighting​ are​ observable.​ Koichi​ visits​ Toshiko’s​ house​the​night​before​he​leaves​for​the​battlefield.​While​Toshiko​stands​ inside​a​brightly​lit​room,​Koichi​stays​outside​and​secretly​looks​at​her​ through​a​window.​It​is​dark​outside​and​hard​sidelights​create​dark​shadows​on​his​face.​After​an​officer​is​wounded​in​battle,​his​death​is​symbolized​by​a​close-​up​of​the​gently​swaying,​flickering​hospital​lamp.​Still,​in​ these​scenes​both​Toshiko​and​the​hospital​lamp​are​in​high​key. ​ Compared​to​this​bright​and​cheerful​film,​in​which​the​protagonist​marries​a​bourgeois​woman​and​fulfills​his​somewhat​capitalist​desire​to​break​ out​of​his​working-​class​status,​the​apparent​lighting​scheme​of​That Night’s Wife​has​more​in​common​with​that​of​What Made Her Do It?​(Nani ga kanojo o so saseta ka,​Suzuki​Shigeyoshi,​1930),​a​critically​acclaimed​and​financially​successful​keiko​eiga​of​1930.​Like​That Night’s Wife,​What Made Her Do It?​deals​with​the​imminent​issue​of​economic​depression​and​poverty.​ Yet,​unlike​That Night’s Wife,​the​heroine​of​What Made Her Do It?​never​ fulfills​her​aspiration​for​modern​life​but​only​suffers​from​continuous​cruel​ actions​by​the​bourgeoisie.​A​deprived​girl,​Sumiko​(Takatsu​Keiko),​is​sold​ to​a​circus​by​her​uncle,​who​is​also​suffering​from​poverty.​She​falls​in​love​ with​Sintaro​(Unno​Ryujin)​there,​but​they​are​forced​to​be​separated​for​ years.​After​escaping​from​the​circus,​Sumiko​is​treated​harshly​by​numer168  chapter​3

ous​types​of​bourgeoisie.​When​Sumiko​and​Shintaro​are​finally​united,​ the​depressed​couple​attempts​a​double​suicide.​Only​Sumiko​survives​and​ is​placed​in​a​Christian​reform​school.​Discouraged​by​hypocritical​teachers,​Sumiko​sets​fire​to​the​school.​The​last​intertitle​of​the​film​questions:​ “What​made​her​do​it?” ​ Suzuki​Shigeyoshi,​the​director​of​What Made Her Do It?,​who​had​been​ an​assistant​director​to​Ushihara​at​Kamata,​returned​from​Europe​right​ before​the​production​of​the​film.​In​Europe,​according​to​the​assistant​ director​Kimura​Sotoji,​Suzuki​was​“influenced​by​the​experimental​styles​ of​absolute​films​and​pure​films,”​including​Man​Ray’s​The Sea Star​(L’Étoile de mer,​1928)​and​Germaine​Dulac’s​The Seashell and the Clergyman​(La coquille et le clergyman,​1927).165 ​ In​certain​critical​scenes​of​What Made Her Do It?,​hard​lighting​is​used​ and​it​creates​strong​contrast​between​lights​and​shadows.​Electrical​lights​ often​expose​the​poor​protagonist​to​spectatorial​surveillance,​as​in​That Night’s Wife.​During​the​scene​in​which​Sumiko​finally​sees​Shintaro​after​ several​years,​the​lighting​drastically​changes​as​the​dramatic​tension​of​the​ scene​enhances.​At​the​beginning​of​the​scene,​there​is​a​clock​on​the​wall.​ The​time​is​five​o’clock​in​the​evening.​Sumiko​hears​thunder​roaring,​feels​ scared,​and​comes​to​a​window​to​look​outside.​It​has​started​raining.​She​ sees​Shintaro​standing​on​the​street,​trying​to​stay​dry.​She​invites​him​in​ and​tries​to​tell​him​what​has​happened​to​her​since​they​parted.​Sumiko​ is​now​living​in​a​house​of​a​biwa​(a​Japanese​musical​instrument)​teacher,​ who​has​allegedly​been​taking​care​of​her.​As​night​falls,​a​spotlight,​which​ replicates​ an​ electrical​ light​ hung​ from​ the​ ceiling,​ gradually​ makes​ Sumiko’s​shadow​on​the​wall​darker​and​darker,​as​if​it​were​reflecting​her​ tragic​life​story​that​she​tries​to​relate​to​Shintaro.​By​the​time​the​biwa​ teacher​returns​and​steals​a​look​at​the​couple​from​outside​the​door,​the​ lighting​of​the​ scene​has​ become​extremely​contrasty.​With​harsh​lighting​from​one​side,​numerous​lines​of​a​glass​door​and​shoji​screens​cast​ dark​shadows​on​the​three​people​standing​at​the​doorway.​After​Shintaro​ leaves,​the​teacher​violently​approaches​Sumiko.​The​teacher​thinks​that​ Sumiko​has​seduced​the​young​man​and​brought​him​into​the​house.​Feeling​insulted,​Sumiko​runs​through​the​contrastively​lit​rooms​and​escapes​ into​ the​ rainy​ nighttime​ street.​ The​ teacher​ scornfully​ laughs​ at​ her.​ As​ does​the​protagonist​of​That Night’s Wife,​Sumiko​cannot​help​but​run​into​ a​phone​booth​on​the​street​to​avoid​rain​as​well​as​the​contemptuous​gaze​ street​fiLMs  169

figure​3.15  Sumiko​(Takatsu​Keiko)​runs​into​a​brightly​illuminated​phone​ booth.​What Made Her Do It?​(1930).

from​the​teacher​(fig.​3.15).​She​cannot​be​safely​hidden​in​the​dark,​though.​ An​electrical​light​on​the​ceiling​of​the​booth​is​very​bright.​Moreover,​a​ shot​is​inserted​here​of​a​shiny​light​in​the​rainy​street​seen​from​the​inside​ of​the​phone​booth.​It​could​be​Sumiko’s​point​of​view​of​a​searchlight​on​ the​street,​from​which​she​desperately​wants​to​hide. ​ It​was​Otani​Takejiro,​the​president​of​Shochiku,​who​originally​planned​ to​produce​What Made Her Do It?​Otani​decided​not​to​make​the​film​at​ Shochiku​but,​according​to​Kimura​Sotoji,​brought​the​project​to​Suzuki,​ a​director​at​Teikoku​Engei​Kinema​Company​(Teikine),​a​much​smaller​ studio.166​What Made Her Do It?,​based​on​an​acclaimed​1927​leftist​novel​by​ Fujimori​Seikichi,​was​certainly​attractive​material​for​Otani,​but​probably​ too​radical​to​be​made​into​a​film​at​bright​and​cheerful​Shochiku.​On​the​ other​hand,​the​rather​favorable​and​moralistic​depiction​of​the​police​detective​and​the​protagonist’s​voluntary​capture​in​the​ending​scene​of​That Night’s Wife​fit​perfectly​into​Shochiku’s​mission​of​presenting​bright​and​ cheerful​cinema. ​ Having​said​that,​the​apparently​happy​ending​of​That Night’s Wife​with​ no​obsessive​display​of​spectacularly​contrasty​hard​and​harsh​lights​and​ 170  chapter​3

thus​ no​ emphasis​ on​ the​ ambivalence​ of​ brightness​ and​ technological​ modernity​could​still​be​regarded​as​a​social​criticism,​simultaneously​satisfying​Shochiku’s​policy​for​its​commodities.​When​juxtaposed​with​the​ critical​engagement​of​the​harsh​contrast​of​light​and​shadow​in​the​nighttime​streets​of​a​modern​city​throughout​two-​thirds​of​the​film,​the​sudden​ and​conspicuous​brightness​in​lighting​at​the​end​can​be​read​as​a​critique​ of​a​modified​instrumental​rationality​of​modernization—“oppression​with​ a​heart.”167​The​moral​of​fidelity​to​both​law​and​family​embraces​the​thrilling​but​often​inhumane​ nighttime​ streets.​This​ending​ under​ the​bright​ sunlight​could​be​regarded​as​“a​capitulation​to​the​system’s​all​encompassing​power.”168​This​superficial​compromising​closure​of​the​film,​between​ a​melodramatic​reactionary​resolution​of​the​narrative​and​a​celebratory​ display​of​soft​and​bright​lights,​indicates​the​very​existence​of​the​contradictions​of​everyday​life​in​Japanese​modernity. ​ That Night’s Wife,​as​part​of​Shochiku’s​commercial​strategy​and​as​its​ means​of​attaining​cultural​capital,​captures​the​historical​moment​by​way​ of​the​film’s​sensitivity​to​light​and​lighting.​In​particular,​the​film​is​specifically​concerned​with​questions​about​technology​and​a​society​molded​ by​technology.169​Electrical​lighting​technology​enables​the​characters​to​ stroll​through​the​city​at​night​and,​at​the​same​time,​allows​the​filmmakers​ to​show​such​activities​to​the​spectators.​The​film​offers​a​critical​vision​of​ the​reconfiguring​of​urban​space​and​power​relations​in​the​form​of​flourishing​spectacular​industrial​entertainment.​The​film​not​only​displays,​with​ a​critical​view,​a​historical​world​that​increasingly​is​defined​by​the​role​of​ electrical​light,​but​also​contributes​to​the​depth​of​a​modern​world​of​spectacle.170​In​this​sense​the​film​combines​a​socially​critical​quality​with​visual​ spectacle​and​becomes​“innovative,​provocative,​and​conventional​in​the​ best​sense​of​the​word.”171​Simultaneously​celebrating​and​critiquing​the​ innovative​technologies​and​critically​engaging​the​theoretical​discourses​ on​such​technologies​that​enable​the​spectacle​of​lighting,​That Night’s Wife​ took​seriously​the​contradictory​sociopolitical​and​socioeconomic​conditions​of​1930.

street​fiLMs  171

chApter 4

the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW Shochiku, Toho, and Japan

to the dark side: Hayashi Chojiro’s transformation to Hasegawa kazuo

Hayashi​Chojiro​was​attacked!​In​the​evening​of​November​11,​ 1937,​Hayashi​was​on​his​way​back​from​the​production​of​Genkuro Yoshitsune,​the​first​planned​star​vehicle​for​him​at​Toho​Eiga​ Company’s​Kyoto​studio.​From​the​shadowy​corner​of​the​street,​ an​unknown​ruffian​came​out,​asking,​“Mr.​Hayashi?”​All​of​a​sudden,​he​slashed​the​face​of​Hayashi​with​razor​blades.​Instantly,​ the​ left​ side—the​ beauty​ side—of​ Hayashi’s​ face​ was​ covered​ with​blood.​Severely​in​pain,​Hayashi​cried​out,​“Mirror!​Give​me​ a​mirror!”​In​his​star​vehicles​at​Shochiku,​Hayashi​metaphorically​slashed​his​enemies​with​his​face.​But​now​his​deadly,​beautiful​face​was​brutally​damaged.1 ​ Even​ though​ there​ was​ no​ clear​ evidence,​ it​ was​ widely​ assumed​that​this​violent​incident​was​Shochiku’s​retaliatory​measure​against​Hayashi’s​so-​called​betrayal.​Some​critics​and​fans​ regarded​Hayashi’s​decision​to​work​with​Toho,​a​new​film​company,​as​a​betrayal​to​Shochiku,​the​company​that​had​made​him​ a​star.2​Toho​was​headhunting​stars​from​elsewhere​in​order​to​ challenge​Shochiku’s​dominance​in​the​film​business.​The​“Toho​ Block”​had​appeared​by​March​1935​as​the​collaboration​of​Photo​

Chemical​Laboratory​(pcL)​in​Tokyo​(a​film​production​company),​J.O.​ Studios​in​Kyoto​(a​film​production​company),​and​Tokyo​Takarazuka​Gekijo​Company​(a​company​with​approximately​four​hundred​theaters,​including​Tokyo​Takarazuka​Gekijo,​Hibiya​Eiga​Gekijo,​and​Nihon​Gekijo).​ These​three​companies​established​Toho​Eiga​Distribution​Company​in​ June​1936​and​then​Toho​Eiga​Company​in​August​1937.3​In​order​to​challenge​Shochiku,​Toho​had​tried​to​merge​with​Nikkatsu​in​1936​to​be​able​to​ use​its​537​movie​theaters,​but​Shochiku​intervened.​It​was​Toho’s​counterattack​to​hire​actors​and​stars,​including​Hayashi​and​Okochi​Denjiro​in​ May​1937,​away​from​Shochiku​and​Nikkatsu.4 ​ Hayashi’s​motive​behind​his​move​to​Toho​was​not​about​money.​According​to​a​report​in​Kinema Junpo,​his​contract​with​Toho​was​not​lucrative​at​all,​but​it​was​basically​the​same​as​the​old​one​with​Shochiku.​The​ new​contract​was​for​five​years,​2,500​yen​a​month,​plus​an​annual​20,000​ yen​incentive,​while​at​Shochiku​Hayashi​received​2,000​yen​a​month,​plus​ a​1,000​or​2,000​yen​incentive​per​film.5​He​appeared​in​eight​to​eleven​films​ a​year​at​Shochiku,​which​meant​an​additional​8,000​to​22,000​yen​a​year.​ Besides,​Hayashi’s​contract​with​Shochiku​had​ended​on​September​7,​so​ his​move​to​Toho​on​October​13​was​not​a​breach​of​his​contract.6​The​official​reason​for​Hayashi’s​move​was​“his​intention​of​artistic​improvement,”​ according​to​a​report​in​Kinema Junpo.7​Hayashi​said,​“I​am​already​thirty​ years​old.​I​have​reached​the​transitional​period​of​my​life.​I​need​to​change​ something.”8​ By​ using​ such​ language,​ Hayashi​ was​ certainly​ taking​ into​ account​the​high​profile​of​Toho’s​brand-​new​lighting​system.​As​of​April​ 1937,​pcL​already​owned​much​more​lighting​equipment​than​Shochiku’s​ Shimokamo​studio.​While​Shimokamo​had​six​5​kW,​ninety​3​kW,​eighty​ 2​kW,​and​150​1​kW​electric​lamps,​pcL​was​equipped​with​two​10​kW​spots,​ six​5​kW​spots,​ninety​3​kW​spots,​thirty​2​kW​spots,​120​2​kW​sidelights,​150​ 1​kW​top​lights,​sixteen​5​kW​strips,​two​4​kW​strips,​five​1​kW​condenser​ spots,​and​ten​2​kW​condenser​spots.9 ​ Hayashi’s​ aspiration​ for​ change​ was​ granted​ at​ Toho.​ First​ of​ all,​ his​ name​was​changed.​Giving​his​stage​name,​Hayashi​Chojiro,​back​to​Shochiku,​Hayashi​started​using​his​real​name,​Hasegawa​Kazuo,​at​Toho.​Second,​and​more​important,​the​star​image​of​Hasegawa​Kazuo​was​never​the​ same​as​that​of​Hayashi​Chojiro.​Even​though​both​images​were​achieved​ by​extreme​care​in​manipulation​of​lighting,​the​methods​of​such​manipu-

174  chapter​4

lation​were​very​different.​While​the​emphasis​on​the​image​of​Hayashi​was​ on​glamour,​for​Hasegawa​it​was​on​shadow. ​ Hasegawa​might​not​have​expected​such​a​change​because​of​what​he​ had​heard​from​the​cinematographer​Tsuburaya​Eiichi,​who​had​photographed​Hayashi​Chojiro’s​debut​film,​Kid’s Sword Fight,​at​Shimokamo​ and​had​already​been​working​at​Toho.​Tsuburaya​mentioned​Toho’s​cinematography​as​being​“much​clearer”​than​Shochiku’s,​but​he​did​not​say​ anything​ about​ its​ emphasis​ on​ shadow.10​ Despite—or​ because​ of—the​ change​of​onscreen​star​image,​however,​Hasegawa​Kazuo​became​an​even​ bigger​star​than​Hayashi​Chojiro.11 ​ Practically,​an​emphasis​on​shadow​was​necessary​to​hide​the​scars​on​ Hasegawa’s​face.​Nagashi-​me​and​onobashi,​an​enhanced​application​of​ the​Hollywood-​style​three-​point​lighting,​became​difficult​in​his​close-​ups.​ But​more​important,​the​prominence​of​darkness​in​Hasegawa’s​onscreen​ star​image​corresponded​to​the​emergence​of​a​new​discursive​tendency​ that​could​be​called​ the​aesthetics​of​shadow​ in​Japanese​cinema.​Even​ though​Hayashi​was​not​a​genuine​star​of​Shochiku’s​trademark​gendaigeki,​the​genre​that​typically​represented​the​company’s​slogan​of​“Bright​ and​cheerful​Shochiku​cinema,”​Hayashi’s​face​was​an​icon​of​Shochiku.​It​ is​ironic​that​Hayashi​wrote​from​his​hospital​bed​after​the​attack:​“I​will​ return​very​soon.​I​will​not​give​up​only​because​of​such​a​thing.​I​will​work​ harder​when​I​recover.​And​I​will​fight.​There​is​no​other​way​for​us​but​to​ work​hard​in​order​to​fight​back.​I​believe​a​bright​road​will​open​up​there.​ Ugly​ and​ dark​ spirits​ will​ vanish​ entirely.”12​ Hayashi’s​ stardom​ revived​ brightly​but​not​in​the​brightness​of​lighting.​Hayashi’s​misfortune​with​ Shochiku​and​Hasegawa’s​rise​at​Toho​were​symbolic​events​that​marked​ the​turning​point​of​cinematic​lighting​and​the​critical​discourse​about​it​in​ the​history​of​Japanese​cinema.​When​Hasegawa​recovered​from​the​near-​ fatal​injury,​some​critics​and​cinematographers​started​criticizing​Shochiku​ films​more​openly​than​ever​for​their​uncritical​inclination​to​brightness.​ Shochiku’s​dominance​in​the​film​industry​had​reached​a​critical​point.​The​ aesthetics​of​shadow​in​cinematography​appeared​as​a​major​critical​discourse​and​practical​tendency​of​Japanese​cinema​in​the​late​1930s​to​1945.​ The​aesthetics​of​shadow​embodied​the​complicated​film​culture​in​Japan​ during​the​war,​a​culture​that​was​never​monolithic​in​spite​of​the​national​ film​policy​and​the​militarist​and​imperialist​governmental​control.​But​be-

the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  175

fore​going​into​the​detailed​discussion​of​this​notion​of​the​aesthetics​of​ shadow,​I​want​to​stay​with​Hasegawa​Kazuo​for​a​little​while​in​order​to​ show​how​his​image​on​the​screen​and​the​lighting​scheme​for​him​changed​ in​his​star​vehicles​at​Toho. ​ The​production​of​Genkuro Yoshitsune​was​abandoned​after​all.​Instead,​ Tojuro’s Love​(Tojuro no koi,​Yamamoto​Kajiro,​1938),​based​on​a​popular​ novel​by​Kikuchi​Kan,​was​selected​as​the​first​film​for​Hasegawa​at​Toho.​ It​was​a​story​about​a​famous​Kabuki​actor,​Sakata​Tojuro,​whose​devotion​ to​his​art​resulted​in​the​tragic​death​of​O-​Kaji,​a​geisha,​who​was​betrayed​ by​the​man​she​loved.​Tojuro’s Love​was​a​dream​project​for​both​Hasegawa​ and​his​fans.​He​said​in​September​1937,​when​he​was​still​with​Shochiku,​ “I​do​want​to​make​Tojuro’s Love,​but​the​company​[Shochiku]​is​worrying​ about​censorship.”13​In​June​1937,​Sakyo​Sayuri,​a​fan,​wrote​a​letter​to​Shimokamo​and​confessed,​“Every​time​I​read​the​story​of​Tojuro’s Love,​my​ wish​becomes​stronger​and​stronger​in​my​heart:​I​wish​Mr.​Hayashi​would​ play​the​role​of​Tojuro.​Am​I​the​only​one​who​has​this​kind​of​wish?​.​.​.​In​ a​room​lit​with​a​silk​andon,​Tojuro’s​ice-​cold​eyes​stare​at​O-​Kaji’s​every​ single​movement​while​his​words​and​behaviors​by​which​he​confesses​his​ love​to​her​are​extremely​sweet.”14​In​fact,​Tojuro’s Love​turned​out​to​be​ a​big​hit,​financially​the​third​most​successful​film​of​1938​for​Toho.15​The​ critic​ Iijima​ Haruo​ reported​ that​ in​ both​Tokyo​ and​ Osaka,​ such​ major​ Toho​theaters​as​Nihon​Gekijo​and​Umeda​Gekijo​were​“99​percent​full”​ for​the​first​ten​days​after​the​film’s​release.16​Hasegawa​fans​were​waiting​ for​his​comeback,​and​the​content—either​dark​or​bright—might​have​had​ only​secondary​importance​to​them.17 ​ When​Tojuro’s Love​was​released,​some​fans​watching​him​in​the​film​ were​surprised.​Instead​of​being​lit​in​a​glamorous​manner,​Hasegawa​was​ placed​in​very​dark​spaces​in​a​number​of​scenes.​A​fan​pointed​out,​“The​ camera​[in​Tojuro’s Love]:​dark​in​general.”18​The​climactic​scene​is​a​typical​ case.​ Tojuro​ (Hasegawa)​ confesses​ his​ false​ love​ to​ O-​Kaji​ (Irie​Takako)​ only​ for​ the​ sake​ of​ improving​ his​ acting​ skill.​ Some​ female​ fans​ complained​that​they​“were​not​able​to​feel​ecstatic​about​Tojuro’s​close-​ up​even​half​as​much​as​that​of​Yukinojo​[the​hero​of​An Actor’s Revenge].”​ They​ pointed​ out​ that​ the​ camera​ position​ was​ too​ low,​ which​ made​ Hasegawa’s​face​look​“too​fat.”19​Other​fans,​however,​appreciated​the​way​ that​the​onscreen​images​of​Hasegawa​incorporated​“the​sense​of​reality​ and​truthfulness”​more​than​those​of​Hayashi​at​Shimokamo​had​done.20​ 176  chapter​4

A​fan,​Wakana​Mari,​wrote,​“[Playing]​Tojuro,​[Hasegawa]​abandoned​his​ feelings​in​the​past​and​added​realistic​somberness​to​his​gorgeous​image​ at​Shimokamo.”21 ​ The​ lighting​ scheme​ of​ Tojuro’s Love​ deviated​ conspicuously​ from​ a​ glamorous​ treatment​ of​ the​ star’s​ face.​ The​ cinematographer​ of​ Tojuro’s Love​was​Miura​Mitsuo,​who​spent​his​early​career​at​Shochiku’s​Kamata​ studio​and​had​been​famous​for​his​“bright​and​modern​sensitivity​in​cinematography.”22​In​Tojuro’s Love​Miura​undoubtedly​treated​the​star’s​face​ with​extreme​care.​Hasegawa’s​close-​ups​in​this​film​are​almost​always​accompanied​with​such​on-​screen​lighting​sources​as​andon,​candles,​and​ bright​ shoji​ windows,​ which​ indicate​ Miura’s​ distinct​ awareness​ of​ the​ lighting​ on​ the​ star’s​ face.​ The​ first​ close-​up​ of​ Hasegawa​ appears​ most​ appropriately​in​a​scene​in​which​Tojuro​makes​himself​up​in​his​dressing​ room.​Soft​light​comes​into​the​room​from​a​shoji​screen​window​behind​ Tojuro,​which​places​him​in​dim​backlight.​Tojuro​turns​his​head​to​the​ camera​over​his​right​shoulder.​His​eyes,​looking​toward​frontal​left​with​ the​slightly​closed​nagashi-​me​style,​catch​key​lights​while​the​rim​of​his​ head​shines​softly​because​of​the​backlight.​Additionally,​a​round​mirror,​ whose​frame​also​shines​softly​reflecting​the​key​light,​occupies​a​large​part​ of​the​screen​and​displays​the​left​(injured)​side​of​Hasegawa’s​face​in​a​ smaller​size.​This​is​the​most​subtle​treatment​possible​of​the​star’s​face,​in​ order​to​satisfy​the​audience’s​curiosity​and​to​revive​the​glamorous​lighting​that​was​adopted​for​Hayashi​in​the​crafty​work​of​Sugiyama​Kohei​and​ Kinugasa​Teinosuke​at​Shimokamo.23​Sugiyama​and​Kinugasa​dealt​with​ Hayashi’s​face​as​a​beautiful​object​to​be​looked​at,​especially​by​a​female​ audience.​For​that​specific​purpose,​no​matter​how​dark​the​scene​of​their​ jidaigeki,​the​star’s​face​was​brightly​and​glamorously​displayed​with​the​ special​techniques​of​onobashi​and​nagashi-​me. ​ In​ contrast,​ in​ other​ scenes​ of​ Tojuro’s Love,​ Miura​ did​ not​ place​ Hasegawa’s​face​at​the​center​of​glamour.​Instead​he​treated​it​as​an​entity​ on​which​shadows​play​significant​roles​in​order​“to​achieve​the​perfect​ atmosphere​of​the​space.”24​The​climactic​scene​is​a​perfect​example.​Tojuro​is​sleeping​in​a​dark​room​in​the​late​evening.​The​room​is​lit​only​by​ an​andon​lamp,​the​pseudo​lighting​source,​placed​in​the​frontal​right​of​ the​screen.​As​O-​Kaji​enters​from​the​left,​the​camera​pans​in​that​direction​ to​capture​the​couple​within​the​same​frame.​Accordingly,​the​andon​goes​ out​of​the​frame.​O-​Kaji​comes​into​the​room​and​places​a​kimono​over​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  177

figure​4.1  Lit​only​by​an​andon,​conspiring​Tojuro​(Hasegawa​Kazuo)​stares​at​ O-​Kaji​(Irie​Takako)​with​nagashi-​me.​Tojuro’s Love​(1938).

Tojuro.​When​Tojuro​gets​up,​his​body​creates​a​hard,​dark,​and​authoritative​shadow​on​the​wall​behind​him.​In​the​medium​shot​of​Tojuro​that​follows,​the​left​side​of​his​face​is​lit​by​the​andon​(fig.​4.1).​The​injured​side​of​ Hasegawa’s​face​is​not​hidden​in​this​shot​but​rather​appears​in​stark​white.​ His​eyes​are​looking​toward​the​left​side​of​the​screen—the​same​directionality​as​the​famous​nagashi-​me—with​sparkling​lights​inside​them​reflecting​the​sidelight​from​the​andon,​but​the​right​side​of​his​face​is​almost​ completely​in​shadow.​After​he​passionately​confesses​his​(false)​love​to​ O-​Kaji,​who​weeps​on​the​floor,​Tojuro​stands​up,​walks​around​the​andon,​ and​leaves​the​room.​As​the​camera​follows​Tojuro’s​circular​movement,​a​ strong​spotlight​casts​a​huge,​dark​shadow​behind​him.​When​he​passes​in​ front​of​shoji​screens​in​the​dark​room,​white​waves​of​light​and​black​waves​ of​ shadow,​ which​ reflect​ the​ moonlight​ on​ the​ river​ outside,​ ominously​ move​behind​Tojuro.​The​emphasis​of​the​close-​ups​of​Hasegawa’s​face​in​ the​strongly​contrasty​lighting​in​Tojuro’s Love​is​not​on​the​glamour​of​the​ star.​Instead​the​emphasis​is​on​the​realistic​directionality​of​lighting​from​ the​andon​placed​in​the​dark​room,​and​perhaps​on​the​narrative​economy​ that​expresses​the​sense​of​conspiracy​in​Tojuro’s​mind.25 178  chapter​4

​ In​the​final​sequence​that​follows,​Tojuro​learns​that​O-​Kaji​has​committed​suicide,​brokenhearted​to​know​that​she​has​simply​been​used​by​ him.​A​montage​of​extreme​close-​ups​(ecus)​of​Tojuro’s​face​is​a​perfect​ example​of​the​Rembrandt-style​lighting​of​the​film: ecu:​Tojuro’s​face​looking​slightly​to​the​frontal​right​(fig.​4.2).​The​left​ side​of​his​face​is​in​shadow.​Only​the​right​side​is​lit. ecu:​Tojuro’s​face​looking​fully​to​the​left​(fig.​4.3).​Completely​in​silhouette.​The​rim​of​his​face​and​a​point​of​his​left​eye​are​lit. ecu:​Tojuro’s​face​looking​fully​to​the​right​(fig.​4.4).​The​posterior​half​ of​his​head​is​in​shade.​His​right​eye​catches​light. These​three​extremely​brief​shots​are​repeated​at​least​five​times​before​ the​camera​captures​Tojuro​in​a​medium​close-​up,​once​again​in​a​contrasty​lighting,​in​strong​sidelight​from​the​left.​Now​that​the​injured​side​ of​Hasegawa’s​face​is​displayed​in​these​climactic​scenes,​it​is​clear​that​ Miura’s​choice​of​the​Rembrandt-style​lighting​was​not​only​for​the​purpose​of​hiding​the​scars​on​Hasegawa’s​face.​Instead,​in​Tojuro’s Love,​the​ star​ is​ placed​ in​ a​ specific​ lighting​ scheme​ that​ emphasizes​ the​ realistic​ tones​and​directionality​of​light​and​shadow. ​ In​ Cinematography Reader​ (Eiga satsueigaku dokuhon),​ the​ 1940​ textbook​of​the​Nipponese​Society​for​Cinematographers​(nsc;​founded​on​ May​1,​1932),​the​Japanese​counterpart​of​the​American​Society​for​Cinematographers​(asc;​founded​in​1919),​Miura​contributed​an​essay​on​lighting.​Miura​first​explicates​the​principles​of​cinematic​lighting​technologies​ based​on​the​theoretical​discourses​in​Hollywood,​and​then​refutes​them​ in​Japanese​filmmaking​practices​based​on​the​notion​of​realism.​Miura​ writes:​“Tones​of​light​are​indispensable​for​dramatic​effects​of​films.​Good​ or​bad​tones​will​give​fatal​impact​to​a​work​so​that​lighting​is​extremely​ important.​It​is​lighting​that​cinematographers​of​dramatic​films​need​to​ have​profound​interest​in.​It​is​essential​for​them​to​think​of​the​relationship​between​modes​of​representation​and​lighting​when​they​closely​examine​the​goal,​subject,​and​structure​of​a​provided​screenplay​and​decide​ how​to​control​lighting.”26​Miura’s​claim​here​directly​followed​the​argument​of​the​asc​cinematographer​William​Stull​in​the​first​volume​of​Cinematographic Annual​(1930):​“The​chief​distinction​between​good​and​bad​ cinematography​is​lighting.​Cinematography​is​essentially​the​control​of​ light,​and​naturally​the​best​cinematographer​is​the​one​who​knows​how​to​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  179

figure​4.2 ​

Tojuro​learns​ that​O-​Kaji​ has​committed​ suicide.​Tojuro’s Love​(1938).

figure​4.3 ​ Tojuro’s Love​ (1938).

figure​4.4 ​ Tojuro’s Love​ (1938).

so​control​the​light​reflected​into​his​lenses​as​to​get​the​most​perfect​and​ pleasing​representation​of​his​subjects.”27 ​ Miura​regarded​the​3/4​front​and​3/4​top​lighting​as​“the​most​ideal”​ for​lighting​a​figure.​Miura​writes,​“Conditions​of​lighting​should​be​ideally​ achieved​by​a​combination​of​at​least​two​strong​and​weak​types.​That​is,​ concentrated​spotlight,​relatively​bright​diffused​light,​and​fill​light,​which​ is​often​called​sidelight,​softening​contrasts​between​light​and​shadow.”28​ This​is​almost​exactly​what​Stull​explained​about​the​ideal​use​of​lighting:​ “There​is​the​3/4​front​lighting.​This​is​the​most​useful​for​general​use,​as​ it​brings​out​the​modeling​and​skin​texture​in​the​most​natural​way.​.​.​.​ For​general​use,​these​lightings​[flat​front​lighting;​sidelighting;​3/4​front​ lighting;​backlighting]​should​be​used​in​combination:​at​least​two​light-​ sources​should​be​used.”29 ​ Having​said​this,​Miura​continues,​“Speaking​of​the​methods​of​lighting,​ I​think​it​is​dangerous​to​be​absorbed​in​blindly​imitating​foreign​films​and​ bringing​showy​brightness​into​Japanese​rooms,​in​particular.”30​Miura​explains​the​reasons​for​his​claim​in​terms​of​actuality: Mainly,​a​Japanese​room​is​lit​by​reflections​from​the​corridor.​The​top​ of​the​room​is​actually​dark​while​the​floor​is​very​bright.​Plus,​the​tone​ of​the​room​is​usually​darkish.​It​is​acceptable​to​follow​the​American​ style​of​lighting​when​we​photograph​a​Western-​style​room,​but​calm​ and​simplified​beams​of​light​are​necessary​for​a​Japanese​room​in​order​ to​maintain​harmony​between​the​room​and​its​lighting.​Such​beams​of​ light​are​useful​in​order​to​enhance​a​sense​of​reality.​.​.​.​We​must​avoid​ a​careless​method​of​lighting​that​throws​hard​light,​or​high-​key​light,​ from​the​top​in​a​Japanese​room.​.​.​.​The​beauty​of​simple​and​soft​beams​ of​light​floating​into​a​Japanese​room​in​the​semi-​dark​evening.​This​is​ the​light​that​we​are​most​familiar​with.31 Preceding​his​essay​from​1940,​Miura​did​not​display​Hasegawa’s​face​in​ Tojuro’s Love​in​the​Hollywood-​style​lighting​that​prioritizes​a​star’s​glamour​above​anything​else.​Lighting​in​the​film​is​generically​melodramatic​ in​some​scenes​and​emphasizes​the​emotional​states​of​the​protagonists,​ but​at​the​same​time​lighting​is​used​to​highlight​the​realism​of​the​space. ​ Shimazaki​Kiyohiko​of​the​Japanese​Association​of​Film​Technology​ (Nihon​Eiga​Gijutsu​Kyokai)​highly​valued​Miura’s​attempt​of​realism​in​ lighting​in​Tojuro’s Love​that​used​“chiaroscuro”​and​“contrasty​Rembrandt​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  181

lighting”​in​order​to​achieve​“the​perfect​atmosphere​of​the​space.”32​Even​ though​Shimazaki​called​the​lighting​scheme​of​the​corridor​behind​the​ stage​“an​absolute​failure”​from​the​standpoint​of​realism​(to​Shimazaki,​ the​space​looked​“as​if​it​were​lit​by​modern​interior​electric​lamps​instead​ of​being​lit​by​candles​or​andon”),​he​still​praised​the​light​and​shadow​ created​on​the​face​of​Tojuro​as​he​walked​down​the​corridor.​This​was​a​ good​example​of​the​“precision​lighting”​that​the​Hollywood​cinematographer​Gaetano​Gaudio,​who​received​an​Oscar​in​1936​for​Zola​(directed​ by​William​Dieterle),​had​been​advocating,​but​Shimazaki​criticized​the​ overall​lighting​of​the​corridor​because​it​did​not​match​such​precision.33​ Shimazaki​ had​ just​ translated​ into​ Japanese​ Gaudio’s​ August​ 1937​ essay​ “A​ New​ Viewpoint​ on​ the​ Lighting​ of​ Motion​ Pictures,”​ which​ had​ appeared​in​the​Journal of the Society of Motion Picture Engineers,​and​published​ it​in​Eiga to Gijutsu.34​Gaudio​wrote​and​Shimazaki​translated: The​writer’s​method​[of​building​lighting]​is​to​begin​by​planning​for​ the​shadow​areas,​and​build​them​up​to​the​desired​level​with​spotlight​ beams.​And​here​is​an​important​fact:​in​nature​there​is​normally​no​such​ thing​as​an​opaque​shadow.​Even​the​darkest​shadows​ordinarily​encountered​reflect​a​little​light,​so​that​at​least​a​suggestion​of​something​can​ be​seen.​We​may​not​penetrate​the​shadow​enough​to​make​out​all​the​ details,​but​we​can​almost​always​get​an​idea​of​what​is​in​the​shadow. ​ In​ photography,​ things​ are​ different.​ If​ a​ shadow​ does​ not​ reflect​ enough​light​to​make​some​sort​of​exposure​on​the​film,​the​picture​will​ show​merely​an​opaque,​jet-​black​emptiness​where​the​shadow​is.​On​ the​other​hand,​if​we​throw​too​much​light​into​the​area,​there​is​simply​ no​shadow​at​all. ​ That​is​why​I​begin​with​lighting​the​shadows.​.​.​.​Establishing​motion​ picture​lighting​in​this​manner,​and​from​this​viewpoint[,]​permits,​even​ compels,​the​use​of​more​natural​lighting​effects.​.​.​.​In​both​of​my​most​ recent​ productions,​ Anthony Adverse​ and​ Zola,​ most​ of​ the​ moving-​ camera​shots​have​been​lighted​so​as​to​simulate​natural​effects,​letting​ the​players​move​through​the​less​brilliantly​lighted​areas,​and​concentrating​the​highlights​and​the​modeling​effects​in​what​would​in​actuality​be​the​logical​highlight-​areas.​.​.​. ​ From​this​discussion​it​will​be​seen​that​this​form​of​lighting​must​of​ necessity​be​very​closely​interlocked​with​the​composition​of​the​scene,​ 182  chapter​4

just​as​it​should​be,​for​composition​is​really​much​more​than​the​mere​ geometrical​ arrangement​ of​ lines,​ masses,​ and​ objects.​ Composition​ should​properly​take​into​consideration​lighting;​and​lighting,​composition.​.​.​.​The​technique​described​here​requires​neither​more​angles​ of​illumination​nor​more​lighting​units​than​the​conventional​general-​ lighting-​plus-​spotlighting​technique.​Far​from​requiring​a​higher​level​ of​illumination,​it​permits,​as​a​rule,​the​use​of​lower​levels.35 What​Gaudio​emphasized​in​what​he​calls​“precision​lighting”​was​how​ to​achieve​naturalness​by​using​shadows​in​composition.​For​Shimazaki,​ Gaudio’s​emphasis​on​realism​of​shadows​and​his​claim​that​his​lighting​ would​not​need​a​“higher​level​of​illumination”​provided​an​ideal​model​ for​lighting​practices​in​Japan. ​ Shimazaki​also​commented​on​the​dispute​over​cinematographic​realism​between​Ernst​Lubitsch,​a​Hollywood​director,​and​Victor​Milner,​a​ Hollywood​cinematographer.​Impressed​by​two​French​films,​Pépé le Moko​ ( Julien​ Duvivier,​ 1936)​ and​The Grand Illusion​ (La Grande Illusion,​Jean​ Renoir,​1937),​Lubitsch​criticized,​in​the​February​1938​issue​of​American Cinematographer,​the​cinematography​in​Hollywood​for​being​too​“idealized”​and​praised​French​films​for​their​“realism,”​despite​the​French​film​ industry’s​material​and​technological​limitations.​Lubitsch​said,​“In​both​ cases,​the​effect​on​the​screen​was​precisely​as​though​the​cameraman​had​ been​able​to​set​up​his​camera​and​shoot​the​real​thing,​technically​limited​ by​just​the​same​limitations​in​time,​lighting​and​so​on​which​would​restrict​ him​had​he​been​working​actually​in​Morocco​[Josef​von​Sternberg,​1930]​ or​in​a​wartime​prison​camp.​.​.​.​Now,​in​the​average​American​film—even​ a​Class​B​program​picture—we​could​create​equally​authentic​sets.​But​our​ camerawork​would​almost​inevitably​tend​to​idealize​them.”36 ​ Milner,​who​had​worked​with​Lubitsch​on​such​films​as​The Love Parade​ (1929)​and​Monte Carlo​(1930),​was​opposed​to​such​a​view​based​on​the​ notion​of​“the​cinematographer’s​duty​to​the​players​and​to​his​employer”​ in​Hollywood.​Milner​wrote: It​is​a​fact​that​a​popular​star​is​not​merely​a​human​being​or​a​fine​actor​ or​actress.​Such​a​star​also​represents​a​tremendous​financial​investment​ on​the​part​of​the​producer​or​his​studio.​That​investment​must​be​protected.​.​.​.​In​other​words,​to​safeguard​his​employer’s​investment,​the​ man​at​the​camera​must​consistently​bend​every​effort​to​make​his​star​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  183

appear​as​youthful​and​lovely.​.​.​.​He​must​often​subordinate​his​own​ concepts​of​how​a​scene​should​be​photographed​to​the​necessity​for​ making​a​star,​who​is​actually​thirty​years​old​and​may​at​the​moment​ look​forty,​appear​on​the​screen​a​glowing​twenty.​Such​a​situation—and​ they​are​and​always​have​been​much​too​common—is​no​time​for​the​ brutal​frankness​of​realistic​camerawork!37 Shimazaki​ agreed​ with​ Lubitsch.​ Shimazaki​ claimed,​ “Considering​ our​ feelings​ toward​ Hollywood​ cinema​ and​ our​ thoughts​ on​ the​ essence​ of​ cinematographic​technology,​I​think​his​[Lubitsch’s]​words​are​appropriate,​and​I​support​his​view.”38​Shimazaki’s​emphasis​was​obviously​on​realism​in​lighting. ​ The​positions​of​Shimazaki​and​Miura​were​not​identical.​Miura​emphasized​the​spatial​difference​between​the​United​States​and​Japan​and​ insisted​on​adopting​different​lighting​schemes​in​order​to​represent​them​ properly.​Shimazaki​placed​a​higher​priority​on​“the​perfect​atmosphere​of​ the​space”​than​the​glamour​of​stars.​Yet​both​of​them​agreed​that​lighting​should​serve​to​achieve​the​realism​of​space.​Shimazaki​referred​to​a​ new​discourse​in​Hollywood​cinematography​in​order​to​explore​a​method​ different​from​the​major​practices​there.​Miura​also​tried​to​distinguish​ his​work​from​the​mainstream​Hollywood​techniques.​Despite​both​men’s​ slightly​different​positions​regarding​Hollywood​lighting,​they​were​clearly​ aiming​for​the​same​goal:​to​challenge​the​dominant​mode​of​lighting​in​ Japan—bright​ and​cheerful​ Shochiku​ cinema​and​the​home​of​Hayashi​ Chojiro—from​the​perspective​of​realism. ​ Toho​was​not​absolutely​sure​that​realism​in​lighting,​which​would​prioritize​shadow​over​glamour,​was​the​road​that​it​would​take​when​it​came​ to​promoting​the​biggest​star​of​the​time.​In​a​couple​of​Hasegawa​star​ vehicles​at​Toho​that​followed​Tojuro’s Love,​there​was​a​reverse​effort​to​ recreate​the​Shimokamo-​tone​cinematography​used​on​Hasegawa,​especially​when​there​were​some​fans​who​complained​about​the​dark​lighting​ in​Tojuro’s Love.​Responding​to​such​fans’​voices,​Toho​produced​Mother of Memory​(Mabuta no haha,​1938)​as​Hasegawa’s​second​star​vehicle​there,​ with​Kondo​Katsuhiko​as​the​director​and​Ito​Takeo​as​the​cinematographer,​who​had​worked​with​Hasegawa​at​Shimokamo.​The​first​close-​up​of​ Hasegawa’s​face​in​Mother of Memory​revived​the​three-​point​lighting​of​ Hollywood,​which​was​tactfully​incorporated​in​Hayashi​star​vehicles​pro184  chapter​4

duced​at​Shimokamo.​The​three-​point​lighting​is​in​an​interior​scene​of​a​ Japanese​farmhouse​in​the​evening.​In​a​medium​shot,​Chutaro​(Hasegawa)​ is​writing​a​letter​to​his​mother​with​his​friend’s​mother’s​help.​The​camera​ tracks​forward​to​Chutaro,​and​the​shot​turns​into​a​close-​up​of​the​right​ side​of​his​face.​Hiding​the​injured​side​of​his​face,​Hasegawa​faces​the​right​ side​of​the​frame,​where​the​light​from​an​unknown​source​enters.​The​key​ light​provides​flaming​lights​to​his​eyes​in​this​onobashi​shot.​The​shadow​ on​his​face​is​softened​by​the​fill​light​from​the​front,​and​the​rim​of​his​hair​ shines​with​backlight.​The​sources​of​light​are​not​clear​for​any​of​them.​The​ glamorous​lighting​on​the​star​is​obviously​prioritized​here​over​the​realistic​depiction​of​the​space. ​ A​similar​glamorous​lighting​scheme​for​the​star​appears​in​Tsuruhachi Tsurujiro​(Naruse​Mikio,​1938)​as​well.​It​was​the​third​film​for​Hasegawa​ at​Toho​and​his​first​with​Yamada​Isuzu,​another​big​star​of​the​period​who​ was​famous​for​her​beautiful​photographic​image.​The​cinematographer​ of​the​film​was​again​Ito​Takeo.​Tsuruhachi Tsurujiro​had​been​planned​as​ Hasegawa’s​second​film​at​Toho,​but​was​postponed​because​of​Yamada’s​ illness.39​Tsuruhachi Tsurujiro​is​an​uncredited​remake​of​the​Hollywood​ film​Bolero​(Wesley​Ruggles,​1934).​Even​though​a​critic​commented​when​ Tsuruhachi Tsurujiro​was​released​that​the​Hollywood​version​had​a​much​ more​“straightforward​beauty”​than​the​Edo​aesthetic​of​human​emotions​ depicted​in​the​Japanese​version,​the​lighting​schemes​on​the​heroes​are​ consistent​in​both​films:​glamorous​three-​point​star​lighting​in​almost​all​ close-​ups​of​Hasegawa​and​George​Raft.40​In​Tsuruhachi Tsurujiro,​as​the​ critic​Yamane​Sadao​points​out,​the​“beauty​of​light​and​shadow​formed​ by​the​sunlight​falling​through​the​deep​woods”​is​particularly​impressive​ in​the​film.​The​faces​and​bodies​of​Tsuruhachi​(Yamada)​and​Tsurujiro​ (Hasegawa)​are​“colorfully​lit​by​the​shimmering​lights​from​the​surface​ of​the​lake​that​reflect​the​soft​sunlight​falling​through​the​woods.”41​Such​ lights​also​provide​shining​halos​on​their​hair. ​ Surprisingly,​ however,​ the​ glamorous​ Shimokamo​ tone​ of​ Mother of Memory​ was​ unanimously​ criticized​ by​ both​ fans​ and​ critics​ as​ “regressive.”42​One​fan​was​disappointed​at​the​film​and​said,​“I​expected​Mother of Memory​to​be​a​little​darker.”​Another​fan​agreed​and​said,​“They​tried​to​ make​the​depressive​screenplay​look​bright​and​cheerful​and​aimed​at​the​ Shimokamo​tone,​but​I​don’t​think​that​was​a​good​idea.”43​The​production​ of​Tsuruhachi Tsurujiro​started​on​July​16,​1938.44​Since​Mother of Memory​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  185

was​initially​released​only​on​July​14,​the​reaction​to​the​film​was​not​yet​ available​to​the​filmmakers.45 triumphal songs of Black: Female genealogy and the Battle of kawanakajima

The​situation​was​different​when​Hasegawa​and​Yamada​worked​together​ again​in​the​following​years.​Long​gone​was​the​glamorous​lighting.​The​ emphasis​was​on​realism​and​shadow.​Female Genealogy​(Onnakeizu,​Makino​ Masahiro;​ part​ I​ was​ released​ on​ June​ 11​ and​ part​ II,​ Zoku Onnakeizu,​on​July​16,​1942)​and​The Battle of Kawanakajima​(Kawanakajima kassen,​Kinugasa​Teinosuke,​1941),​both​of​which​were​photographed​by​ Miura​Mitsuo,​were​typical​examples.​Female Genealogy​earned​1,110,474​ yen​(both​parts​combined),​topping​The War at Sea from Hawaii to Malaya​ (Hawai Mare oki kaisen,​Yamamoto​Kajiro,​1942)​with​1,039,088​yen,​and​ became​the​single​most​financially​successful​film​of​the​year.46​The Battle of Kawanakajima​was​not​as​successful​at​the​box​office​as​other​star​vehicles​ from​Hasegawa​and​Yamada,​but​it​was​the​most​critically​successful​film​ among​them.47​The​nsc​decided​The Battle of Kawanakajima​had​the​best​ cinematography​for​a​dramatic​film​that​year. ​ Initially​the​production​of​Female Genealogy​was​impeded​by​the​Information​Bureau.48​The​problem​was​not​about​the​stars’​glamour​but​the​ story​of​the​film.​According​to​the​director,​Makino​Masahiro,​the​bureau​ warned​the​filmmakers,​“There​is​no​way​of​making​a​film​about​a​geisha​ [during​ the​ time​ of​ war].​ Moreover,​ such​ a​ foppish​ film​ cannot​ be​ permissible.”49​In​response,​Makino​had​to​change​the​protagonist’s​occupation​from​a​scholar​of​German​literature​to​a​gunpowder​maker,​an​occupation​directly​connected​to​the​war​efforts.​The​film​historian​Shimura​ Miyoko​argues​that​this​change​ironically​functions​to​diminish​the​seriousness​of​the​war​efforts​by​emphasizing​the​innocence​of​the​heroine​ who​does​not​understand​a​man’s​work​but​only​believes​in​romantic​love.50​ O-​Tsuta​(Yamada),​the​former​geisha​and​heroine,​does​not​know​how​important​gunpowder​making​is​for​the​nation​and​believes​that​the​young​ chemist​Hayase​Chikara​(Hasegawa)​simply​makes​fireworks.​According​ to​Shimura,​a​sparkler​is​not​a​representation​of​Hayase’s​work​but​a​token​ of​their​romance.​As​such,​Shimura​argues,​the​nationalistic​aspect​of​the​ “man’s​work​is​turned​into​a​sentimental​and​sweet​thing.”51 ​ Yet,​the​lighting​of​Female Genealogy​does​not​fully​enhance​such​senti186  chapter​4

mentality​and​sweetness.​The​famous​scene​at​Yushima​Shrine​under​the​ moonlight​is​good​evidence.​The​scene,​in​which​Hayase​bids​farewell​to​ O-​Tsuta​because​he​has​been​ordered​by​his​mentor​to​do​so​in​order​to​ focus​on​his​studies,​provides​“the​first​climax”​in​the​shinpa​play​as​well​ as​in​Makino’s​film​version.52​The​scene​only​uses​two​long​shots,​and​the​ second​shot​has​extremely​long​duration.​Following​an​extremely​long​shot​ with​a​deep​composition​that​captures​the​couple​walking​into​the​shrine,​ a​crane​shot​with​long​duration​ follows​ the​movement​ of​the​couple—​ walking​under​a​plum​tree,​sitting​down​on​a​bench,​standing​up​one​at​ a​time​in​an​emotional​manner,​and​walking​out​of​the​shrine.​The​long​ take​maintains​a​specific​lighting​scheme​throughout:​Hayase​on​the​left​ is​almost​in​full​silhouette​and​O-​Tsuta​is​only​lit​from​the​above​left.​The​ light​from​the​above​left​supposedly​imitates​the​moonlight.​Even​though​ the​movement​of​the​camera​is​beautifully​smooth​and​the​high-​angle​and​ deep​composition​that​place​the​tragic​couple​behind​a​fully​bloomed​plum​ tree​(blocking)​is​memorable,​there​is​no​glamorous​close-​up​of​the​protagonists​(fig.​4.5).​Even​when​O-​Tsuta​starts​crying​into​her​sleeve​in​the​ midst​of​this​scene​of​emotional​enhancement,​what​is​emphasized​is​the​ shadow​on​the​screen.​The​couple​walks​into​an​extremely​dark​corner​on​ the​right​as​the​scene​closes.​Even​in​the​following​interior​sequence​at​a​ noodle​shop,​a​naked​electric​lamp​on​the​ceiling​is​indicated​in​the​initial​ long​shot,​and​the​following​shot​reverse​shots​of​the​couple​in​medium​ close-​ups​are​lit​from​only​one​direction.​The​left​side​of​Hayase’s​face​is​ in​dark​shadow.​There​is​no​shining​rim​of​his​hair.​In​the​end,​the​couple​ goes​outside​again​and​vanishes​into​the​dark​end​of​the​street,​which​is​lit​ by​only​a​few​electric​streetlamps. ​ In​the​second​part,​Hayase​and​O-​Tsuta​never​appear​in​the​same​scene​ alive.​There​is​a​scene​in​which​O-​Tsuta​returns​to​Yushima​Shrine​in​the​ cold​autumn​evening​with​Koyoshi​(Mimasu​Aiko),​another​geisha,​but​ Hayase​appears​only​in​flashback.​This​second​scene​at​the​shrine​makes​a​ clear​contrast​to​the​first​one,​in​terms​of​the​techniques​used.​The​faster​ editing​(from​a​long​shot​of​O-​Tsuta​to​a​medium​shot,​a​medium​close-​up,​ and​an​extreme​close-​up​of​her​face),​the​hysterical​“acting​out”​of​Yamada​ Isuzu,​the​dramatic​score,​and​the​insertion​of​the​farewell​sequence​in​the​ past​all​function​to​represent​the​emotionally​enhanced​condition​of​the​ heroine​and​to​induce​the​spectator​to​become​affectively​involved​with​ the​ scene.53​ However,​ as​ for​ lighting,​ the​ same​ dark​ scheme​ as​ the​ first​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  187

figure​4.5  In​a​long​take,​Hayase​Chikara​(Hasegawa​Kazuo)​says​good-​bye​to​ O-​Tsuta​(Yamada​Isuzu)​at​the​Yushima​Shrine.​Female Genealogy​(1942).

shrine​ sequence​ is​ maintained​ here.​ The​ emulated​ moonlight​ from​ the​ above​left​leaves​O-​Tsuta’s​body​and​face​nearly​as​a​silhouette​when​she​ faces​right.​The​only​exception​is​the​slight​use​of​backlight​at​the​same​ noodle​restaurant.​O-​Tsuta​and​Koyoshi​talk​at​the​same​table​under​the​ single​light​bulb​where​O-​Tsuta​and​Hayase​ate​bowls​of​noodles.​This​time,​ delicate​backlight​creates​an​angelic​rim​on​the​hair​of​the​self-​sacrificing​ heroine.​She​speaks​ill​of​her​stupid​self​who​does​not​understand​the​significance​of​Hayase’s​work​and​declares​that​she​would​rather​choose​to​ die​in​love​than​tire​him​and​be​abandoned​by​him.​This​two-​point​lighting​ appears​to​be​one​of​the​implicit​efforts​in​Female Genealogy​to​display​the​ star​in​a​relatively​glamorous​and​sensual​manner. ​ At​the​very​end​of​the​film,​O-​Tsuta,​already​dead​from​tuberculosis,​ appears​as​a​ghost​in​the​room​of​Hayase,​who​has​succeeded​in​his​gunpowder​ making.​ In​ a​ long​ shot,​ there​ is​ a​ gas​ desk​ lamp​ on​ the​ frontal​ left​side​of​the​frame.​Far​behind,​O-​Tsuta’s​ghost​stands,​lit​only​from​the​ below​left.​Hayase​sits​at​the​desk​on​the​frontal​right,​lit​only​from​the​left.​ After​a​brief​medium​shot​of​Hayase,​there​appears​a​close-​up​of​his​face​ photographed​from​behind.​Now​the​desk​lamp​is​located​at​the​back​on​ 188  chapter​4

figure​4.6  In​a​close-​up,​O-​Tsuta​(Tanaka​Kinuyo)​cries​at​the​Yushima​Shrine.​ Female Genealogy​(1934).

the​right​side.​Hayase,​sensing​O-​Tsuta’s​existence,​turns​halfway​back.​In​ front​of​the​desk​lamp,​his​face​is​almost​completely​in​silhouette.​Thus​the​ emphasis​of​lighting​in​Female Genealogy​is​on​realism​of​the​space,​despite​ the​film’s​melodramatic​content,​as​well​as​the​fact​that​the​film​is​based​on​ a​very​popular​shinpa​play. ​ Shochiku​Kamata’s​1934​version​of​Female Genealogy,​directed​by​Nomura​Hotei​and​starring​Tanaka​Kinuyo,​the​most​popular​female​star​in​ Japan​at​that​time,​is​a​clear​contrast​to​the​1942​version​in​terms​of​lighting.​ In​the​Shochiku​version,​the​scene​at​the​Yushima​Shrine​is​mainly​structured​around​shot​reverse​shots​between​Hayase​(Oka​Joji)​and​O-​Tsuta​ (Tanaka).​Even​though​it​is​still​set​under​the​moon,​the​scene​is​flatly​lit​ from​the​front​throughout—the​shadows​of​the​two​are​constantly​visible​ on​the​wall​behind​them​and​there​is​no​halo​on​their​hair—except​for​ the​close-​ups​of​O-​Tsuta’s​face,​which​are​lit​with​glamorously​soft-​toned​ three-​point​lighting​(fig.​4.6).​In​the​end,​O-​Tsuta​dies​in​Hayase’s​arms​ under​ the​ bright​ light.​ As​ a​ famous​ shinpa​ tragedy,​ Female Genealogy​ is​ not​cheerful​at​all,​but​the​lighting​of​the​1934​version​faithfully​follows​the​ slogan​of​“Bright​and​cheerful​Shochiku​cinema.” the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  189

​ The​painter​Ota​Saburo​called​The Battle of Kawanakajima​“a​triumphal​ song​of​black”​and​pointed​out​“the​attraction​of​black​that​fills​the​entire​ film.”​Ota​argued,​“The​amount​of​black​that​is​used​in​extreme​abundance​ is​itself​meaningful​and​decides​the​values​of​this​film.”​As​an​example,​he​ contended​that​the​scene​in​the​woods​where​common​foot​soldiers​look​ for​their​cargo​after​they​dropped​it​from​a​cliff​is​“the​darkest​and​blackest”​scene​of​the​film,​but​the​“rich​and​emotional​blackness​has​a​charm​ in​which​we​are​easily​absorbed.”54​Similarly,​the​Toho​cinematographer​ Kawasaki​Kikuzo​wrote,​“He​[Miura]​depicted​the​strong​sunlight​of​summer​in​dark​tones​without​losing​the​details​in​the​dark.​It​looked​simple,​ but​was​in​fact​the​most​difficult​effect.​And​the​effect​of​the​moonlight​[in​ the​night​scenes]​was​arranged​smoothly​and​consistently​in​tones​without​ any​disruption.”55 ​ For​Shimazaki​Kiyohiko,​who​was​not​fully​satisfied​with​Miura’s​work​ in​Tojuro’s Love,​The Battle of Kawanakajima,​the​film​for​which​Hasegawa​ and​Miura​reunited​after​several​years,​turned​out​to​be​a​perfect​redeemer.​ Shimazaki​asked​himself,​“Can​general​audiences​comfortably​appreciate​ such​darkness​and​continuity​of​black?”56​Still,​he​called​the​film​“the​pure​ attraction​of​black,​a​spectacular​symphony​of​the​photographic​beauty​of​ black”​and​praised​it​as​“an​unprecedented​huge​success​in​the​history​of​ Japanese​cinematographic​techniques.”57​Shimazaki​asserted,​“Some​would​ complain​the​film​is​too​dark​and​lacks​details​of​black​tones,​but​I​think​it​ is​good​to​have​such​darkness​in​films​and​the​tones​that​ignore​details.​Of​ course​it​is​incorrect​to​regard​a​completely​black​shot​as​low-​key,​but​at​ the​same​time​it​is​too​conservative​and​wrong​to​consider​that​there​is​no​ cinematographic​value​unless​detailed​tones​of​black​remain.​In​this​sense,​ it​is​acceptable​and​valuable​to​boldly​use​black​in​composition.”58 ​ The​dark​tone​in​The Battle of Kawanakajima​was​the​result​of​the​realism​in​lighting​to​which​Miura​aimed.​The Battle of Kawanakajima​opens​ with​ a​ scene​ at​ night,​ in​ which​ common​ foot​ soldiers​ with​ heavy​ loads​ slowly​march​through​open​fields​into​the​woods.​The​handwritten​screenplay​of​The Battle of Kawanakajima​begins: A​village​in​the​mountains​near​Mt.​Kurohime.​The​lines​of​mountains​ are​crisply​visible​under​the​clear​sky​with​stars.​Dawn​is​approaching.​ Along​with​a​vaguely​white​hilly​road,​roots​of​trees​and​stones​of​the​ unique​shapes​of​snowy​countries​are​lying​under​the​sky.​It​is​after​the​ 190  chapter​4

rain.​ The​ stones​ are​ still​ wet​ and​ shining.​ There​ is​ no​ sign​ of​ human​ beings​in​this​lonesome​sight.​.​.​.​From​the​forest​road,​a​group​of​samurais​on​their​horses​appear.​They​look​exhausted​and​trying​not​to​fall​ asleep​after​marching​on​the​tough​route.​Then,​infinite​lines​of​common​foot​soldiers​with​guns,​spears,​and​bows;​additional​soldiers;​and​ samurais​carrying​flags​follow.​They​wear​armor​on​their​naked​bodies,​ covered​with​sweat​and​dust,​and​struggle​on​the​bad​roads.59 Obviously,​the​scene​was​photographed​in​daytime,​and​the​day-​for-​night​ technique​was​used.​The​choice​of​day-​for-​night​was​a​result​of​material​ scarcity.​It​was​impossible​to​photograph​the​march​of​soldiers​on​such​ a​large​scale​at​night​with​a​limited​amount​of​lighting​equipment.​What​ were​available​to​Miura​were​only​three​5​kW​sun​spotlights,​fifteen​3​kW​ sun​spotlights,​three​solar​spotlights,​and​five​2​kW​sidelights.60​The​lighting​scheme​of​the​opening​scene​clearly​sets​the​basic​tone​of​the​film:​full​ utilization​of​available​lighting​sources​(that​is,​the​sun)​and​emphasis​on​ the​contrasty​tones​of​the​natural​landscape.​Miura​claimed​in​his​production​note​of​the​film,​“I​decided​my​basic​attitude​in​this​film:​to​aim​for​a​ vividly​contrastive​tone​in​order​to​depict​the​core​theme​of​the​film,​the​ enhancement​of​our​undaunted​national​spirit​displayed​in​the​season​of​ summer.”61​Miura​addressed​that​he​hoped​to​display​the​national​spirit​“in​ an​abnormally​tense​fashion”​by​way​of​“depicting​darkness​of​the​night​ in​indefinite​silence.”62​Miura’s​argument​was​that​documentation​of​the​ vividly​contrasty​lighting​of​summer​in​Japan​in​the​form​of​strong​shadows​ would​consequently​express​the​Japanese​national​character,​even​if​certain​visual​details​were​hidden​in​darkness.​The​production​designer​Kubo​ Kazuo​noted,​“Speaking​of​the​tones,​[The Battle of Kawanakajima]​took​ advantage​of​the​shortcomings​of​the​film​stock​in​Japan—its​weak​sensibility​to​light—and​excellently​emphasized​the​strong​contrast​between​ black​and​white,”​and​claimed,​“Mr.​Miura​Mitsuo’s​bold​dark​tones​can​be​ called​groundbreaking​work​in​Japanese​cinema.”63 ​ The​film​historian​Darrell​William​Davis​agrees.​He​describes​the​opening​scene:​“Extreme​long​take-​long​shots​show​thousands​of​soldiers​and​ horsemen​ moving​ first​ through​ fields,​ woods,​ meadows.​ They​ are​ integrated​into​the​landscape:​a​high​angle​shot​of​a​squadron​of​soldiers​with​ lances​trudging​through​a​deep​sun-​dappled​forest​has​shafts​of​light​spearing​and​bouncing​from​trees​and​lances.​.​.​.​Again,​the​shot​is​held​for​such​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  191

duration​that​the​sheer​size​of​the​army​is​emphasized,​but​also​the​abstract​patterning​of​the​sunlight​playing​through​trees​and​spears​aestheticizes​the​representation​qualitatively​as​well​as​in​scale.”64​As​a​result​of​ such​“spectacular​scale​and​visual​effects,”​Davis​argues​that​in​The Battle of Kawanakajima​the​landscape​is​invoked​as​“a​metonymic​signifier​of​war​ spectacle”​and​nature​is​appropriated​as​“historical​glorification.”65​Miura​ might​not​have​intended​to​glorify​or​spectacularize​the​landscape​as​Davis​ argues.​It​was​impossible​for​Miura​to​do​that​under​the​limited​conditions​ of​the​lighting​equipment.​Instead,​he​decided​to​appropriate​the​visual​ effects​of​darkness​in​documentary​terms.​This​sense​of​documentary​occupied​the​central​part​of​lighting​in​The Battle of Kawanakajima.​The​director,​Kinugasa​Teinosuke,​who​produced​many​glamorous​Hayashi​films​at​ Shimokamo,​emphasized​the​documentary​quality​of​The Battle of Kawanakajima:​“Period​dramas​used​to​focus​on​battle​scenes,​but​in​The Battle of Kawanakajima,​I​plan​to​express​the​soldiers’​movements​and​how​they​ overcame​the​difficulties​of​transportation​and​lack​of​food.”66 ​ In​practice,​Miura​confessed​that​he​“suffered​to​overcome​the​extreme​ difficulty​of​setting​the​darkness​of​the​thick​woods​as​the​basis​of​the​film.”67​ It​was​not​easy​to​express​the​“sublime​beauty”​of​woods​with​“dark​shadow”​ and​“the​transparent​light​of​leaves”​as​well​as​to​display​a​large​group​of​armored​samurai,​who​were​“too​insensitive​to​light​as​a​photographic​subject,”​ when​it​was​impossible​to​bring​lighting​equipment​into​the​deep​woods.68​ Therefore,​Miura​decided​to​“erase​details​in​ultimate​contrasts​and,​against​ common​sense,​to​use​filters​for​day-​for-​night​shooting​(latten​no.​72x​and​ 25a)​in​the​darkness​of​the​cedar​woods.”69​Both​latten​no.​72x​(specifically​ for​day-​for-​night​photography)​and​25a​filters​were​known​for​their​use​in​ achieving​hard​and​contrasty​tones.70​As​a​result​of​breaking​out​of​the​conventions​of​Hollywood-​style​lighting​techniques,​Miura​depicted​the​march​ of​an​army​with​spears​in​the​woods​under​the​dark​light​of​the​moon—the​ supposed​lighting​source—in​“a​radical​contrast​between​black​and​white,”​ giving​“an​extremely​vigorous​rhythm​of​light​on​the​screen”​(fig.​4.7).71​ By​the​same​method,​Miura​placed​an​enormous​army​of​the​Takeda​clan​ in​front​of​a​pitch-​black​shadow​of​mountains,​in​which​“only​the​tips​of​ the​spears​ominously​shine​as​highlights.”72​Miura’s​lighting​scheme​incorporated​the​restricted​conditions​of​the​lighting​equipment​on​location​in​ terms​of​documentarism,​and​the​result​was​an​ideal​realization​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow,​as​Ota,​Kawasaki,​and​Shimazaki​noted. 192  chapter​4

figure​4.7  An​army​marches​in​the​dark​woods.​The Battle of Kawanakajima​(1941).

​ Miura​did​not​change​his​documentary​style​of​lighting​in​the​studio.​ When​production​resumed​on​September​12​at​Toho’s​studio,​he​focused​ on​maintaining​the​basic​dark​tones,​this​time​for​the​sake​of​a​realistic​ depiction​of​Japanese​architecture.​Miura​seriously​considered​“the​dark​ shadows​ and​ the​ thick​ depth​ of​ Japanese​ houses”​ and​ chose​ “low-​key​ tones”​as​the​standard​during​studio​shooting.​He​decided​to​“avoid​unnatural​backlighting​[of​three-​point​lighting]​and​use​one-​directional​lighting​as​the​basic.”​Miura​expected​to​be​criticized​“for​placing​characters​in​ too-​dark​ spots.”73​ Miura​ wrote,​ “Of​course,​ I​would​ accept​ criticisms​ if​ my​cinematographic​scheme​was​unclear​to​the​viewers.​But​I​don’t​think​ it​is​necessary​to​say​that​the​most​basic​notion​of​cinematographic​technology​is​a​perfect​management​of​enriching​tones,​either​low​key​or​high​ key.”74​Miura​even​said,​“There​is​a​limit​to​emphasizing​realism.”75​Quite​ obviously,​he​meant​the​seamless​realism​of​Hollywood-​style​lighting​here:​ visibility​of​characters​in​soft​gradation.​In​reality,​what​Miura​attempted​in​ The Battle of Kawanakajima​was​to​document​the​light​and​shadow​of​Japanese​summer​and​of​Japanese​architecture. ​ While​the​major​star​of​The Battle of Kawanakajima​was​Hasegawa,​the​ biggest​male​star​of​the​period,​Ota,​Shimazaki,​and​Kawasaki​never​menthe​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  193

figure​4.8  No​glamorous​lighting​is​provided​to​photograph​Hasegawa​Kazuo​as​ Momozo,​a​common​foot​soldier.​The Battle of Kawanakajima​(1941).

tioned​his​name​in​their​film​reviews.​Instead,​according​to​Shimazaki,​the​ only​ thing​ that​ is​ noticeably​ lit​ and​ “breaks​ through​ the​ claustrophobic​ amount​of​black”​in​the​scene​in​which​the​common​foot​soldiers,​including​Momozo​(Hasegawa),​take​care​of​their​cargo​is​nothing​but​“a​subtle​ movement​of​an​ox’s​tail​in​silhouette.”76​The​first​shot​of​Momozo​in​this​ film​is​a​medium​shot​(fig.​4.8).​“In​a​full​sweat,”​he​tries​to​pull​a​horse.77​A​ tire​of​the​rear​cart​is​caught​in​a​ditch​on​the​road.​In​the​strange​darkness​ of​day​for​night,​the​dim​sunlight​from​upper​right​illuminates​only​the​left​ side​of​his​body.​The​contrasty​lighting​leaves​almost​half​of​his​face​in​a​ shade.​No​catch​light​is​observed​in​his​eyes,​either.​Because​this​medium​ shot​appears​after​a​series​of​medium​shots​of​other​laborers,​some​of​the​ viewers​might​not​recognize​that​Momozo​is​played​by​Hasegawa,​the​star.​ Obviously,​brightness​that​ignores​direction,​strength,​and​tones​of​light​ and​that​does​not​express​darkness​in​order​to​merely​display​the​star’s​face​ is​abandoned​here. ​ In​the​following​scene,​Momozo​runs​into​the​woods​after​a​pan​for​ cooking​rice​has​fallen​from​their​cargo​and​meets​O-​Shino​(Yamada),​a​ young​woman​with​a​wound​on​her​foot.​The​first​close-​up​of​the​male​star​ 194  chapter​4

appears​when​he​treats​her​foot.​But​again,​the​one-​directional​light​from​ upper​left​leaves​the​left​side​of​his​face​completely​in​shade.​This​might​be​ a​device​to​hide​the​scar​left​on​Hasegawa’s​face,​but​it​is​not​glamorous​star​ lighting​at​all.​Besides,​as​a​laborer,​Momozo’s​face​is​made​up​with​black​ dirt​and​sweat.​He​is​even​“breathing​like​a​dog,”​according​to​the​screenplay.78​There​is​only​one​moment​when​Momozo​looks​up,​which​momentarily​brings​shining​lights​onto​his​eyes.​But​the​camera​pans​down​to​his​ left​arm​right​away​and​captures​a​small​straw​bag​that​drops​from​his​waist,​ as​if​the​director​did​not​want​to​make​Momozo’s​face​look​beautiful​at​all. ​ The​scene​that​Ota​points​out​in​his​review​is​extreme.​Instead​of​the​ star’s​face,​what​is​emphasized​is​a​composition​of​blackness.​The​violent​ action​of​the​horse​and​cargo’s​fall​over​the​cliff​is​displayed​so​darkly​lit​ that​it​is​barely​visible.​All​laborers​stand​in​silhouette​in​medium​shot​and​ it​is​difficult​to​detect​their​facial​expressions.​Only​Momozo​stands​partially​to​the​light​and​the​tears​in​his​eyes​make​extremely​small​white​and​ shining​spots​within​the​frame​when​he​cries​over​the​dead​horse.​But​eventually​the​tears​only​make​his​face​look​dirtier. ​ The​ nsc​ chose​ The Battle of Kawanakajima​ for​ the​ best​ cinematography​in​a​dramatic​film​of​1941​because​the​film​“overcame​the​difficulty​ of​day-​for-​night​photography,​based​on​a​detailed​and​exact​scheme,”​and​ achieved​ “superb​ cinematographic​ effects​ of​ dawn​ in​ the​ woods,”​ and​ Miura​“vigorously​decided​to​destroy​his​unique​tones​(Miura-​cho)​of​the​ past​and​pursue​a​new​direction​in​order​to​contribute​to​the​development​ of​Japanese​cinematographic​technology.”79​The​emphasis​was​obviously​ on​the​shadow​that​Miura​displayed​throughout​the​film,​which​the​nsc​ regarded​ as​ “a​ new​ direction”​ for​ cinematographers​ in​ Japan.​ Receiving​ the​award,​Miura​wrote,​“I​was​strongly​reminded​how​essential​the​subtle​ work​of​shadow​is​as​the​central​expressive​element​in​film​technology​and​ how​fatal​the​limit​of​darkness​could​be​to​a​film.​.​.​.​I​intend​to​explore​the​ limit​of​darkness​and​to​pursue​the​beauty​of​shadow.”80 ​ So​the​change​was​clear​in​Hasegawa​star​vehicles.​No​more​onobashi,​ nagashi-​me,​and​glamorous​lighting.​ Realism​of​lighting​and​the​beauty​ of​shadow​replaced​them.​The​documentary​style​of​cinematography​that​ Miura​ pursued​ because​ of​ material​ limitations​ and​ the​ resulting​ photographic​ sublime​ beauty​ of​ the​ Japanese​ landscape,​ which​ Miura​ connected​to​the​sense​of​the​national​spirit,​formed​the​core​of​the​discursive​ and​practical​trend​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow.​Under​such​conditions,​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  195

Hasegawa​complained​about​the​makeover​of​his​star​image,​even​when​his​ stardom​was​revived.​He​said,​“No​matter​how​dominant​the​films​with​soldiers​become,​I​think​such​actors​as​myself​and​Beru-​chan​[Yamada​Isuzu,​ who​ would​ star​ in​ a​ number​ of​ Toho​ films​ with​ Hasegawa]​ need​ to​ be​ photographed​beautifully.”81 ​ I​am​tempted​to​follow​what​the​star​enounced​and​to​connect​the​emphasis​on​darkness​to​the​rise​of​militarism​and​governmental​control​over​ the​content​of​film.​As​nationalism​gradually​intensified,​which​was​marked​ by​ Japan’s​ occupation​ of​ Manchuria​ in​ 1931,​ the​ influence​ of​ militarism​ was​having​a​certain​impact​on​the​film​culture​in​Japan​in​the​late​1930s,​ especially​after​the​Film​Law​was​promulgated​on​April​5​and​enforced​on​ October​1,​1939.82​The​Film​Law​of​1939​was​a​part​of​the​national​mobilization​policy​(kokka sodoin taisei)​to​put​the​national​economy​on​a​wartime​footing​after​the​beginning​of​the​Second​Sino-​Japanese​War​in​July​ 1937.​The​purpose​of​the​law,​according​to​Darrell​Davis,​was​“to​ensure​the​ steady​production​and​exhibition​of​kokutai​[national​polity]​ideology​on​ Japanese​screens;​the​product​coming​out​of​Japanese​studios​had​to​help​ raise​a​specifically​Japanese​consciousness​so​that​the​war​would​be​won.”83​ The​law​represented​the​national​film​policy​(eiga kokusaku),​or​the​Japanese​government’s​endeavor​to​control​the​film​industry.​Under​the​law,​ all​members​of​the​film​industry,​including​actors,​technicians,​directors,​ and​distributors,​had​to​be​licensed,​which​usually​entailed​being​tested​ not​only​for​their​professional​skills​but​also​for​political​commitment​to​ the​war​effort.84​Feature​films​were​censored​at​the​level​of​scenario​during​ preproduction.85 ​ Governmental​control​of​the​film​industry​was​strengthened​especially​ after​the​wartime​film​system​(eiga rinsen taisei)​started​in​August​1941,​following​the​establishment​of​the​Information​Bureau​in​December​1940,​ located​at​Teikoku​Gekijo​Theater​that​Kobayashi​Ichizo​of​Toho​owned.​ The​government​ declared​ that​it​would​not​distribute​ raw​film​stock​ to​ private​industries​any​longer.​In​1942,​mainly​because​of​a​shortage​of​raw​ film​ stock,​ ten​ feature-​film​ companies​ were​ combined​ into​ three​ (Shochiku,​Toho,​and​Daiei),​and​they​were​allowed​to​distribute​only​six​films​ a​month​(two​for​each​company).​Regulation​of​the​use​of​film​stock​and​ shortening​of​program​length​at​exhibition​caused​a​drastic​decrease​in​film​ production.​But​reducing​the​number​of​films​made​meant​increasing​the​ number​of​prints​produced.​In​the​waning​days​of​the​war,​distribution​was​ 196  chapter​4

streamlined​so​that​audiences​effectively​had​only​two​films​to​choose​from​ a​week.86 ​ Film​producers​such​as​Kobayashi​Ichizo​supported​the​state’s​control​ of​production​and​distribution​in​terms​of​“efficiency.”87​They​also​appreciated​“the​elevation​of​their​prestige​in​the​passage​of​a​law.”88​It​was​believed​that​Toho​was​the​most​accommodating​company​to​the​policy.89​ For​instance,​in​a​published​discussion​with​Kido​Shiro,​who​tried​to​stick​ to​Shochiku’s​well-​known​stories​and​styles,​the​Toho​producer​Mori​Iwao​ emphasized​the​importance​of​“how​to​interpret​themes”​and​publicized​ Toho’s​flexibility​to​change​its​films’​contents​in​order​to​pass​censorship.90​ The​ film​ historian​ Fujii​ Jinshi​ argues​ that​ Toho’s​ entrance​ into​ the​ film​ business​caused​the​structural​reorganization​of​the​Japanese​film​industry.​ With​the​establishment​of​Toho,​strict​budgetary​control​was​put​into​practice,​the​producer​system​was​set​up,​and​vertical​integration​of​production,​distribution,​and​exhibition​was​achieved.​For​the​first​time,​Fujii​argues,​“the​Hollywood-​style​studio​system​was​transplanted​to​Japan​almost​ completely.”91​Shochiku​ended​up​not​relocating​the​Hollywood​system​in​ its​entirety,​despite​the​studio’s​initial​invitation​to​Hollywood​personnel​ and​technology.​In​order​to​compete​with​the​newly​established​Toho,​Fujii​ insists,​Shochiku​needed​to​follow​Toho’s​“system”​and,​as​a​result,​gave​up​ its​resistance​to​the​Hollywood-​style​system.92​Such​an​integrated​system​ seemed​suitable​for​governmental​control​of​the​cinema. ​ The​ideology​of​kokutai,​dictated​by​the​Ministry​of​Education,​stipulated​that​all​cultural​production​must​conform​to​the​twin​principles​of​ “a​return​to​Japan”​and​an​embrace​of​the​emperor​system​and​its​hierarchical​structure​of​Japanese​society.​The​phrase​“the​cardinal​principles​of​ our​national​polity”​(kokutai no hongi)​entailed​a​revival​of​Japanese​cultural​practices​ that​had​long​ since​ been​ forgotten​ in​ the​popular​ imagination​and​must​have​been​reinvented​for​the​purposes​of​cultural​uplift.​ The​underlying​principle​was​to​construct,​through​the​edifice​of​historical​ authenticity,​a​spiritual​unification​of​the​nation​in​the​war​effort.​The​film​ industry​agreed​to​observe​a​rigorous​set​of​principles​designed​to​“elevate”​Japanese​film​culture​above​the​decadent​tendencies​to​which​it​had​ ostensibly​sunk​under​the​influence​of​foreign​movie​cultures.​Abé​Mark​ Nornes​argues​that​in​the​process​of​intensifying​domination,​especially​ under​the​Film​Law,​Japanese​film​styles​became​“highly​conventionalized”​ in​order​to​“hide​the​fractiousness​of​reality​and​the​less-​than-​total​grip​of​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  197

the​dominant.”93​The​emphasis​on​shadow,​which​consistently​increased​in​ films,​whether​they​were​produced​as​“great​entertainment​films”​(Female Genealogy)​or​“great​national-​policy​films”​(The Battle of Kawanakajima),​ two​ slogans​ that​ Toho​ raised,​ could​ be​ regarded​ as​ an​ example​ of​ such​ “highly​conventionalized”​film​styles​of​the​time.94 ​ I​am​also​tempted​to​subscribe​to​Shimura​Miyoko’s​idea​of​resistance​ to​the​governmental​control​of​cinema​during​wartime.​Shimura​persuasively​argues​that​Hasegawa’s​romantic​star​image,​especially​when​he​was​ coupled​with​Yamada,​“contained​a​dangerous​possibility​of​deviating​from​ the​‘national​policy.’​The​more​attractive​they​look​as​stars,​the​more​dominant​the​romance​between​the​hero​and​the​heroine​becomes​in​the​narrative​of​their​film,​even​though​the​romance​needed​to​be​a​submissive​element.”95​The​critic​Tamura​Yukihiko​similarly​claimed​that​the​popularity​of​ Hasegawa’s​films​might​have​been​“a​silent​protest​from​the​general​masses​ who​watch​films”​to​the​censorship.96​In​February​1943,​the​critic​Tsumura​ Hideo​of​the​Tokyo Asahi Shinbun​newspaper​stated​that​Toho​“certainly​ overwhelmed”​other​companies​in​terms​of​film​technology​in​1942.​Yet​ Tsumura​ claimed​ that​ it​ was​ “mainly​ because​ Toho​ imported​ new​ filmmaking​equipment​from​America​four​or​five​years”​earlier​and​criticized​ that​Toho’s​films​“lack[ed]​Japanese​characteristics”;​they​were​“beautiful​ but​without​soul.”97​Tsumura​severely​criticized​China Night​(Shina no yoru,​ Fushimizu​Osamu,​1941),​a​Hasegawa​star​vehicle​with​Ri​Koran​(a.k.a.​Li​ Hsianglan):​“Despite​its​surface,​the​content​of​the​film​goes​against​the​ spirit​of​the​Film​Law.​Fully​made-​up​actors​and​actresses​display​laughable,​contemptible,​ and​shameless​affairs​ for​a​long​time​in​front​ of​the​ devastated​landscape​of​the​continent​where​our​soldiers​shed​their​blood​ respectfully.​I​cannot​stand​that​as​one​of​the​Japanese.​.​.​.​The​story​itself​ has​ an​ intention​ of​ Japan-​China​ friendship,​ but​ the​ focus​ of​ the​ film​ is​ sugar-​coated​affairs​and​dialogues​that​I​cannot​even​watch​and​extremely​ poor​elements​of​action​with​anti-​Japanese​Chinese​characters.”98​China Night​passed​the​censorship​but​“made​the​officer​who​censored​the​film​ angry,”​and,​as​a​result,​film​censorship​was​strengthened​on​July​7,​1940.99 ​ Hasegawa​star​vehicles​continued​to​draw​both​male​and​female​spectators​on​a​massive​scale​throughout​the​war​era,​despite​the​fact​that​almost​all​of​them​were​films​that​passed​the​Home​Ministry’s​censorship​ but​were​not​suitable​for​general​audiences,​meaning​children​under​fourteen​years​old​were​not​allowed​to​watch​them​(these​films​were​catego198  chapter​4

rized​ as​ hi-ippan-yo eiga).100​ Films​ for​ general​ audiences​ (ippan-yo eiga)​ meant​those​that​passed​the​Home​Ministry’s​censorship​would​not​question​so-​called​facts​in​Japanese​history,​would​not​contradict​the​content​ in​national​textbooks,​would​not​disrespect​older​people,​would​not​tempt​ juveniles​to​commit​crimes,​would​not​cause​brutal​and​violent​emotions,​ would​not​cause​extreme​fear​and​abhorrence,​would​not​be​too​sentimental,​would​not​provoke​love​affairs,​would​not​stimulate​imagination​and​ curiosity​too​much,​and​would​not​have​further​pedagogical​problems.101​ China Night​was​the​top​hit​of​Toho​in​1940.102​The Man Who Was Waiting​ (Matteita otoko,​Makino​Masahiro,​1942),​a​comic​murder​mystery​starring​ Hasegawa​and​Yamada​that​was​inspired​by​the​Hollywood​film​The Thin Man​(W.​S.​Van​Dyke,​1934),​whose​Japanese​title​translated​back​into​English​as​The Man Who Does Not Have a Shadow,​was​the​third​best​among​ sixty​films​that​were​released​between​April​and​December​1942,​and​Kantaro of Ina​(Ina no Kantaro,​Takizawa​Eisuke,​1943),​a​yakuza​(gangster)​film​ with​Hasegawa,​became​the​top​hit​film​of​1943.​The​latter​was​exhibited​for​ only​five​weekdays,​but​its​box​office​revenue​reached​1,096,000​yen,​and​ more​than​1,550,000​people​watched​it.103 ​ However,​the​actual​situation​was​not​such​a​smooth​transition​of​hegemony​from​Shochiku​to​Toho,​the​business​system​derived​from​Kabuki​to​ that​of​Hollywood.​First,​Shochiku​films​never​lost​popularity​among​general​audiences.​The​box​office​record​suggests​that​even​in​1943,​when​Toho​ films​were​five​of​the​top​ten​hits​while​Shochiku​had​only​two,​Shochiku’s​ box​office​revenue​of​9,903,392​yen​was​almost​equal​to​Toho’s​10,351,679​ yen.104​Shochiku​films​were​surely​making​a​profit.​According​to​a​report​in​ the​December​1941​issue​of​Eiga Junpo,​Shochiku’s​“profit​rate”​in​the​first​ half​of​the​fiscal​year​of​1941​was​31.5​percent​while​it​was​only​8.4​percent​ in​1938.​According​to​the​report,​“Shochiku​is​making​high​profit​without​ betraying​its​brand​name,”​but​it​was​true​that​Toho​had​a​profit​rate​of​ 60.4​percent​in​1941​and​was​putting​substantial​pressure​on​Shochiku.105​ Second,​Shochiku​maintained​the​bright​and​cheerful​tone​throughout​the​ period​of​war.​After​meticulously​analyzing​box​office​records​of​the​time​ and​the​relationship​between​the​governmental​film​policy​and​the​actual​ processes​of​filmmaking,​the​film​historian​Kato​Atsuko​argues​that​both​ the​quantity​and​quality​of​Japanese​cinema​did​not​change​even​after​the​ enactment​of​the​Nazi-​style​Film​Law​in​1939.​As​an​example,​Kato​points​ out​the​case​of​Shochiku.​Shochiku’s​Kido​Shiro​declared​that​he​would​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  199

abandon​the​bright​and​cheerful​tone​but​maintained​the​studio’s​production​of​“women’s​films”​with​the​same​cinematographic​style​after​all.106 ​ The​ argument​ that​ presupposes​ the​ dominance​ of​ the​ national​ film​ policy​and​searches​for​a​possibility​of​resistance​is​problematic​as​well.​I​ admit​that​there​was​a​possibility​of​resisting​the​national​policy​among​the​ film​spectators​because​the​romantic​stories​and​settings​of​Hasegawa​and​ Yamada​films​were​often​described​as​escapist.​Also,​there​were,​and​still​ are,​multiple​positions​for​spectators​to​take​when​watching​and​perceiving​films.​But​no​matter​how​subversive​they​looked​to​the​national​policy,​ Hasegawa​and​Yamada​star​vehicles​were​simultaneously​contained​within​ the​ filmic​ discourse​ that​ was​ leaning​ toward​ the​ national​ policy.​ As​ the​ examples​of​Female Genealogy​and​The Battle of Kawanakajima​illustrate,​ these​films​never​countered​nationalist​and​imperialist​ideology,​but​invoked​it​to​a​considerable​degree,​as​Hideaki​Fujiki​claims.107​Such​containment​was​much​less​visible​in​entertainment​films,​which​did​not​usually​ receive​ a​ recommendation​ from​ the​ Ministry​ of​ Education​ or​ were​ not​ selected​for​group​viewings​at​military​bases,​schools,​offices,​and​communities,​than​in​obvious​war​propaganda​films,​so​entertainment​films​could​ be​much​more​powerful. ​ However,​I​am​also​hesitant​to​simply​call​these​popular​films—with​a​ new​trend​of​cinematic​lighting—an​ideological​apparatus​that​reflects​the​ wartime​cultural​spirit​and​requires​the​contemporaneous​audience​to​become​a​self-​sacrificing​subject​of​the​nation.​First​of​all,​the​aesthetics​of​ shadow​did​not​originate​in​traditional​Japanese​aesthetics—if​there​were​ any.​Also,​expressing​the​aesthetic​imaginaries​of​the​nation​was​not​required​by​the​Japanese​government.​The​Film​Law​did​not​“force​the​production​of​films​with​any​particular​themes​or​content”​and​was​not​meant​ to​nationalize​the​Japanese​film​industry​as​a​whole.108 ​ We​need​to​acknowledge​that​a​new​aesthetic​expression​emerged​in​ the​late​1930s​in​Japanese​filmmaking​through​the​practice​and​discourse​ on​lighting,​even​in​such​hugely​popular​films​as​Hasegawa​and​Yamada​ star​vehicles.​This​was​another​critical​moment​when​Shochiku’s​bright​and​ cheerful​ cinema​ faced​ a​ challenge​ within​ the​ film​ industry.​ But​ we​ also​ need​to​beware​that​it​is​not​appropriate​to​call​this​emphasis​on​darkness​ the​formulation​of​shared​Japanese​imaginaries​or​the​dominant​aesthetic​ expression​of​Japan​under​the​militarist​control​of​cinema. ​ There​ are​ some​ explanations​ for​ the​ complexity​ of​ the​ aesthetics​ of​ 200  chapter​4

shadow.​There​were​Japanese​cinematographers​who​adored​the​low-​key​ lighting​in​Hollywood​cinema.​They​despaired​at​the​limited​material​conditions​in​Japanese​cinema.​Exploration​of​the​documentary​style​occurred​ within​the​confines​of​that​ambivalent​situation.​There​was​also​a​strong​ rivalry​between​Toho​and​Shochiku.​And​the​national​film​policy​was​certainly​influential.​All​of​these​factors​are​evidence​of​how​diverse​and​multifaceted​the​film​culture,​often​believed​to​be​unilateral​under​ultranationalism​and​militarism,​was​in​Japan​during​the​period​of​war. ​ When​Japanese​cinematographers​realized​that​it​would​be​difficult​to​ achieve​such​low-​key​cinematography​under​the​conditions​of​filmmaking​ in​wartime​Japan,​they​turned​to​one​aspect​of​Japanese​art—praise​of​shadows,​which​was​easily​available,​and​used​it​to​justify​their​practices​in​the​ name​of​the​“Japanese​characteristics​in​cinematographic​technology.”109​ In​other​words,​they​strategically​connected​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​to​a​ nationalist​discourse.​It​was​not​their​original​goal​to​formulate​“Japanese”​ cinematography—they​wanted​to​perfectly​mimic​the​low-​key​cinematography​of​Hollywood.​But​they​consciously​chose​to​name​the​aesthetics​of​ shadow​Japanese​aesthetics.​Japan​or​things​Japanese​did​not​occupy​the​ center​of​their​minds,​even​when​these​notions​appeared​to​be​at​the​center​of​their​discussions. ​ Aaron​Gerow​argues​that​in​the​wartime​social​and​cultural​discourses​ in​Japan​there​were​conflicts​over​“how​to​place​Japan​in​the​oppositions​ between​universal​and​particular,​East​and​West,​and​tradition​and​modernity.”110​Yet,​that​was​not​exactly​the​case​for​many​cinematographers​and​ critics​of​film​technologies.​Japan​was​just​an​excuse​to​talk​about​their​ actual​practices​in​cinematography,​which​were​torn​between​their​longings​for​Hollywood,​desperation​about​material​limitations,​and,​in​addition,​ serious​ commitments​ to​ document​ the​ war​ by​ film​ camera.​ While​ the​notion​of​Japan​was​continuously​used​in​negotiations​between​cinematographers,​ critics,​ governmental​ officials,​ and​ spectators​ on​ how​ to​ formulate​images​on​the​screen​and​how​to​receive​them,​many​cinematographers​and​critics​of​film​technologies​did​not​aim​to​“elevate​a​spectacle​of​nationhood”​by​film.111​Even​if​there​were​“strenuous​efforts​made​ to​express,​and​define,​what​makes​Japanese​people​and​life​so​Japanese”​ in​wartime​Japan,​and​“writers,​artists,​journalists,​company​men,​neighborhood​associations,​students​activists,​women’s​groups,​[and]​boys’​and​ girls’​clubs​were​all​organized​for​the​express​purpose​of​delineating​the​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  201

outlines​of​an​authentic​Japanese​essence,”112​the​major​concerns​of​many​ cinematographers​and​their​critics​were​not​to​be​a​part​of​such​efforts.​ They​did​not​mean​to​challenge​or​resist​such​efforts​either​though. ​ I​am​not​ignoring​the​fact​that​the​film​industry​produced​numerous​propaganda​films​that​evoked​ideal​Japanese​life​and​behavior.​It​certainly​did.​ It​might​also​be​possible​to​find​what​Darrell​Davis​calls​“the​monumental​ style,”​or​aesthetic​sacramentalization​of​the​nation,​in​the​militarist​propaganda​films​from​this​period.​The​monumental​style,​according​to​Davis,​ was​textual​“appropriation”​of​traditional​aesthetic​forms​and​classical​heritages​“in​order​to​promote​an​apotheosis​of​Japanese​national​identity”​and​ to​teach​spectators​to​perceive​film​in​a​purely​Japanese​way.113​I​am​not​ indicating​that​the​government-​wide​national​film​policy​had​failed​either,​ despite​the​fact​that​some​“national-​policy​films”​were​not​as​popular​as​ “entertainment​movies”​and​that​the​effect​of​the​“Greater​East​Asia​Co-​ prosperity​Films”​that​promoted​the​assimilation​policy​in​East​Asia​was​ dubious.114​I​am​only​doubtful​that​the​entire​film​industry​was​in​tune​with​ the​institutionalized​activity​of​defining​and​reconstructing​Japaneseness​ led​by​the​state.​In​this​regard,​I​agree​with​Gerow​when​he​points​out​“the​ difficulty,​even​impossibility,​of​nation-​alizing​film​during​the​war,”​despite​ bureaucrats’​efforts​to​control​cinema.115​Gerow​insists​on​a​“hybridity”​that​ “hampered​the​imagining​of​a​homogeneous​national​cinema”​in​this​period​ and​explicates​with​such​facts​as​the​existence​of​too​many​films​produced​ (five​hundred​pictures​a​year—second​in​the​world)​in​too​many​different​ modes​of​production​by​ten​feature-​film​studios;​the​small​number​of​spectators​in​attendance​at​movies,​especially​in​rural​areas;​and​so​forth.116 ​ When​Toho​emerged​as​a​new​face,​what​happened​was​not​the​transition​of​hegemony​but​the​emergence​of​“two​oppositional​groups​in​film​ business​with​different​modes​of​production.”117​Continuing​competition​ between​the​two​major​studios​provided​another​significant​element​behind​the​flourishing​discursive​and​practical​tendency​of​the​aesthetics​of​ shadow.​The​aesthetics​could​be​seen​as​another​challenge​to​the​bright​ and​cheerful​Shochiku​tone​that​had​stylistically​and​financially​dominated​ Japanese​film​until​the​mid-​1930s.​In​this​sense,​the​development​of​the​ aesthetics​had​nothing​to​do​with​the​rise​of​ultranationalism​and​militarism​but​with​a​capitalist​war​within​the​film​industry—Hollywood​style​ (Toho)​versus​Kabuki​style​(Shochiku)​once​again,​even​though​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​was​not​able​to​fully​imitate​Hollywood-​style​lighting.​ 202  chapter​4

When​Shimazaki​Kiyohiko​praised​Miura​Mitsuo’s​cinematography​in​Tojuro’s Love​in​the​journal​Eiga to Gijutsu,​he​was​representing​the​position​ of​the​Japanese​Association​of​Film​Technology​(Nihon​Eiga​Gijutsu​Kyokai).​Eiga to Gijutsu​was​the​bulletin​of​the​association.​In​an​early​issue​ of​the​journal,​the​association​stated:​“Become​a​member​of​the​Japanese​ Association​of​Film​Technology​that​comprises​authorities​of​all​areas​of​ film​technology​in​Japan,​and​obtain​the​correct​compass​in​the​study​of​all​ film​technology!”118​By​using​the​term​the correct compass,​the​association​ challenged​the​dominance​of​bright​and​cheerful​Shochiku​cinema.​In​May​ 1935,​the​board​of​trustees​of​the​Japanese​Association​of​Film​Technology​ was​composed​of​twenty-​three​active​cinematographers,​including​Isayama​ Saburo​ (Nikkatsu),​ Karasawa​ Hiromitsu​ (Nikkatsu),​ Kawasaki​ Kikuzo​ (Nikkatsu-J.O.),​ Midorikawa​ Michio​ (Nikkatsu),​ Miki​ Shigeru​ (Nihon​ Eiga​ Sha​ [Nihon​ Film​ Company]),​ Miura​ Mitsuo​ (pcL),​ and​ Mimura​ Akira​(pcL),​most​of​whose​names​I​have​already​referred​to.​The​advisory​ board​included​Tachibana​Kanichi​(studio​head​at​Nikkatsu​Tamagawa),​ Uemura​Taiji​(pcL;​would-​be​president​of​Toho),​Masutani​Rin​(pcL),​ Tachibana​Koshiro​(head​of​the​censorship​bureau​of​Tokyo’s​metropolitan​police​force),​and​Aruga​Teru​and​Fukushima​Shinnosuke​(renowned​ chemists​with​specialties​in​photochemistry).​The​permanent​members​of​ the​council​included​Shimazaki​and​Tsuchiya​Kiyoyuki​(critics​with​specialties​in​film​technology),​Uno​Masao​(critic​with​specialty​in​kogata eiga​ [home​movies]),​and​Tejima​Masuji​(kogata​eiga​filmmaker).119​There​was​ a​conspicuous​absence​at​the​association.​There​was​no​one​from​Shochiku​ on​either​the​advisory​board​or​the​board​of​trustees.​The​only​exception​ was​Sasaki​Taro,​a​cinematographer​and​film-​development​specialist​at​Shochiku​Kamata,​but​he​did​not​receive​credit​for​any​film​there​between​1934​ and​1936.​Therefore,​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​was​not​necessarily​shared​ by​ Shochiku.​ The​ association​ was​ trying​ to​ have​ a​ discourse​ authorized​ officially​and​scientifically​through​the​presence​of​the​head​of​the​censorship​bureau​and​chemists​on​the​advisory​board.​In​addition,​the​association​selected​“excellent​films”​and​“excellent​technicians”​every​year​and​ awarded​prizes,​as​the​example​of​The Battle of Kawanakajima​showed.120 ​ The​aesthetics​of​shadow​was​nothing​but​significant​evidence​of​hybridity​in​wartime​Japanese​cinema​that​problematized​the​notion​of​nationalism​in​wartime​Japanese​culture.​In​an​introductory​section​of​his​ book,​Davis​insists,​“What​is​remarkable​about​the​monumental​style​is​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  203

its​‘bending’​of​the​languages​of​classical​Western​cinema​to​accommodate​the​undulations​of​classical​Japanese​design​and​behavior.”121​Davis​ does​not​fully​come​back​to​discuss​this​notion​of​bending​throughout​his​ book​and​seems​to​focus​more​on​how​the​styles​of​Japanese​cinema​in​ this​period​represented​“a​backlash​against​‘excessive’​Westernization”​and​ “a​‘conversion​experience’​back​to”​the​traditional​Japanese​aesthetics.122​ But​to​me,​this​notion​of​bending​is​a​more​significant​issue.​If​we​examine​how​cinematographers​and​technology​critics​of​this​period​tried​to​ discursively​and​practically​bend​Hollywood​cinema,​we​should​be​able​ to​capture​the​ambivalent​nature​of​the​wartime​film​culture​without​dichotomizing​pre-​Westernized​Japanese​tradition​and​Westernization.​The​ aesthetics​of​shadow​was​not​an​expression​of​“delineating​the​outlines​of​ an​authentic​Japanese​essence”​but​of​bending​Hollywood​cinema,​among​ other​things. Appreciating the low-key lighting of Hollywood Cinema

The​specific​term​kage no bigaku​(aesthetics​of​shadow)​was​used​arguably​ for​the​first​time​by​Yoshino​Nobutaka,​a​production​designer​at​Shochiku​ in​1979.123​Yet​the​notion​itself​was​widely​adopted​among​cinematographers​and​critics,​who​used​such​terms​as​attraction of black​and​beauty of darkness​in​popular​Japanese​films​in​the​late​1930s. ​ Before​the​emergence​of​the​notion,​the​first​half​of​the​1930s​witnessed​ a​boom​among​Japanese​critics​and​cinematographers​of​praising​the​low-​ key​lighting​in​Hollywood​cinema.124​In​1934,​Kawasaki​Kikuzo,​a​cinematographer​who​worked​at​Nikkatsu’s​Kyoto​studio​and​Makino​Production,​discussed​the​low-​key​lighting​in​more​detailed​terms:​“Definitively,​ low-​key​tones​do​not​mean​dark​lighting​at​all.​Such​masterpieces​of​Lee​ Garmes​as​Blonde Venus​and​Zoo in Budapest​[Rowland​V.​Lee,​1933]​look​ a​little​darker​than​other​films,​but​the​gradation​from​highlights​to​shadows​is​very​well​structured​and​the​details​of​the​shadows​are​particularly​ beautiful.​.​.​.​I​believe​that​highlights,​which​look​as​beautiful​and​soft​as​ silk,​and​detailed​shadows​are​the​work​of​authentic​cinematography​that​ pleases​us​as​well​as​popular​audiences​of​cinema.”125 ​ By​ 1940,​ Japanese​ filmmakers​ and​ critics​ came​ to​ agree​ that​ low-​key​ lighting​was​the​most​accomplished​form​in​the​history​of​cinematography.​ Hoshi​Tetsuroku,​a​director​at​Shochiku’s​Shimokamo​studio,​claimed​in​

204  chapter​4

1941:​“I​believe​that​low​key​took​over​high​key,​which​had​been​a​general​ practice​in​cinema.”126​In​the​first​chapter​of​Cinematography Reader,​which​ was​published​by​the​Film​Association​of​Greater​Japan​(Dai​Nihon​Eiga​ Kyokai)​in​1940,​the​cinematographer​Miki​Shigeru​overviewed​the​“development​of​cinematographic​technology”​after​the​construction​of​Edison’s​ Black​Maria​studio​and​concluded​his​chapter​by​naming​Garmes​(Morocco​ and​Shanghai Express),​Burt​Glennon​(Blonde Venus),​Victor​Milner​(The Man I Killed,​Lubitsch,​1931),​and​Carl​Strauss​(Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,​ Rouben​Mamoulian,​1931)​as​those​cinematographers​who​“realized​gorgeous​and​velvety​shadows​on​the​screen.”127 ​ Miki​identified​the​advent​of​Supersensitive​Panchromatic​Type​Two​ Motion​ Picture​ Negative​ film​ by​ Eastman​ Kodak​ Company,​ which​ was​ announced​on​February​5,​1931,​as​the​key​moment​in​the​birth​of​the​low-​ key​ tendency​ in​ Hollywood​ lighting.128​ With​ emulsion​ reacting​ “faster”​ to​light—75​percent​more​speed​to​blue​light,​200​percent​more​to​green​ light,​and​from​400​to​500​percent​more​to​red​light—the​Supersensitive​ Panchromatic​Type​Two​extended​the​latitude​and​enriched​the​gradation​ between​black​and​white​to​be​much​more​diverse.129​Miki’s​intention​was​ to​distinguish​the​newly​emerged​low-​key​tones​with​the​“diverse​expressivity​in​terms​of​gradation”​from​the​dark​tones​that​existed​even​before​ the​advent​of​supersensitive​panchromatic​film.130​Miki​wrote: When​ I​ think​ of​ the​ issue​ of​ darkness​ in​ photography​ in​ Japanese​ cinema,​I​can​only​feel​miserable.​.​.​.​Mr.​Makino​Shozo​said,​“Clarity​ first,​story​second,​acting​third.”​[In​Japan]​dark​cinematography​is​the​ most​horrible​thing.​The​absolute​requirement​to​cinematographers​of​ any​studio​is​to​make​photographic​images​bright.​This​is​the​principle.​ If​a​cinematographer​in​Japan​violates​this​principle,​he​is​ordered​in​ a​friendly​manner​to​leave​the​studio​right​away​or​is​prevented​from​ filming.​But​Japanese​filmmakers​need​to​express​dark​tones​in​order​ to​make​good​films.​They​need​contrasts​with​artistic​use​of​lights.​And​ they​hope​to​have​effective​low-​key​cinematography​with​supersensitive​film.​All​of​these​are​cinematographers’​responsibilities.​However,​ the​only​thing​that​studios​say​to​their​cinematographers​is​whether​the​ films​are​“dark”​or​not.​It​is​really​ambiguous​how​and​why​some​scenes​ are​called​“dark,”​from​which​standpoint.​The​dispute​continues​endlessly.​.​.​.​We​need​to​utilize​both​low-​key​tones​and​high-​key​tones​as​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  205

the​means​of​cinematography​without​restraint.​It​is​extremely​unwise​ to​speak​only​of​“dark”​or​not.131 Miki’s​claim​derived​from​what​Hal​Hall,​the​editor​of​American Cinematographer,​said​about​the​advent​of​“fast​films,”​film​with​an​emulsion​that​ is​very​sensitive​to​light—the​Eastman​Kodak​Company’s​Supersensitive​ Panchromatic​ Type​ Two​ and​ the​ Dupont​ Film​ Company’s​ Special​ Panchromatic,​in​particular—in​1931.​Hall​wrote,​“Too​many​cinematographers​ confuse​the​improved​speed​with​exaggerated​contrast—a​serious​mistake.​ The​aim​of​the​cinematographer​should​be​for​natural​tonal​contrast​with​ an​artistic​softness—and​this​softness​cannot​be​attained​with​flat​lighting.​ Soft​lighting​should​be​used—but​it​should​be​normally​balanced,​sacrificing​none​of​the​tonal​and​physical​contrasts​which​the​cameraman​wishes​ to​ preserve.”132​ What​ Miki​ emphasized,​ following​ Hall,​ was​ that​ ample​ lights​and​a​variety​of​lamps​on​the​sets​would​be​needed​in​order​to​be​ perfectly​balanced​to​achieve​the​low-​key​tones.133 ​ However,​Miki,​other​cinematographers,​and​critics​in​Japan​were​aware​ that​such​conditions​were​unimaginable​given​the​reality​of​material​limitations​in​Japan.​The​critic​D.O.C.​wrote​in​the​September​1939​issue​of​ Nihon Eiga​ about​ the​ amount​ of​ lighting​ used​ in​ Hollywood​ studios​ in​ order​to​achieve​low-​key​lighting,​which​is​“inconceivable​to​Japan’s​common​sense.”134​Nihon Eiga​regularly​published​the​official​views​of​the​Film​ Association​of​Greater​Japan,​which​was​established​in​1935​to​facilitate​ communications​ between​ the​ film​ industry​ and​ the​ governmental​ officials.135​In​other​words,​the​views​presented​in​Nihon Eiga​had​a​certain​ authority​over​filmmakers​and​critics​in​Japan.​Commenting​on​the​use​of​ lights​by​James​Wong​Howe​in​Algiers​(John​Cromwell,​1938),​D.O.C.​sarcastically​claimed,​“After​the​discussion​with​the​chief​of​lighting,​[Howe]​ placed​a​tremendous​number​of​lights​on​the​lifter​of​the​ceiling.​.​.​.​To​be​ honest,​everybody​was​choked​by​the​smoke​in​the​studio.​The​electrician​ almost​fell​from​the​ceiling​because​of​the​heat​and​smoke​from​the​lighting.”136​In​1931,​Howe​spoke​of​how​to​perfectly​balance​light​when​achieving​his​preferred​low-​key​tones: Low-​key​lightings​have​always​been​my​favorites.​.​.​.​There​are​two​principal​methods​of​producing​these​effects:​one​may​lay​a​foundation​of​ soft,​diffused​light​and​build​up​to​the​required​highlights—or​one​may​ determine​his​highlights​and​let​the​rest​graduate​down​to​the​required​ 206  chapter​4

shadows.​Either​method​is​good;​personally,​I​prefer​the​latter,​especially​since​the​introduction​of​Fast​Film​[supersensitive​panchromatic​ film].​In​the​first​place,​you​need​not​use​so​much​light,​as,​once​you​have​ arranged​your​highlights​and​modeling​lights,​the​“spilled”​light​which​ leaks​from​even​the​best​of​equipment​will​keep​your​shadows​from​becoming​too​unpleasantly​empty.137 Even​though​Howe​was​discussing​economy​of​light​in​Hollywood,​that​ was​not​the​case​in​Japan.​“Not​so​much​light”​was​so​much​light.​Soyama​ Naomori,​who​worked​at​the​J.O.​studio​in​Kyoto,​wrote,​“People​in​this​ country​need​to​learn​the​American​methods​[of​cinematography].​However,​ financially​ it​ is​ nearly​ impossible​ to​ follow​ them.​ In​ order​ to​ realize​ ideas​ and​ motifs​ only​ with​ available​ lighting​ and​ shallow​ lenses,​ we​ need​to​sacrifice​the​final​process​that​American​methods​require.”138​Cinematographer​Ogura​Kinji​also​claimed,​“He​[Sternberg]​prepared​lighting​perfectly​in​such​a​film​as​Dishonored​(1931),​considering​the​shape​of​ [Marlene]​Dietrich’s​face.​He​was​also​concerned​about​the​variety​and​the​ quantity​of​lighting.​Low-​key​tones​must​be​achieved​by​setting​and​then​ saving​numerous​lights,​but​that​is​impossible​in​Japan.​I​have​some​spotlights​in​hand,​such​as​5kW,​3kW,​and​2kW,​but​that​is​still​insufficient.”139​ Japanese​cinematographers​and​critics​needed​to​find​a​way​to​deal​with​ this​gap​between​the​ideal​of​cinematography​and​the​reality​of​the​limited​ material​conditions. ​ Midorikawa​Michio,​the​head​of​the​nsc,​claimed,​“We​should​observe​ the​beauty​of​shadows,​which​appears​gracefully​in​the​harmony​of​[Japanese]​architecture​and​lights.”140​Midorikawa’s​declaration​appeared​in​his​ essay​“Cameramen’s​Lives​and​Kyoyo​[cultural​knowledge]”​(“Kameraman​ no​ seikatsu​ to​ kyoyo”)​ in​ Cinematography Reader.141​ Midorikawa’s​ essay​ was​the​first​official​turn​of​Japanese​cinematographers​to​the​notion​of​ Japanese​aesthetics​to​justify​their​unfulfilled​goal​and​practices​in​cinematography,​torn​between​their​yearning​for​Hollywood​and​their​anguish​ about​material​limitations. ​ In​this​essay,​Midorikawa​walked​a​tight​rope​in​order​to​recoup​the​Japanese​natural​sublime​by​way​of​the​technological​modernity​represented​by​ cinema.​Midorikawa​insisted,​“It​is​time​we​go​back​to​our​tradition​once​ again.​Apparently,​our​lives​are​in​chaotic​conditions​because​we​have​depended​too​much​upon​the​trend​that​is​not​based​upon​[our​culture].​The​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  207

righteous​camera​eyes​must​enlighten​the​Japanese​people​for​the​good​of​ tomorrow’s​society,​with​pedagogical​consciousness​and​in​the​name​of​ bunka eiga​[this​literally​translates​as​“culture​film,”​but​in​the​late​1930s​and​ early​1940s​it​often​meant​documentary​film​in​general].”142​Obviously,​Midorikawa​meant​Hollywood​films​as​the​“trend,”​which​was​distinguished​ from​the​“culture.”​When​Midorikawa​emphasized​the​distinction​between​ trend​and​culture,​he​was​most​certainly​referring​to​the​first​article​of​the​ Film​Law,​for​which​Cinematography Reader​was​preordained​to​serve.​This​ article​reads,​“The​purpose​of​this​law​is​to​improve​the​quality​of​cinema​ and​to​lead​the​healthy​progress​of​the​film​business​in​order​to​develop​ the​national​culture.”143​Fuwa​Suketoshi​of​the​Ministry​of​Education​defined​“culture​film”​under​the​Film​Law​as​“films​about​education,​arts​and​ sciences,​national​defense,​health,​and​so​on.​They​are​not​dramatic​films​ but​the​ones​mainly​with​documentary​and​realistic​methods.​They​need​ to​be​acknowledged​by​the​minister​of​education​as​the​ones​that​serve​for​ enhancing​the​national​spirit,​directly​inspiring​knowledge​of​the​Japanese​ people,​and​improving​their​skills.”144​Nornes​claims,​“As​Japan​became​increasingly​isolated​in​the​world​with​its​expansion​across​Asia,​the​values​ attached​to​‘culture’​came​under​interrogation​and​the​associations​connected​to​the​word​transformed.​The​bunka​of​bunka eiga​signaled​a​return​ of​the​demand​for​disciplined,​self-​sacrificing​dedication​to​non-​personal​ goals​serving​the​development​of​the​nation,​even​while​retaining​traces​ of​the​previous​era’s​concept​of​culture​as​an​elitist​bulkhead​against​the​ vagaries​of​popular​culture.”145 ​ In​order​to​“develop​cultural​consciousness,”​Midorikawa​suggested​that​ Japanese​ cinematographers​ should​ learn​ “how​ to​ construct​ dramas​ and​ how​to​express​psychology”​from​“literature.”146​After​briefly​mentioning​ the​names​of​such​giants​of​literature​as​Stendhal​and​Herman​Hesse,​Midorikawa​highly​recommended​A Study of Japanese Landscape​(Nihon fukei ron),​a​1894​nonfiction​book​by​Shiga​Shigetaka​(1863–1927),​a​journalist​ and​geographer.147​A Study of Japanese Landscape​became​popular​again​in​ 1937​when​it​was​reprinted​in​the​influential​series​of​paperbacks​published​ by​Iwanami​Press.148​Shiga​was​known​as​the​pioneering​advocate​of​kokusui shugi​(maintenance​of​Japan’s​cultural​identity)​in​the​face​of​increasing​ pressure​from​the​West.​Shiga​perceived​that​the​traditional​Japanese​elements​that​were​so​much​a​part​of​the​lives​of​the​Japanese​people​had​their​ foundation​in​geography.​His​immediate​goal​was​to​arouse​national​aware208  chapter​4

ness​and​pride​and​to​alert​his​countrymen​and​women​to​Japan’s​position​ in​the​fast-​changing​world​order.149​But​it​is​noteworthy​that​Shiga​fully​employed​his​scientific​and​technical​knowledge,​which​he​had​learned​from​ academia​in​the​West,​in​order​to​praise​Japan’s​landscape​in​terms​of​its​ sublimity. ​ Like​Shiga,​Midorikawa​resorted​to​his​profound​knowledge​of​technology​and​techniques​of​cinematography​and​lighting,​which​was​in​accordance​with​the​discourse​of​the​asc.​Midorikawa​wrote,​“In​cinema,​ architecture​is​the​object​to​be​photographed​and​its​viability​of​existence​ completely​depends​on​lights,​the​most​important​element​in​cinematic​ expressions.”150​However,​once​it​came​to​the​issue​of​photographing​Japanese​architecture​in​reality,​what​Midorikawa​referred​to​was​not​practical​ articles​written​by​Hollywood​cinematographers​or​gaffers.​Instead,​Midorikawa​consulted​Tanizaki​Jun’ichiro’s​In Praise of Shadows​(“Inei​raisan”),​a​ study​of​the​use​of​lights​and​shadows​in​the​traditional​spaces​of​Japanese​ culture​written​by​the​acclaimed​novelist.​Tanizaki​argued​that​Japanese​ aesthetics​was​“inseparable​from​darkness.”151​Midorikawa​quoted​nearly​ four​pages​ from​ In Praise of Shadows,​in​which​Tanizaki​ discussed​ Japanese​architecture​and​“marvel[ed]​at​our​[Japanese]​comprehension​of​the​ secrets​of​shadows,​our​sensitive​use​of​shadow​and​light.”152​“Ultimately,”​ Tanizaki​wrote​and​Midorikawa​quoted,​“it​is​the​magic​of​shadows.​Were​ the​shadows​to​be​banished​from​the​corners,​the​alcove​[in​a​Japanese​ room]​would​in​that​instant​revert​to​mere​void.​This​was​the​genius​of​our​ ancestors,​that​by​cutting​off​the​light​from​this​empty​space​they​imparted​ to​the​world​of​shadows​that​formed​there​a​quality​of​mystery​and​depth​ superior​to​that​of​any​wall​painting​or​ornament.”153 ​ Harry​ Harootunian​ claims,​ “In​ Japan​ and​ elsewhere,​ modernity​ was​ seen​as​a​spectacle​of​ceaseless​change​(the​narrative​of​historical​progress​ and​the​law​of​capitalist​expansion)​and​the​specter​of​unrelieved​uncertainty​introduced​by​a​dominant​historical​culture​no​longer​anchored​in​ fixed​values​but​in​fantasy​and​desire.”154​As​a​result,​Harootunian​argues,​ “Provoked​by​a​growing​sense​of​homelessness​and​the​search​for​‘shelter,’”​ the​concern​for​“laying​hold​of​an​experience​capable​of​resisting​the​erosions​of​change​and​supplying​a​stable​identity—difference—in​a​world​ dominated​ by​ increasing​ homogeneity​ and​ sameness”​ became​ “the​ way​ discourse​recoded​the​historical​problem​of​the​interwar​period.”155​What​ emerged​was​“an​immense​effort​to​recall​older​cultural​practices​(religious,​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  209

aesthetic,​literary,​linguistic)​that​derived​from​a​remote​past​before​the​ establishment​of​modern,​capitalist​society,​and​that​were​believed​to​be​ still​capable​of​communicating​an​authentic​experience​of​the​people[,]​.​.​.​ race[,]​or​folk​that​historical​change​could​not​disturb.”156​Along​this​line,​ according​to​Harootunian,​people​like​Tanizaki​Jun’ichiro​“looked​longingly​to​some​moment​in​the​past,​or​simply​the​past​itself​as​an​indefinite​ moment,​as​the​place​of​community​or​culture,​that​would​serve​as​the​primordial​and​originary​condition​of​the​Japanese​folk.”​Harootunian​continues,​“This​image​of​culture​and​community​was​as​timeless​and​frozen​as​ the​commodity​form​itself.”157​He​claims​that​a​“social​discourse​devoted​to​ fixing​the​ground​of​cultural​authenticity​and​the​source​of​originality​and​ creativity”​was​organized​and​defended​the​“cultural​spirit​(bunka seishin).​ Then​Harootunian​argues​that​organization​of​such​discourse​was​“a​signification​of​a​modernism​that​would​seek​to​stabilize​values,​eternalize​them,​ by​‘overcoming​history,’​by​ridding​society​of​the​ceaseless​fascination​with​ the​new​and​the​novel​and​the​succession​of​change​(the​ever​new​in​the​ ever​same)​that​motored​modern​society,​and​the​specter​of​unrelieved​ uncertainty​that​marked​the​domination​of​historical​culture.”158​The​discourse​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​was​an​example​of​such​organization. ​ As​implied​in​Harootunian’s​terms​such​as​fantasy,​desire,​and​organization,​Tanizaki’s​essay—and​the​aesthetics​of​shadow—was​not​exactly​based​ on​the​actuality​of​the​Japanese​landscape​and​architecture​of​the​time.​In​ 1936,​Josef​von​Sternberg​visited​Japan​and​was​impressed​by​the​gap​between​light​and​shadow.​“[I​am]​astonished​at​the​flood​of​numerous​neon​ lights​in​Ginza,”​Sternberg​said.​“There​are​too​many​electric​ornaments,​ neon​signs​in​particular,​in​Tokyo.​Is​electricity​very​cheap​in​Japan?”159​It​ was​the​time​when​Japan​led​the​world​in​the​vogue​of​neon​signs.160​Tanizaki​himself​admitted​in​In Praise of Shadows,​“Tokyo​and​Osaka​were​far​ more​brightly​lit​than​any​European​city.​.​.​.​Perhaps​no​two​countries​in​ the​world​waste​more​electricity​than​America​and​Japan.”161​Instead,​as​ Miya​Elise​Mizuta​points​out,​Tanizaki​recounts​that​what​is​intrinsically​ or​essentially​“Japanese”​is​“stimulated​by​the​transformation​that​occurs​ in​the​encounter​with​what​arrives​from​the​outside,​electric​light.”162 ​ In​his​culturally​essentialist​claim,​we​could​detect​Tanizaki’s​“dilemma,”​ torn​between​two​realities.​Tanizaki​fully​understood​the​formidable​attraction​of​such​modern​technology​as​electric​lighting.​Simultaneously,​ he​was​aware​of​the​material​limitations​in​Japan.163​Mizuta​even​argues,​ 210  chapter​4

“By​delineating​the​shadow​not​as​a​representation​of​pure​darkness​but​ as​something​that​lies​between​two​values,​he​[Tanizaki]​in​fact​resists​the​ conceptualization​of​Japanese​aesthetics​as​‘pure’​or​of​Japan​as​‘difference,’​ a​counterpoint​to​the​West​as​the​originating​absolute.”164​Tanizaki’s​conceptual​ dilemma​ was​ Japanese​ cinematographers’​ reality:​ the​ attraction​ of​Hollywood-​style​lighting​and​the​material​conditions​in​Japan.​In​June​ 1941,​the​cinematographer​Ariyoshi​Ataru​claimed​from​a​slightly​different​ but​basically​similar​perspective: Modern​ architectures​ are​ constructed​ on​ the​ basis​ of​ brightness​ in​ terms​of​the​standards​of​living​and​health.​Architectures​for​jidaigeki​ films​and​their​sense​of​darkness​should​be​imagined​from​architectures​ of​temples​and​so​forth.​Probably​our​traditional​spiritual​culture​and​ the​ways​of​living​were​born​in​such​darkness.​However,​the​cinematographers​of​jidaigeki​films​like​us​need​to​think​about​this:​if​we​stick​to​ this​historically​stylized​darkness​and​this​exceptional​realism,​are​the​ mass​film​audiences​who​were​newly​born​in​the​active​world​of​modern​ science​satisfied​with​our​products?​This​is​our​renewed​task​to​tackle.165 ​ Tanizaki​wrote​in​In Praise of Shadows,​“One​need​only​compare​American,​French​and​German​films​to​see​how​greatly​nuances​of​shading​and​ coloration​can​vary​in​motion​pictures.​In​the​photographic​image​itself,​ there​somehow​emerge​differences​in​national​character.​If​this​is​true​even​ when​identical​equipment,​chemicals,​and​film​are​used,​how​much​better​ our​ own​ photographic​ technology​ might​ have​ suited​ our​ complexion,​ our​facial​features,​our​climate,​our​land.”166​When​“identical​equipment,​ chemicals,​and​film”​were​not​used?​The​aesthetics​of​shadow​was​born​as​ a​strategic​bending​of​Hollywood’s​trend​of​low-​key​lighting​in​the​name​of​ Japanese​traditional​culture​in​order​to​embrace​the​limited​material​conditions.167 ​ As​ for​ bending,​ in​ order​ to​ distinguish​ the​ Hollywood-​style​ low-​key​ tone​and​the​dark​tone,​some​critics​and​cinematographers​even​turned​ to​ German​ cinema.​ German​ cinema​ served​ as​ a​ mediator​ between​ the​ low-​key​tone​and​the​dark​tone.​In​September​1936,​the​critic​Uno​Masao​ favorably​singled​out​the​use​of​the​dark​tones​in​German​cinema,​connected​them​to​the​national​characteristic,​and​contrasted​them​to​the​low-​ key​tones​of​Hollywood.​Implicitly,​Uno​suggested​such​dark​tones​as​the​ model​lighting​that​Japanese​filmmakers​should​follow.​Uno​wrote: the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  211

In​ America,​ so-​called​ clear​ tones​ (bright​ tones)​ and​ low-​key​ tones,​ which​we​have​been​trying​hard​to​imitate,​are​mainly​adopted.​.​.​.​In​ cinematographic​techniques,​Germany​maintains​dark​tones.​.​.​.​The​ primary​reason​for​the​development​of​dark​tones​is​economy.​Overall,​Germany​has​lacked​mechanical​equipment,​cameras,​lenses,​reflectors,​screens,​diffusers,​and​lighting​equipment,​including​electricity​and​ lamps.​.​.​.​Their​dark​tones​are​completely​different​from​the​low-​key​ tones​that​have​been​used​in​America​and​anywhere​else.​They​look​similar,​but​it​is​interesting​to​think​of​the​differences​in​origins.​In​the​case​of​ Germany,​the​dark​tones​is​a​method​to​supplement​the​shortcomings​of​ Agfa​films​but​express​the​film’s​content​effectively,​while​in​America​the​ low-​key​tones​is​a​unique​achievement​based​on​cinematographic​improvements​at​studios​that​utilize​the​high​sensitivity​and​tonal​quality​ of​supersensitive​panchromatic​or​super​x​films​from​Eastman​Kodak​ or​Dupont.​.​.​.​The​unique​dark​tones​stand​out​in​Germany.​Probably​ the​dark​tones​represent​the​German​nation.​.​.​.​Master​Carl​Hoffman​ is​the​best​representative.​.​.​.​He​tries​to​express​everything​in​darkness,​ which​has​a​totally​opposite​value​to​American​films.​.​.​.​His​work​contains​excellent​content​and​spirit​in​the​infinite​dark​tones.​It​is​worthwhile​to​note​on​the​low-​key​tones​in​American​films​here.​It​is​an​innovative​ expressive​ style​ that​ tries​ to​ depict​ numerous​ gradations​ even​ within​blackness​supported​with​perfect​film​and​light​equipment.​It​is​ surely​an​advanced​technique​in​terms​of​cinematographic​science.​But​ no​matter​how​perfect​the​environmental​condition​is,​it​is​not​impressive​without​something​within.​The​gradation​that​is​only​recognizable​ in​vague​halftones​is​nothing​but​beauty​only​for​the​film​​aficionados.168 ​ In​this​regard,​in​1937​and​1938,​Nihon Eiga​magazine​published​a​series​ of​pedagogical​articles​by​the​Swiss-​born​cinematographer​Richard​Angst,​ who​had​experiences​in​photographing​sublime​mountain​films​and​had​ visited​Japan​during​the​German-​Japanese​coproduction​of​The New Earth​ (Atarashiki tsuchi,​ a.k.a.​ Die Tochter des Samurai​ and​ A Daughter of the Samurai,​1937)​with​German​director​Arnold​Fanck,​who​had​been​famous​ for​directing​mountain​films​(Bergfilm),​a​genre​that​has​been​regarded​as​ a​ forerunner​ of​ fascist​ aesthetics.169​ In​ these​ articles,​ Angst​ pointed​ out​ three​areas​in​which​Japanese​films​were​particularly​lagging​behind​American​ and​ German​ counterparts:​ “lighting,​ development,​ and​makeup.”170​ 212  chapter​4

In​order​to​emphasize​the​significance​of​dark​tones,​Angst​introduced​his​ own​phrase:​“Killed​by​light”​(todbeleuchten).​Angst​explains,​“This​does​not​ mean​to​display​an​actor’s​face​as​if​it​were​a​death​mask.​It​is​about​the​condition​in​which​a​serious​shortcoming​[in​lighting]​is​overlooked.​For​instance,​there​is​a​case​in​which​too​much​light​is​on​a​face.”171​Angst​added,​ “Audiences​never​think​of​directions​of​light,​but​it​is​extremely​important​ to​have​a​clear​sense​of​them​in​order​to​make​actors​look​beautiful​on​the​ screen.​Never​place​murderous​beams​of​light​from​all​directions​in​the​ studio​onto​actors.”172​The​critic​Suga​Tadao​thought​that​Japan​was​presented​under​new​light​by​being​vibrantly​captured,​or​being​bent,​by​the​ hands​of​Angst​with​his​lighting​scheme.​He​wrote,​“It​is​a​great​pleasure​to​ look​at​the​giant​volcano​of​Mt.​Aso​swallowed​and​conquered​by​Angst’s​ camera.​Angst​is​an​incredible​human​being.​I​think​that​the​Japanese​government​should​hire​this​super​cinematographer​for​several​months​while​ he​is​in​Japan​and​ask​him​to​photograph​as​many​Japanese​landscapes​and​ things​as​possible.”173​The​German​cinematographer’s​words​and​practice​ became​another​justification​for​the​aesthetics​of​shadow. ​ In​other​words,​with​the​concept​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow,​Japanese​ cinematographers​ were​ grappling​ with​ the​ anxiety​ of​ the​ overpowering​ technology​that​Hollywood​cinema​brought​to​the​reality​of​Japanese​filmmaking.​Adoration​could​easily​have​turned​into​despair.​In​order​to​overcome​their​aspiration​to​the​destructively​attractive​technological​modernity​represented​in​Hollywood​cinema,​they​discursively​formulated​the​ aesthetics​with​a​sense​of​nostalgia,​even​though​such​nostalgia,​or​a​calling​ toward​the​past​and​tradition,​was​certainly​an​invented​one.​Japanese​cinematographers​and​critics​did​not​want​to​discard​Japanese​cinematic​technology​and​their​practice​of​filmmaking.​The​cinematographers​wanted​to​ salvage​ them.​ As​ such​ a​ contested​ notion,​ the​ aesthetics​ of​ shadow​ approached​ another​ German​ idea:​ Walter​ Benjamin’s​ “aesthetics.”​ Zhang​ Zhen​writes​about​Miriam​Hansen’s​interpretation​of​Benjamin’s​notion​ of​aesthetics,​which​is​useful​to​understand​the​ambivalent​relationship​of​ the​aesthetics​of​shadow​to​technology: Highlighting​Walter​Benjamin’s​etymological​parse​of​the​word​aesthetics,​or​the​“theory​[Lehre]​of​perception​that​the​Greeks​called​aesthetics,”​which​he​employed​to​critique​its​narrow​definition​associated​with​ the​bourgeois​institution​of​art,​Hansen​underscores​the​historical​sigthe​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  213

nificance​of​Benjamin’s​investment​in​the​term.​Writing​at​the​moment​ of​danger—the​rise​of​fascism​and​its​appropriation​of​technology​(war​ machines​as​well​as​mimetic​machines​such​as​cinema)​for​destructive​ purposes—Benjamin​called​for​a​revised​and​expanded​notion​of​the​ aesthetic​in​an​effort​to​rescue​technology​from​reification​or​abuse​by​ both​the​bourgeoisie​and​fascism. ​ Hansen​observes​a​crucial​link​between​this​revived​notion​of​the​ aesthetic​and​the​concept​of​innervation​in​Benjamin’s​thinking​on​the​ social,​productive​reception​of​technology.​This​emphasis​on​aesthetics​as​perception​and​sensation​(rather​[than]​techniques​or​tastes​accessible​only​to​a​few)​and​on​technology​as​a​medium​for​overcoming​ alienation​and​anaesthetization​in​the​industrial​age,​shifts​the​focus​of​ philosophical​debate​on​modernity​from​mind​to​body,​from​messianism​to​actuality,​from​superstructure​to​infrastructure,​from​the​sublime​ to​the​profane,​from​that​of​the​individual​to​the​collective.​.​.​.​However,​ the​reactivation​of​the​abilities​of​the​body​and​the​reignition​of​the​instinctual​power​of​the​senses​must​not​be​construed​as​a​nostalgic​return​ to​the​pastoral​era​before​technology​and​modernity.​For​technology​has​ irrevocably​altered​the​vectors​of​the​historical​process​and​the​conditions​for​experiencing​and​transforming​the​world.​As​technology​has​so​ deeply​penetrated​or​“cut”​into​the​modern​landscape,​.​.​.​any​attempt​ to​achieve​“bodily​collective​innervation”​goes​hand-​in-​hand​with​a​collective​innervation​of​technology.​For​the​restoration​of​human​senses​ could​only​be​done​by​“passing​through”​technology​that​permeates​the​ air​of​modern​life.174 It​could​be​argued​that​Japanese​cinematographers​and​critics​called​for​the​ aesthetics​of​shadow​in​an​effort​to​rescue​Japanese​film​technology​from​ the​sense​of​abuse​and​abundance​displayed​in​“fascinating”​Hollywood​ cinema.175​Documentarism,​in​particular,​became​the​significant​issue​in​ the​effort​of​“passing​through”​technology​in​Japanese​filmmaking.​Along​ the​way,​the​concept​of​the​sublime​was​transformed​from​technological​ to​natural. the documentary spirit and the Japanese sublime

Realism​of​lighting,​especially​in​the​space​of​Japanese​architecture,​became​the​key​that​distinguished​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​from​the​low-​key​ 214  chapter​4

style​in​Hollywood.176​Reviews​of​two​prison​films​that​were​produced​in​ 1941​with​support​from​the​Ministry​of​Law,​The Sin-Free City​(Tsumi naki machi,​Mori​Kazuo)​and​For Mother​(Hahashiro,​Tanaka​Shigeo),​were​typical​examples​of​the​discursive​tendency​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow.​In​the​ reviews,​the​critic​Hanamura​Teijiro​of​Eiga Gijutsu​highly​valued​the​dark​ tones​of​these​two​films,​specifically​in​terms​of​realism.​Of​The Sin-Free City,​Hanamura​wrote,​“Such​levels​of​lighting​could​be​appropriate​for​ actual​Japanese​houses,​while​the​too-​bright​lighting​of​Shochiku​cinema​ must​be​regarded​as​unpleasant.”177​Of​Mother,​he​wrote,​“[The​cinematographer​Aoshima​Junichiro]​maintained​excellent​gradation​in​his​dark​ tones.​In​particular,​it​is​noteworthy​that​he​was​able​to​express​the​passing​of​time​of​day​by​simply​depicting​a​corridor​of​a​prison​in​dark​tones.​ Probably​it​was​not​possible​to​use​any​special​lamps​at​all​in​the​corridor.​ Therefore,​Aoshima’s​achievement​should​be​highly​valued.”178​In​contrast,​ the​Toho​cinematographer​Tamai​Masao​was​“impressed​by​the​beauty​of​ a​fishing​boat​sailing​under​the​bright​sunlight”​in​the​documentary​short​ film​Diary of the Northern Sea​(Hokuyo nikki,​1942),​but​severely​criticized​ such​“pictorial​photography​.​.​.​[,​which]​lacks​realistic​depiction​of​the​ northern​sea.​Cinematographers​of​bunka​eiga​should​face​reality​directly​ and​express​it​with​a​strong​attitude.”179​Tamai​turned​to​another​documentary​short​film,​Bullets​(Hodan,​1942),​and​praised​the​“solemn​low-​key​ tones​in​interior​shots”​while​criticizing​“powerless​soft​high-​key​tones​of​ the​exteriors.”180 ​ It​is​noteworthy​that​such​an​emphasis​on​realism​of​lighting​in​the​Japanese​space​was​once​again​justified​by​a​Hollywood​discourse,​even​when​ Japanese​critics​and​cinematographers​insisted​on​the​danger​of​directly​ mimicking​Hollywood​lighting.​Patrick​Keating​argues​that​the​importance​ of​the​low-​key​tones​in​Hollywood​lighting​in​the​1930s​was​almost​strictly​ genre​based.181​Victor​Milner​declared​in​the​January​1935​issue​of​American Cinematographer:​“Light​is​the​cinematographer’s​most​versatile​tool.”​He​ argued,​“It​is​easy​enough​to​read​a​heavy,​dramatic​scene​which​must​necessarily​be​somber​and​slow-​paced,​and​understand​that​it​must​be​photographed​in​a​low​key;​or​to​glance​over​a​swift-​paced​comedy​scene​and​ see​that​it​will​require​high-​key​lighting.”182​Similarly,​the​cinematographer​ John​Arnold​clearly​explicates​his​view​on​lighting​in​the​November​1936​ issue​of​American Cinematographer:

the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  215

While​each​production​and​each​scene​has​its​own​problems,​there​are​ certain​established​conventions​in​Cinematography,​based​on​proven​ psychological​reactions​common​to​humanity​the​world​over.​If​we​are​ photographing​a​heavy​dramatic​situation,​we​strive​for​somber,​“low-​ key”​lightings​whose​dark​tones​will​heighten​the​sense​of​tragedy.​If​it​ is​a​melodrama,​strong,​virile​contrasts​between​bottomless​ shadows​ and​intense​highlights​not​only​aid​in​developing​a​response​to​rugged​ action,​but​also​etch​the​action​clearly​and​swiftly​to​the​eye.​If​the​picture​is​cast​in​a​realistic​mood,​like​Fury​[Fritz​Lang,​1936],​harsh,​almost​newsreelesque​photography​builds​an​illusion​of​reality.​.​.​.​If,​on​ the​other​hand,​the​picture​is​a​romance,​softer,​smoother​photography​ builds​subtly​to​an​illusion​of​idyllic​glamour.​Lastly,​if​our​picture​is​a​ broad​comedy,​camera​and​lighting​must​simply​reveal​a​stage​for​the​ comics,​without​trace​of​artifice​or​artiness,​so​that​not​even​the​smallest​ gesture,​the​slightest​grimace,​will​slip​by​unseen.183 Japanese​critics​and​cinematographers​were​very​well​aware​of​such​stress​ on​generic​lighting​in​Hollywood.​In​February​1942,​the​critic​and​photographer​Tanaka​Toshio​wrote,​“‘Comedy​must​be​in​high​key​and​tragedy​in​ low​key.’​The​words​of​John​Arnold,​department​head​of​cinematography​at​ MgM​and​vice​president​of​asc,​are​the​motto​of​popular​cinematography​ [in​Hollywood].”184​In​his​review​of​the​1942​film​Water Margin​(Suikoden,​ a.k.a.​Shui Hu Zhuan,​Okada​Kei),​Kawasaki​Kikuzo​wrote,​“In​a​nonsense​ comedy​like​this​one,​it​is​natural​to​set​bright​tones​as​the​basis​and​eliminate​reality​in​lighting.”185​Here,​Kawasaki​clearly​distinguished​high-​key​ tones​of​the​comedy​from​realistic​lighting. ​ The​first​issue​of​Eiga Gijutsu​journal​in​1941​published​William​Stull’s​ article​on​a​study​of​light​levels​at​major​Hollywood​studios,​which​was​ translated​into​Japanese.​The​conclusion​of​Stull’s​article​states​that​there​ are​huge​differences​of​light​levels​from​one​studio​to​another.​Stull​writes​ that​each​studio​and​each​director​of​photography​has​its​own​idea​on​how​ to​obtain​an​ideal​negative​and​its​own​method​to​achieve​its​goal.186​This​ encouraged​Japanese​cinematographers,​who​did​not​have​sufficient​technical​equipment.​The​cinematographers​and​critics,​especially​those​who​ were​not​working​for​Shochiku,​imagined​Japanese​cinema​as​a​genre​with​ a​specific​lighting​scheme,​a​genre​that​would​document​Japanese​space​ in​a​realistic​manner.​In​this​sense,​it​would​even​be​possible​to​say​that​ 216  chapter​4

these​cinematographers​and​critics​insisted​that​all​Japanese​films​should​ become​documentary.187​In​fact,​the​term​documentary spirit​(jissha-teki seishin)​became​one​of​the​key​concepts​that​a​number​of​cinematographers​ and​ critics​ stressed​ in​ the​ late​ 1930s​ to​ early​ 1940s.​ In​ 1934,​ a​ reader​ of​ Kinema Junpo​criticized​jidaigeki’s​persistence​in​details​of​props​and​settings​and​called​it​“fanatic​documentarism.”188​The​aesthetics​of​shadow​ was​fanatic​documentarism​on​a​different​level. ​ It​was​said​that​the​term​documentary spirit​was​first​introduced​by​the​ film​critic​Kishi​Matsuo​in​1934​in​his​review​of​Ozu​Yasujiro’s​A Mother Should Be Loved​ (Haha o kowazu ya,​ 1934).189​ Kishi​ claimed​ that​ Ozu​ “made​ every​ effort​ to​ achieve​ shajitsu shugi​ [documentarism]”​ by​ emphasizing​low-​key​lighting​in​A Mother Should Be Loved.190​Kishi​argued,​ “Here,​didn’t​Ozu​Yasujiro​respect​the​documentary​spirit​too​much?​It​is​ widely​believed​in​Japanese​filmmaking​that​the​brighter​the​better.​As​if​ all​scenes​should​be​photographed​in​bright​fields.​Ozu​has​consciously​revolted​against​such​a​belief.​Nobody​will​believe​that​an​interior​room​with​ electric​lamps​on​should​be​as​bright​as​a​place​under​the​sun.​Ozu​Yasujiro​ started​the​film​with​a​rebellious​idea​to​demolish​such​a​belief,​but​was​ eventually​trapped​in​the​small​hole​of​documentarism.”191​Kishi​used​the​ term​documentary spirit​to​emphasize​his​rather​naïve​conception​of​a​camera’s​function​of​mechanical​reproduction.​Kishi​maintained,​“We​should​ go​out​with​a​camera​and​a​feeling​of​freedom.​Let’s​go​on​a​trip.​Then,​let’s​ capture​what​catches​our​eyes​and​ears​and​what​impresses​us​as​if​they​are​ a​camera.”192​Kishi​was​not​thinking​of​the​concept​in​relation​to​Hollywood’s​low-​key​lighting,​the​material​conditions​of​Japanese​studios,​and​ the​emerging​discourse​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow. ​ Yet​a​number​of​cinematographers​ and​critics​started​using​the​term​ documentary spirit​to​distinguish​their​films​from​Hollywood​films—and​ from​Shochiku​films​that​they​regarded​as​slavish​imitations​of​Hollywood​ films.​In​1941,​the​liberal​film​critic​Hazumi​Tsuneo​pointed​out,​“Since​a​ couple​of​years​ago,​three​separate​entities​have​been​jumbled​and​shamelessly​exploiting​genres​of​fiction​films.​Those​three​entities​are:​cinema’s​ photographic​ nature,​ documentary​ spirit,​ and​ documentary​ taste​ along​ with​the​rising​popularity​of​documentary​films.”193​Hazumi​clearly​distinguished​documentary​spirit​and​the​popular​taste​for​it​from​the​motion​ picture​ camera’s​ capacity​ of​ mechanical​ reproduction—the​ notion​ that​ Kishi​ was​ originally​ thinking​ of​ when​ he​ introduced​ the​ term.​ In​ other​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  217

words,​Hazumi​depicted​the​emergence​of​a​new​discourse​that​purposefully​emphasized​the​documentary​style​in​Japanese​filmmaking. ​ Shimazaki​ Kiyohiko​ admitted​ in​ his​ essay​ “On​ Tones​ of​ Lighting​ in​ Cinema:​A​Thought​about​Brightness​of​Images”​(“Eiga​no​gacho​ni​tsuite:​ Gamen​no​akarusa​ni​kansuru​ichi​kosatsu,”​1942)​that​the​qualities​of​film​ stock​and​lighting​equipment​in​Japan​were​not​allowing​Japanese​cinematographers​to​achieve​Hollywood-​style​low-​key​tones.​Shimazaki​insisted,​ “I​do​not​think​all​problems​will​be​solved​scientifically​and​materialistically.”194​What​he​suggested​was​an​“artistic​and​mental”​method​in​order​ to​overcome​the​material​limitations.195​Shimazaki’s​emphasis​on​the​“artistic​and​mental”​method​could​have​easily​fallen​into​the​irrational​logic​of​ seishin-ron​(the​theory​of​the​Japanese​spirit),​one​of​the​dominant​sociopolitical​discourses​of​the​time.​In​February​1941,​Nakano​Toshio​of​the​ Home​Ministry​asserted,​“It​is​not​difficult​to​imagine​cinematographers​ [in​Japan]​encountering​numerous​difficulties​during​film​production,​including​lack​of​film​stock,​cinematographic​equipment,​cameras,​and​other​ machines.​However,​I​think​that​is​exactly​where​the​development​of​Japanese​cinema​and​the​progress​of​film​technologies​should​begin.​In​other​ words,​by​overcoming​such​difficulties,​a​new​and​righteous​Japanese​film​ technology​will​be​born.​The​mission​of​cinematographers​includes​inventing​ new​ equipment​ and​ innovating​ new​ technologies.​ This​ is​ extremely​ important.​Cinematographers​should​serve​the​nation​with​truly​devoted​ spirits.”196​Similarly,​in​April​1941,​Fuwa​Suketoshi​of​the​Department​of​ Intelligence​at​the​Home​Ministry​claimed,​“While​technologies​have​international​characteristics​and​filmmaking​is​universal​work,​I​think​there​are​ technologies​that​are​filled​with​Japanese​spirit​and​emotion.​The​deeper​ technologies​develop,​the​more​this​is​true.”197​Following​this​sociopolitical​discourse,​the​leftist​film​journal​Eiga Hyoron​published​a​special​issue​ on​“Cinema’s​technologies​and​seishin​[spirit],”​in​September​1942,​and​the​ film​critic​Iijima​Tadashi​contended,​“Artworks​must​be​products​of​seishin.​ Only​cinematic​technologies​that​deal​with​materials​scientifically​do​not​ make​cinema​of​art,​which​must​be​a​product​of​seishin.”198​Similarly,​Osaka​ Soichi,​a​cinematographer​at​Daiei,​proudly​wrote​in​1944,​“Japanese​technologies​are​not​imitations​of​British​or​American​technologies​but​are​ones​ with​Japanese​spirit,​achieved​only​with​the​uniquely​Japanese​spirit.”199 ​ Shimazaki​did​not​directly​follow​the​fanatic​discourse​of​the​national​ spirit.​Instead,​grounded​on​his​profound​knowledge​of​film​technology,​ 218  chapter​4

Shimazaki​provided​a​theoretical​basis​for​the​connection​between​the​national​spirit​and​documentarism.​Shimazaki​insisted​on​the​significance​of​ composition,​which​would​be​achieved​by​specific​tones​of​lighting.​The​ discourse​that​emphasized​realism​of​lighting​emerged​in​Japanese​cinematographers’​aspirations​for​Hollywood’s​low-​key​lighting​and​despair​at​the​ limited​material​conditions​in​Japan.​Such​a​lighting​style​was​justified​not​ only​by​so-​called​traditional​Japanese​aesthetics​but​also​by​Hollywood’s​ idea​of​generic​lighting:​specific​lighting​styles​should​be​used​for​specific​ genres.​In​addition​to​this​bending​of​Hollywood​films​in​the​emergence​of​ the​aesthetics​of​shadow,​Shimazaki​expanded​Hollywood’s​idea​of​compositional​lighting​to​Japanese​filmmaking.​Shimazaki​claimed,​“Truly​cinematic​compositions​of​images​are​not​yet​established​in​Japanese​cinema,”​ and​he​held​up​the​importance​of​“composition​ with​all​possible​styles,​ techniques,​and​technologies​as​meticulous​and​organic​as​possible,​not​ in​ two-​ but​ in​ realistic​ three-​dimensionality.”200​ Shimazaki​ argued,​ “By​ composition​I​do​not​only​mean​two-​dimensional​arrangements​of​such​ elements​as​straight​lines,​winding​lines,​and​so​on,​but​nonflat​ones​with​ lighting​and​tones.​In​addition,​all​of​those​elements​need​to​move,​transform,​and​have​three-​dimensionality.”201​In​order​to​achieve​such​a​realistic​ three-​dimensionality,​Shimazaki​emphasized​the​significance​of​darkness​ in​lighting:​“Images​are​depicted​in​gradation​from​high​light​to​shadows​so​ that​it​is​not​reasonable​to​limit​the​scope​to​the​high​end​as​[Shochiku’s]​ Ofuna​films​do.​I​believe​that​films​should​be​as​bright​and​clear​as​possible,​ but​expression​of​darkness​is​absolutely​necessary.​Brightness​that​ignores​ directions,​strengths,​and​tones​of​lights​and​that​does​not​express​darkness​ in​order​to​merely​display​stars’​faces​must​be​abandoned.”202​Shimazaki​ tried​to​reinforce​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​by​expanding​the​theory​of​compositional​lighting​in​Hollywood. ​ In​this​regard,​Shimazaki​highly​praised​Isayama​Saburo’s​cinematography​in​Five Scouts​(Gonin no sekkohei,​Tasaka​Tomotaka,​1938)​for​his​“ultimate​use​of​an​extremely​bold​low-​key​tone,”​which​was​particularly​effective​for​compositional​purposes.203​In​July​1937,​the​second​Sino-​Japanese​ war​began​as​a​result​of​Japanese​imperialist​policy,​mainly​aiming​to​secure​ China’s​vast​raw​material​reserves​and​other​economic​resources.​In​the​ following​years,​numerous​films​about​the​war​were​released​in​Japan.​Five Scouts​was​one​of​the​most​successful​films​among​them​critically​and​financially.​In​this​film,​a​company​commander​calls​on​five​soldiers​to​reconnoithe​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  219

ter​in​northern​China.​On​their​way,​the​five​scouts​are​attacked,​and​only​ four​of​them​return.​When​the​four​companions​start​to​mourn​at​night,​ the​last​scout​struggles​back.​Critics,​governmental​and​military​officials,​ and​general​audiences​agreed​that​Five Scouts​was​an​“ideal”​Japanese​war​ film.204​It​was​selected​as​the​best​film​of​1938​by​Kinema Junpo​and​won​ an​award​at​the​Venice​International​Film​Festival.​The​Ministry​of​Education,​the​Home​Ministry,​and​the​army​highly​praised​the​film,​and​it​was​ the​fourth​most​financially​successful​film​of​the​year​for​Nikkatsu,​one​of​ the​major​Japanese​film​companies.205 ​ The​war​film​was​a​perfect​vehicle​for​the​documentary​spirit.​Nornes​ argues​that​the​documentary​spirit​developed​out​of​a​“need​for​and​desire​ to​display​Japan’s​colonial​trophies​through​the​documentary​capabilities​of​ the​medium,”​especially​because​“documentaries​simply​preceded​feature​ films​when​it​came​to​war​subjects.”206​Even​in​Hollywood,​according​to​ Keating,​as​a​genre​dominated​by​men,​“the​war​film​became​an​ideal​genre​ for​experimentation​with​realist​techniques.”207​Indeed,​Aramaki​Yoshiro,​ the​screenwriter​of​the​film,​wrote,​“The​war​is​a​fact​that​is​beyond​control.​Therefore​we​did​not​have​any​ambition​except​that​we​would​depict​ such​a​fact​as​a​fact.​Rather,​we​thought​we​must​not​have​any​ambition.”208​ According​to​the​critic​Murakami​Tadahisa,​it​was​film’s​“reportage-​style”​ realistic​expressions​that​could​make​“truly​good​war​military​films”​that​ would​go​beyond​“simple​publicity​and​propaganda.”209 ​ Shimazaki​ highly​ valued​ the​ “light​ effects​ with​ depth”​ that​ avoided​ “banal​and​uncharacteristic​flood​[flat]​frontal​light,”​which​could​typically​ be​observed​in​melodramatic​films​produced​at​Shochiku’s​Ofuna​studio,​ according​ to​ Shimazaki.210​ In​ a​ discussion​ with​ Shimazaki,​ Isayama​ explained​how​attentive​he​was​to​compositional​use​of​lighting,​especially​ in​the​scenes​at​night:​“I​tried​three​different​effect​lightings​with​different​ heights​and​angles—lights​to​the​main​character​in​front,​the​one​in​the​ middle,​and​the​atmospheric​characters​at​the​back.​.​.​.​And​I​controlled​ the​three​layers​skillfully.”211 ​ In​long​shots,​soldiers​are​depicted​in​silhouette​and​contrasted​visibly​ (and​ symbolically)​ to​ bright​ spots.​ When​ Commander​ Okada​ (Kosugi​ Isamu)​reads​an​imperial​message​to​his​army,​most​of​the​soldiers​turn​ their​backs​to​the​camera​and​form​a​shadowy​space​that​occupies​more​ than​half​of​the​screen​from​the​bottom.​Only​the​captain​who​speaks​the​ emperor’s​words​is​in​a​bright​spot.​Similarly,​before​the​entire​army​leaves​ 220  chapter​4

for​a​general​attack,​the​captain​talks​to​his​soldiers​with​his​sword​raised​in​ front​of​him.​As​he​moves,​the​sword​reflects​top​light​and​shines​in​front​of​ the​army​of​shadows.​Then,​in​an​extreme​long​shot,​the​soldiers​in​silhouette​march​from​a​dark​space​through​a​gate​of​the​army​base​to​the​bright​ fields​in​front​of​them. ​ Even​for​close-​ups​Isayama​emphasized​his​sense​of​composition​and​ his​choice​of​“the​power​of​blackness”​as​the​key​tone​of​the​film.​Isayama​ claimed​that​when​he​used​close-​ups,​he​“tried​to​improve​the​effects​that​ Lee​Garmes​showed​in​Shanghai Express​.​.​.​delicately,​rationally,​and​creatively.”212​ Garmes’s​ lighting​ on​ Marlene​ Dietrich​ fully​ employed​ one-​ directional​light​from​atop.​Shadows​created​by​a​limited​spotlight​on​Dietrich’s​face​in​a​dark​setting​enhanced​the​glamour.​Isayama​did​try​to​imitate​ Garmes’s​lighting​technique.​He​never​placed​any​light​at​the​same​height​ as​the​actors,​but​positioned​2​kW​spotlights​approximately​four​feet​higher​ than​the​actors’​faces​with​35-​degree​angles,​providing​one-​directional​light​ from​atop.​He​also​had​the​top​of​the​actors’​caps​cut​off​“in​order​to​avoid​ disgusting​high​light​reflecting​the​top​light,​which​would​distort​the​balanced​impression​of​lighting​on​their​faces.”213​However,​Isayama’s​aim​was​ not​simply​to​enhance​the​glamour​of​Japanese​soldiers’​faces​but​to​compositionally​“balance​the​dark​shadow​on​the​upper​half​of​an​actor’s​face​ because​of​a​visor​of​his​cap​and​the​detail​of​his​facial​skin.”214​When​Private​Kiguchi​(Izawa​Ichiro)​finally​returns​on​a​rainy​night​from​his​scout​ mission,​other​soldiers​welcome​him.​The​faces​of​the​soldiers​are​depicted​ in​close-​ups​one​by​one,​facing​toward​the​camera.​The​top​half​of​each​ face​is​in​shade​because​of​the​light​from​above,​but​their​eyes​catch​some​ lights​and​glare.​These​close-​ups​are​the​results​of​Isayama’s​careful​compositional​balancing​acts​with​light​and​shadow​(fig.​4.9).215 ​ To​ achieve​ a​ compositional​ balance,​ Isayama​ also​ chose​ “blackish​ makeup​instead​of​the​conventional​yellow”​for​the​Japanese​soldiers.216​ Richard​ Angst’s​ choice​ of​ makeup​ for​ Kosugi​ Isamu’s​ face​ on​ The New Earth​the​previous​year​was​inspiring​in​this​regard.​Kosugi​played​the​protagonist​in​Five Scouts​as​well​as​The New Earth.​Angst​decided​not​to​use​ the​conventional​yellow​or​white​makeup​for​Kosugi​“after​experimenting​ with​several​types.”217​According​to​Angst,​the​choice​was​“for​the​purpose​ of​realism.”218​Sawamura​Tsutomu,​a​screenwriter​at​Toho​who​was​a​central​figure​in​publicizing​the​nationalization​of​film​by​the​Japanese​militarist​government,​wrote​in​his​review​that​the​lighting​in​Five Scouts​“gave​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  221

figure​4.9  The​faces​of​the​soldiers​represented​the​documentary​spirit.​ Five Scouts​(1938).

shadows​to​characters,​with​very​careful​use​of​side​and​top​lighting,​and​ expressed​solemn​depth.”219​Apparently,​Sawamura​was​trying​to​make​a​ connection​between​the​use​of​shadows​in​Five Scouts​and​nationalist​sentiment​in​Japan.​Thomas​LaMarre​asserts,​“Generally,​in​these​essays​from​ the​early​1930s​in​which​he​[Tanizaki]​continually​explores​the​limitations​ of​Western​technologies​like​electric​lights​and​photography,​the​central​ issue​was​what​kind​of​lighting​will​allow​for​a​sublime​experience​of​the​ Japanese​face.”220​Shimazaki’s​theory​and​Isayama’s​practice​of​documentarism​were​certainly​formulated​in​accordance​with​Tanizaki’s​thoughts​ in​In Praise of Shadow.​But​instead​of​exploring​the​“limitations​of​Western​ technologies,”​Shimazaki​and​Isayama​expanded​Hollywood​ideas​of​generic​lighting,​compositional​lighting,​and​even​star​lighting​in​their​formulation​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow. ​ The​aesthetics​of​shadow,​which​was​practiced​in​Five Scouts​and​praised​ critically,​could​be​regarded​as​an​attempt​to​recoup​the​natural​sublime​ from​the​technological​sublime.​Historians​of​American​culture​such​as​ Leo​Marx,​John​F.​Kasson,​and​David​Nye​have​regarded​the​technological​sublime​as​an​important​element​in​the​formation​of​the​specifically​ 222  chapter​4

American​sense​of​national​identity,​purpose,​and​destiny​in​the​nineteenth​ and​early​twentieth​centuries,​as​the​film​historian​Kristen​Whissel​points​ out.221​Nye​argues​that​the​experience​of​the​technological​sublime​generates​feelings​of​awe,​astonishment,​shock,​and​even​terror​that​momentarily​ overpower​mental​faculties​and​temporarily​reduce​the​spectator​to​a​state​ of​dumbfoundedness,​but​then​ultimately​propel​him​or​her​into​a​state​of​ mental​action​that​allows​for​rational​comprehension​of​that​which​initially​ seemed​inconceivable.​The​privileged​place​granted​to​the​power​of​inventors,​engineers,​technicians,​and​financiers​symbolizes,​by​extension,​the​ privileged​place​occupied​by​the​nation,​as​“the​American​sublime​transformed​the​individual’s​experience​of​immensity​and​awe​into​a​belief​in​ national​greatness.”222​In​turn,​Japanese​critics​and​cinematographers​emphasized​that​it​was​the​awe​of​naturalism​that​could​grant​the​privileged​ place​to​Japan.​This​was​surely​a​slanted​argument.​Limited​material​conditions​prevented​them​from​achieving​the​technological​sublime,​but​conversely​allowed​them​to​explore​ways​of​documenting​the​natural​sublime.​ Realistic​lighting​that​incorporated​shadow​in​a​significant​manner​was​one​ such​way.​The​human​spirit​was​also​considered​part​of​the​natural​sublime. ​ According​ to​ Francis​ Guerin,​ representations​ in​ and​ of​ light​ can​ be​ grouped​under​two​umbrellas.​First,​from​Plato​through​the​Middle​Ages​ and​into​the​nineteenth​century,​light​was​used​in​the​service​of​mythical​ and​mystical​narratives​that​searched​for​metaphysical​truth.​Second,​from​ the​work​of​Euclid,​through​Galileo,​to​Einstein’s​theory​of​energy​quanta,​ light​has​functioned​in​the​realm​of​science​in​attempts​to​quantify​and​ rationalize​the​elemental​universe.223​These​two​traditions​of​the​mythical​ and​the​scientific​uses​of​light​create​tension​in​the​aesthetics​of​shadow:​ a​fascination​with​modern​technology—that​is,​Hollywood​low-​key​lighting—and​a​nostalgic​longing​for​a​premodern​nature​of​the​sublime.​The​ documentary​spirit​was​a​method​of​pursuing​the​latter​with​full​support​ of​the​available​technology. ​ The​exceptionally​high​praise​of​Stagecoach​( John​Ford,​1939)​from​the​ Japanese​Association​of​Film​Technology​is​noteworthy.​In​the​July​1940​ issue​of​Eiga to Gijutsu,​Stagecoach​was​called​“a​rare​pleasant​film​of​these​ years,”​ and​ its​ cinematography​ noted​ as​ “stand[ing]​ out​ among​ recent​ American​ cinema.”224​ Mimura​ Akira,​ a​ Japanese​ cinematographer​ who​ started​his​career​in​Hollywood​in​the​1920s,​was​“most​impressed​by​the​ location​of​the​vast​desert”​in​Stagecoach​and​wrote,​“The​infinitely​enorthe​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  223

mous​plain​enables​people​to​look​at​it​and​have​some​grand​thoughts.​.​.​.​ Burt​Glennon’s​cinematography​does​not​have​anything​special​but​still​ is​ excellent.”225​ Mimura​ was​ obviously​ struck​ by​ the​ natural​ sublime​ in​ America​that​is​represented​in​the​film,​but​he​was​not​awed​by​the​technological​manipulation​that​had​captured​it.​Instead​of​praising​the​technological​sublime​that​was​achieved​in​the​Hollywood​film,​Mimura​stated,​“I​ sometimes​think​of​how​we​could​bring​our​films​outside​where​we​could​ utilize​natural​landscape​as​background.”226​Even​though​Mimura​did​not​ speak​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​per​se,​he​suggested​a​road​that​Japanese​ cinematographers​could​take​without​fully​imitating​Hollywood’s​methods:​documenting​the​natural​sublime. ​ The​ same​ issue​ of​ Eiga to Gijutsu​ translated​ an​ interview​ with​ Burt​ Glennon,​who​emphasized​his​choice​of​an​unconventional​lighting​style​ in​Stagecoach.​Glennon​said​that​he​took​a​completely​different​method​of​ lighting​to​the​sets​and​the​people​from​conventional​ones.​For​instance,​ whenever​he​used​a​25​mm​wide-​angle​lens,​he​captured​low​ceilings​of​the​ sets​within​the​frame.​He​did​not​use​the​conventional​backlight,​either,​ which​was​often​called​the​“Hollywood​halo.”​Still,​Glennon​claimed​that​ he​was​able​to​obtain​a​sense​of​depth,​as​it​should​have​been.​Even​though​ it​was​difficult​for​him​to​achieve​a​sense​of​three-​dimensionality​without​ using​backlight,​he​thought​it​was​an​appropriate​choice​to​use​backlight​ only​when​a​diegetic​lighting​source​was​available,​such​as​the​light​coming​ from​ outside​ of​ a​ door,​ outside​ of​ a​ window,​ and​ from​ a​ streetlamp,​ in​ order​to​represent​the​atmosphere​of​the​West​at​that​time.227​The​sense​ of​realism​and​the​compositional​use​of​lighting​that​Glennon​pursued​in​ Stagecoach​were​considered​to​be​what​Japanese​cinematographers​should​ follow.​If​Glennon’s​attempt​was​unconventional​in​Hollywood,​that​was​ even​better.​Besides,​to​the​interviewer’s​question,​“The​production​cost​ will​become​lower​with​such​[dark]​lighting,​won’t​it?”​Glennon​answered,​ “Yes,​I​believe​so​in​this​film.”228​It​would​be​the​perfect​model​for​Japanese​ cinematographers.229 ​ In​contrast​to​the​high​praise​of​Five Scouts,​Shimazaki​severely​criticized​ the​lighting​ scheme​of​Shochiku’s​ war​and​biographical​ film​Tank Commander Nishizumi​(Nishizumi sensha cho den,​Yoshimura​Kozaburo,​1940),​ whose​battle​sequences​were​shot​in​Shizu​of​Chiba​prefecture,​the​same​ location​that​Five Scouts​used.​Shimazaki​considered​the​interiors​of​the​ base​camp,​supposedly​lit​only​by​candles,​to​be​too​bright​and​“unnatu224  chapter​4

ral”​and​concluded​that​the​film’s​cinematography​“ended​up​as​superficial​beauty”​when​it​should​have​depicted​the​“real​battlefields.”230​Kaita​ Seiichi,​a​cinematographer​for​news​films,​who​in​reality​had​been​in​the​ battlefields​with​Nishizumi,​agreed​with​Shimazaki​and​criticized​that​the​ film’s​lighting​for​the​night​scenes​in​the​battlefields​was​“irresponsibly”​too​ bright​and​too​beautiful.231 ​ Before​the​opening​credit,​Tank Commander Nishizumi​includes​a​message​from​Yoshimura​Kozaburo,​the​director​of​the​film.​The​opening​of​ the​message​reads,​“In​Tank Commander Nishizumi,​I​tried​to​depict​the​ spirit​of​our​soldiers​and​the​reality​of​battles​of​tanks​during​this​war.”​The​ opening​credits​with​the​title​song​about​Nishizumi​are​followed​by​a​series​ of​shots​of​the​landscape​of​Kumamoto,​Nishizumi’s​hometown,​and​then​ news​footage​of​the​battles​in​China.​The​male​voice​narrates​how​Nishizumi​grew​up​to​become​a​commander​of​a​tank​unit.​The​lighting​of​this​ footage​is​ambient​under​the​sunlight,​which​supports​Yoshimura’s​opening​ message​that​emphasized​the​realism​of​the​scene. ​ What​we​see​in​the​following​drama​sequences​is​a​lighting​scheme​that​ follows​the​Hollywood​style​for​the​genre—but​not​the​one​that​the​advocates​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​had​insisted​on​for​the​future​of​Japanese​filmmaking.​Shadows​are​used,​but​in​most​cases​they​function​to​enhance​the​effect​of​glamorous​three-​point​lighting​in​the​shots​that​follow.​ The​struggles​of​the​superhero,​played​by​a​star,​in​the​seemingly​never-​ ending​war​and​his​eventual​determination​are​emphasized​by​this​lighting​ scheme.​Once​again,​brightness​is​the​key​and​darkness​serves​it.​Preparation​of​meals​under​the​bright​sunlight​is​followed​by​a​medical​team​ marching​by,​carrying​dead​soldiers.​A​dark​shadow​is​cast​on​the​face​of​ Nishizumi​(played​by​a​top​star​of​Shochiku,​Uehara​Ken)​in​a​transitional​ close-​up,​in​which​he​changes​his​facial​expression.​The​following​scene,​ which​ depicts​ suffering​ soldiers,​ is​ even​ darker.​ While​ his​ unit​ spends​ a​ rainy​night​at​a​camp​lit​only​by​candles,​a​weary-​looking​Nishizumi​says,​ “The​war​has​just​begun.​It​will​be​long​and​tough.”​After​looking​around​ at​soldiers​suffering​from​diarrhea,​high​fever,​and​nervous​breakdowns,​he​ turns​his​back​to​the​camera​and​walks​out.​In​front​of​dim​backlight,​his​ back​is​displayed​in​silhouette.​Nishizumi​is​wounded​in​the​leg​during​the​ following​battle​scene​on​a​rainy​night.​Even​though​bombs,​firearms,​and​ the​shining​metal​of​tanks​create​a​spectacle​of​light​and​shadow,​there​is​ no​excitement​of​victory​here,​but​the​scene​ends​with​a​close-​up​of​Nishithe​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  225

zumi’s​wounded​leg​silhouetted​in​front​of​a​shiny​puddle.​Such​darkness,​ both​literal​and​symbolical,​is​countered​in​the​following​scene​by​a​close-​ up​of​Nishizumi​in​typical​three-​point​lighting.​Even​though​superior​officers​suggest​that​he​go​rest​at​a​rear​base,​Nishizumi​declares,​“I​will​never​ withdraw.”​ His​ heroic​ determination​ is​ emphasized​ by​ Hollywood-​style​ three-​point​lighting.​Later,​Nishizumi​tells​his​friend​(Ryu​Chishu)​that​he​ has​no​intention​of​going​back​to​Japan​but​plans​to​be​buried​under​the​ soil​of​the​Asian​continent.​He​does​not​even​have​a​message​for​the​people​ in​his​hometown.​Here​Nishizumi​achieves​transcendental​status—that​of​ the​gunshin​(war​god).​Such​three-​point​lighting​is​repeated​in​the​following​scene​of​a​snowy​night.​Nishizumi​helps​a​Chinese​woman​(played​by​ the​young​Japanese​actress​Kuwano​Michiko)​who​has​just​given​birth​to​ her​daughter​in​a​devastated​house.​Even​though​there​are​only​lit​candles​ visible​in​the​scene,​both​Kuwano’s​close-​ups​(fig.​4.10)​and​Nishizumi’s​ (shot​reverse​shots)​beautifully​use​only​key​lights,​fill​lights,​and​backlights​ in​soft​tones.​The​conspicuous​moral​structure​of​Japanese​militarism,​in​ which​the​Japanese​army​protects​the​innocent​natives​from​the​brutal​Chinese​Resistance​Army,​is​enhanced​by​the​three-​point​lighting.232 ​ In​the​formation​of​the​discursive​and​practical​tendency​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow,​a​number​of​cinematographers​and​critics​criticized​Shochiku​films​for​being​too​bright.​Shimazaki​was​one​of​them.​In​the​name​of​ Japanese​taste,​Tanaka​Toshio​also​criticized​Shochiku’s​lighting​on​every​ occasion.​In​1940,​sharing​Angst’s​view​on​lighting​and​close-​ups​(his​term​ “murderous”​lighting,​in​particular),​Tanaka​praised​Sternberg’s​Shanghai Express,​criticized​films​produced​at​Shochiku’s​Ofuna​studio,​and​then​insisted​on​the​development​of​unique​Japanese​cinematic​lighting.​Tanaka​ claimed,​“The​U.S.​release​print​of​Shanghai Express​was​beautiful.​I​did​not​ see​even​a​piece​of​dust​in​the​pitch-​black​night​scenes.​I​was​astonished.​ Using​numerous​lamps,​which​could​have​ended​up​with​overlighting,​the​ film​achieved​such​low-​key​photography.​In​comparison,​Ofuna​films​are​ hopeless.​Overlit​and​overdeveloped.​ It​is​not​even​called​high​key.​The​ faces​of​their​actors​are​too​white​and​mask-​like​as​if​being​photographed​ at​a​cheap​studio​of​a​department​store.​The​tones​on​those​faces​remind​ me​of​death​masks.​They​cannot​be​called​photography.”233​He​continued,​ “[Photographers]​should​appreciate​‘shadow.’​They​should​know​the​value​ and​the​taste​of​it​and​think​about​how​to​use​it.”234​He​believed​Japanese​ cinematographers​ could​ achieve​ this​ because​ they​ had​ “delicate”​ senses​ 226  chapter​4

figure​4.10  The​face​of​a​Chinese​woman​(played​by​the​Japanese​actress​Kuwano​ Michiko)​is​displayed​in​three-​point​lighting.​Tank Commander Nishizumi​(1940).

and​techniques​of​color​and​lighting​that​had​been​proved​in​the​beauty​of​ Japanese​traditional​textiles.235​Tanaka​denounced​Shochiku’s​executives​ who​were​so​used​to​their​habits​of​insisting​on​“more​brightness”​that​they​ did​not​understand​the​“beauty​of​darkness”​and​how​“valuable​and​tasteful​ it​is.”236​Curiously,​such​criticism​of​Shochiku​films​was​often​connected​ to​their​lack​of​Japaneseness.​Tsumura​Hideo​of​the​Tokyo Asahi Shinbun​ newspaper​called​Shochiku’s​The Tree of Love​(Aizen katsura,​Nomura​Hiromasa),​the​top​film​of​1938,​“a​banal​and​outdated​tearjerker”​and​claimed​ that​Shochiku​films​of​this​sort​did​not​“seem​to​have​the​intention​of​working​actively​for​the​Japanese​culture.”237 ​ Considering​its​lighting​scheme,​Shochiku​film​was​not​a​Hollywood​ imitation​but​rather​an​extension​of​the​Japanese​Kabuki​style.​Even​its​star​ lighting,​which​incorporated​Hollywood’s​three-​point​lighting,​was​bent​to​ a​Kabuki​style,​as​Hayashi​Chojiro’s​star​image​displayed.​In​contrast,​the​ aesthetics​of​shadow​did​not​stem​from​traditional​Japanese​aesthetics,​but​ instead​expanded​Hollywood’s​generic​and​compositional​lighting.​It​was​ quite​a​reversal​of​fortune.​The​advocates​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​justified​their​lighting​scheme,​which​had​originated​in​Hollywood,​by​resortthe​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  227

ing​to​the​appreciation​of​shadow​and​darkness​in​Japanese​architecture.​ Then​they​criticized​Shochiku​films​for​not​being​Japanese​enough​because​ they​were​not​dark.​The​conflict​between​the​aesthetics​of​shadow,​originally​addressed​by​the​cinematographers​at​Toho​and​critics​who​tried​to​ challenge​the​dominance​of​Shochiku​in​the​film​industry,​and​bright​and​ cheerful​Shochiku​cinema​was​not​between​Japaneseness​and​Americanism.​ In​ order​ to​ challenge​ the​ dominance​ of​ Shochiku,​ the​ Toho​ group​ formulated​the​discourse​and​the​practice​by​bending​Hollywood​cinematography​in​the​name​of​realism,​documentarism,​and​Japanese​aesthetics.​ Yet,​especially​after​the​attack​on​Pearl​Harbor,​when​Hollywood​films​became​an​enemy’s​medium,​such​a​conflict​was​consciously​turned​into​a​ dichotomy:​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​was​the​cultural​document​of​Japan​ and​bright​cinema​was​the​vulgar​entertainment​and​the​representative​of​ Americanism.​Under​such​conditions,​Kido​Shiro,​who​had​rejected​the​ Hollywood-​style​lighting​scheme​in​the​1920s,​turned​to​defend​Shochiku​ films​as​“bright,​healthy,​and​entertaining,”​referring​to​Hollywood​films​ and​emphasizing​their​value​in​Japanese​society.​Kido​said: What?​ Are​ Shochiku​ films​ produced​ at​ its​ Ofuna​ studio​ excessively​ bright?​Are​they​lacking​contrasts?​It​is​not​fruitful​to​say​such​things.​ Cinema​must​be​bright.​I​don’t​want​to​say​bad​things​about​Toho​films,​ but​they​say​that​The Battle of Kawanakajima​is​so​dark​that​they​cannot​ see​it​well.​I​am​against​making​such​a​film.​Shochiku​films​are​clearly​ visible​ in​ any​ local​ theaters​ of​ any​ regions.​ It​ is​ the​ most​ important​ issue.​It​is​impossible​to​show​the​faces​of​[our​stars]​Tanaka​Kinuyo​ and​Uehara​Ken​only​vaguely.​I​feel​sorry​for​my​audience​if​that​is​the​ case.​I​keep​telling​our​directors​and​cinematographers​to​display​details​ in​brightness.​Displaying​details​of​contrasts​in​shadow​seems​to​be​regarded​as​the​great​technique​under​the​current​conditions​of​Japanese​ cinema​though.​I​think​it​is​useless​to​make​much​effort​in​it.​We​cannot​ appreciate​details​of​darkness​in​local​theaters.​Look​at​American​films​ anyway.​They​are​brighter​than​Ofuna​films.​Cinema​should​be​bright​ in​nature.238 In​spite​of​severe​criticism​that​questioned​the​realism​of​the​lighting,​Tank Commander Nishizumi​was​successful.​It​was​selected​as​the​second​best​ film​ of​ 1940​ in​ the​ critics’​ poll​ in​ Kinema Junpo,​ and​ was​ also​ the​ most​ profitable​film​for​Shochiku​that​year.​The​success​of​the​film​was​evidence​ 228  chapter​4

of​the​hybridity​of​Japanese​film​culture​during​wartime.​Even​if​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​was​an​influential​tendency​that​could​affect​films​with​ the​most-​popular​stars​of​the​time​(Hasegawa​and​Yamada),​it​was​not​the​ only​method​of​lighting​in​Japanese​cinema.​No​matter​how​strongly​the​ documentary​spirit​was​pushed,​it​did​not​become​the​core​formulation​ of​Japanese​national​cinema.​Taketomi​Yoshio,​a​cinematographer​at​Shochiku’s​Ofuna​studio,​did​not​subscribe​to​the​idea​of​shadow​but​justified​ the​brightness​of​Shochiku​films​from​a​standpoint​of​usefulness​in​Japanese​society.​According​to​Taketomi,​the​Ofuna​studio​as​a​whole​was​aiming​for​bright​tones​because​many​of​their​projects​contained​“healthy”​ and​“constructive​themes.”​Their​choice​was​necessitated​by​the​themes​of​ the​films​and​it​was​not​for​brightness​per​se​on​the​surface.​Taketomi​concluded,​“It​is​important​for​healthy​films​to​have​bright​tones.​Our​efforts​ lie​in​how​to​express​thematic​motifs,​and​constructive​themes​are​necessitated​by​the​nation​and​expected​by​its​people.​I​believe​that​the​brightness​of​Ofuna​films​might​not​be​artistic​but​practical​and​useful​to​society.”239​Despite​the​success​of​Tank Commander Nishizumi,​Shochiku’s​ Kido​claimed,​“I​want​to​avoid​making​more​films​like​Nishizumi”​in​order​ not​to​lose​female​fans​for​Shochiku​films.240​To​Kido,​even​Nishizumi​was​ too​dark.​The​close-​up​of​Uehara​Ken​might​not​have​been​as​sublime​as​ the​faces​in​Five Scouts,​but​it​was​so​glamorous​that​it​helped​Shochiku​ with​its​bright​and​cheerful​tone​to​maintain​its​popularity. ​ Sasaki​Taro,​who​became​the​head​of​the​developing-​technology​section​ at​Shochiku​in​1936,​published​the​essay​“How​to​Photograph​Motion​Pictures”​(“Katsudo​shashin​satsuei​ho”)​in​which​he​illustrated​how​he​practiced​lighting​during​shooting.​Sasaki’s​essay​was​published​in​A Guide to the Latest Science of Photography VI​(Saishin shashin kagaku taikei dai 6 kai),​ a​1935​textbook​for​cinematographers.​Other​contributors​included​Ushihara​ Kiyohiko​ (Shochiku​ director)​ and​ Masutani​ Rin​ (film-​developing​ specialist​at​Shochiku).​If​Cinematography Reader​had​been​the​textbook​ edited​mainly​by​members​of​the​Toho-​based​Japanese​Association​of​Film​ Technology,​A Guide to the Latest Science of Photography VI​was​the​counterpart.​Sasaki’s​demonstration​served​as​a​model​lighting​arrangement​in​the​ Shochiku​method,​which​was​simultaneous​evidence​that​another​major​ tendency—bright​and​cheerful​lighting—existed​in​the​1930s. ​ Sasaki’s​ essay​ was​ accompanied​ by​ reproductions​ of​ actual​ films,​ in​ which​we​can​detect​no​palpable​distinction​between​high-​key​and​low-​key​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  229

tones,​especially​in​close-​up​photos.​In​his​example​of​“relatively​high-​key​ lighting”​(fig.​4.11),​Sasaki​used​eight​kino​lights​(frontal​diffuse​light​with​ two​1​kW​Lg-​127​Mazda​lamps),​five​sun​spotlights​(3​kW)​for​a​long​shot​ of​a​room,​and​two​kino​lights​and​one​sun​spotlight​(3​kW)​for​a​close-​up​ of​an​actress.​On​the​other​hand,​in​his​example​of​“relatively​low-​key​lighting”​(fig.​4.12),​Sasaki​used​four​kino​lights​and​four​sun​spotlights​(3​kW​ each)​for​a​long​shot​of​a​room​and​one​kino​light​and​two​sun​spotlights​ (3​kW​and​2​kW).​For​both​examples,​Sasaki​used​the​same​lens​(Carl​Zeiss​ Biotar​f​=​40​mm,​f/1,​4),​the​same​film​(Eastman​Supersensitive​Type​ Two​Panchromatic),​and​the​same​f-​stop​(f/2.3),​except​for​the​close-​up​of​ the​low-​key​shot​(but​it​was​f/1.9,​which​was​quite​close—Sasaki​regards​ f/1.8–2.3​as​the​“standard,”​with​which​a​“relatively​balanced​bright​print​ can​be​obtained”​with​supersensitive​panchromatic​film).241 “Harry” mimura Akira: toho’s man from Hollywood

While​ Henry​ Kotani,​ the​ first​ cinematographer​ from​ Hollywood,​ was​ not​able​to​achieve​success​at​Shochiku​in​the​1920s​during​the​supposed​ period​of​Americanization,​“Harry”​Mimura​Akira,​another​cinematographer​from​Hollywood,​became​the​ace​cinematographer​at​Toho​in​the​late​ 1930s​to​early​1940s​during​the​supposed​period​of​ultranationalism.​Mimura’s​success​was​a​typical​example​of​the​complex​relationship​between​ the​aesthetics​of​shadow​and​Hollywood,​as​well​as​of​the​hybrid​film​culture​of​wartime​Japan. ​ Mimura​was​aware​of​the​limited​material​conditions​in​Japanese​cinema​ and​at​the​same​time​was​deeply​concerned​with​the​technological​innovations​in​Hollywood.​While​he​constantly​showed​his​consciousness​to​ realistic​lighting​in​his​published​articles​about​Gregg​Toland,​his​coworker​ in​Hollywood,​Mimura​tried​to​achieve​what​Toland​did​in​a​different​geopolitical​location​and​an​unfavorable​technological​situation.​Even​though​ it​was​written​in​1948,​after​the​war,​Mimura’s​writing​on​Toland’s​work​in​ The Best Years of Our Lives​(William​Wyler,​1946)​illustrated​his​deep​concern​ for​ documentary-​style​ cinematography.​ Mimura​ noted,​ “The​ most​ notable​issue​in​the​cinematography​of​this​film​is​crafty​lighting.​Throughout​the​film,​he​[Toland]​creates​vivid​and​sharp​images.​Appropriate​to​ its​content,​the​tone​of​the​film​appears​as​that​of​a​documentary​film.”242​ What​was​fortunate​for​Mimura​was​that​Toland​was​not​a​typical​representative​of​Hollywood​cinematography​but​an​exceptional​figure​who​persis230  chapter​4

tently​explored​“the​illusion​of​presence”​on​the​screen.243​Toland’s​pursuit​ of​his​realism,​which​was​a​shared​interest​with​Mimura,​was​in​accordance​ with​the​discourse​of​the​documentary​spirit​in​Japan.​Mimura​was​able​to​ maintain​his​bond​to​Hollywood​by​constantly​asserting​his​thoughts​on​ the​documentary​style​of​cinematography​while​he​simultaneously​became​ an​advocate​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​in​Japanese​filmmaking. ​ Mimura​was​the​first​Japanese​cinematographer​who​obtained​membership​in​Hollywood’s​cinematographers’​union​(International​Alliance​ of​Theatrical​Stage​Employees,​Local​659).​After​studying​at​the​New​York​ Institute​of​Photography​with​Carl​Gregory,​D.​W.​Griffith’s​company​man,​ Mimura​started​his​career​as​an​assistant​to​the​acclaimed​cinematographer​ George​Barnes​in​Hollywood​in​the​late​1920s.​Toland​was​an​assistant​to​ Barnes​at​the​same​time.​One​of​the​first​works​of​Mimura​with​Barnes​ and​ Toland​ was​ Trespasser​ (Edmond​ Goulding,​ 1928),​ a​ star​ vehicle​ for​ Gloria​Swanson.244​Coincidentally,​the​camera​operator​was​Alvin​Wyckoff,​Henry​Kotani’s​mentor.​After​Barnes​left​the​Goldwyn​studio,​Mimura​ worked​for​Toland​until​November​1933. ​ In​1932,​Mimura​visited​Japan​briefly​in​order​to​take​care​of​his​sick​ father.​During​his​stay,​the​newly​established​Oriental​Film​Company​asked​ Mimura​to​work​as​the​cinematography​supervisor​of​the​film​Namiko,​directed​by​Tanaka​Eizo.245​Namiko,​which​was​released​on​May​19,​1932,​was​ the​first​talking​picture​in​Japan​that​used​the​Western​Electric​(We)​sound​ system,​one​of​the​three​largest​talkie​systems​in​the​world.​Now​that​Mimura​had​often​been​reporting​from​Hollywood​on​new​film​technologies​ in​such​journals​as​Kinema Junpo,​he​was​hired​by​the​Oriental​Film​Company​to​assist​its​film​production​that​used​the​new​technology​from​the​ United​States.246 ​ Like​Kotani,​Mimura​ended​up​challenging​the​convention​of​lighting​ practice​in​Japan,​and​the​result​was​not​entirely​appreciated.​According​to​ Mimura,​he​decided​to​fully​employ​top​light,​following​the​lighting​style​of​ Hollywood​for​Western​architecture.​Mimura​claimed,​“The​most​notable​ thing​during​the​production​of​Namiko​was​that​I​was​able​to​use​sufficient​ light.​It​was​very​rare​to​place​lamps​on​scaffolds​and​light​from​above.​I​ used​as​many​as​eleven​sunspot​lights​as​the​major​lighting​source​for​the​ characters​and​the​sets,​and​I​scarcely​used​sidelights​on​the​ground.​As​a​ result,​I​think​we​have​completed​a​film​that​looks​very​different​from​other​ Japanese​films​in​the​past.”247​According​to​a​report​in​Kinema Junpo,​the​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  231

figure​4.11  An​example​of​“relatively​high-​key​lighting”​in​Shochiku​films.​ Reprinted​from​Sasaki​Taro,​“Katsudo​shashin​satsuei​ho,”​91.

figure​4.12  An​example​of​“relatively​low-​key​lighting”​in​Shochiku​films.​ Reprinted​from​Sasaki​Taro,​“Katsudo​shashin​satsuei​ho,”​94.

newly​constructed​dark​stage​of​the​Oriental​Film​Company​was​equipped​ with​nine​3​kW​sunspots,​ two​2​kW​sunspots,​ thirty​side​lamps,​twenty​ top​ lamps,​ and​ two​ strips.248​ Still,​ in​ order​ to​ recreate​ Hollywood-​style​ lighting,​Mimura​needed​to​borrow​more​3​kW​lamps​from​pcL,​led​by​ Uemura​Taiji,​son​of​Sumizaburo,​who​had​established​the​Oriental​Film​ Company.249 ​ It​was​true​that​Mori​Iwao,​the​screenwriter​of​Namiko,​who​would​later​ become​an​executive​of​Toho,​intended​to​make​Namiko​something​new.​ Namiko​was​based​on​Cuckoo,​a​popular​novel​by​Tokutomi​Roka,​which​ had​been​turned​into​shinpa​plays​numerous​times,​as​well​as​films,​including​the​one​with​Kurishima​Sumiko.​The​story​of​Cuckoo​was​set​in​the​late​ Meiji​period,​during​the​First​Sino-​Japanese​War​of​1894–95.​Mori​turned​ Cuckoo​into​a​contemporary​drama​set​in​1932.250​It​was​not​only​its​setting​ but​its​lighting​scheme—Mimura’s​choice​of​top​lights​as​the​major​lighting​source—that​created​a​new​mood​in​Namiko. ​ The​finale​of​the​film​is​a​showcase​of​Mimura’s​Hollywood-​style​lighting​of​the​time.​Namiko​is​on​her​deathbed,​not​on​a​futon​but​a​European-​ style​bed,​and​dreams​of​her​wedding.​Light​clearly​comes​from​above,​as​ Mimura​noted.​Then,​in​a​double​exposure,​Namiko’s​double​sits​up​on​the​ bed​while​her​real​body​stays​lying​down.​Next,​a​close-​up​of​Namiko​replaces​the​body​that​was​sitting​up.​Even​though​the​image​is​slightly​vague​ because​of​the​double​exposure,​the​close-​up​is​an​example​of​three-​point​ lighting.​Key​light​comes​from​frontal​right,​fill​light​comes​from​left,​which​ leaves​a​slight​shade​on​her​nose​on​the​right​side​of​her​face.​Top​light,​instead​of​backlight,​makes​the​rim​of​her​hair​shine.​Then​there​is​an​insert​of​ a​close-​up​of​her​wedding​ring​being​placed​on​her​finger—from​Namiko’s​ point​of​view.​The​ring​shines​at​the​center​of​the​frame:​effects​lighting​enhances​the​significance​of​the​central​object​to​the​narrative.​The​critic​Takeyama​Masanobu​called​the​finale​“the​scene​that​we​can​be​proud​of​in​ Japanese​filmmaking.”251​Financially,​however,​Namiko​was​not​successful​ at​all—We​requested​a​high​franchise​fee​and​the​Oriental​Film​Company​ disbanded​after​the​film.​Despite​its​internationally​dominant​status,​the​ We​sound​system​was​not​used​in​Japan​after​Namiko.252 ​ Still,​Mimura​and​Namiko​enhanced​aspirations​among​Japanese​critics​ and​cinematographers​toward​Hollywood​technology.​Kinema Shuho​published​a​special​issue​on​Namiko​on​May​20,​1932,​which​was​the​first​time​ the​journal​had​devoted​an​entire​issue​to​one​Japanese-​made​film.​In​the​ 234  chapter​4

issue,​the​story​of​Namiko​was​introduced​with​numerous​still​photos,​and​ leading​critics​of​the​time,​the​director,​and​the​screenwriter​discussed​the​ film​in​detail.​The​issue​also​included​an​essay​contributed​by​Mimura;​he​ discussed​how​he​challenged​the​conventions​of​film​lighting​in​Japan.​According​to​Tamai​Masao,​who​would​work​at​J.O.​Studios​after​1936​and​become​an​acclaimed​cinematographer​at​Toho,​Mimura​gave​a​talk​in​Kyoto​ in​front​of​Japanese​cinematographers​and​told​them​about​the​practices​ of​the​asc.​More​than​160​Japanese​cinematographers​and​their​assistants​ responded​quickly.​They​established​the​nsc,​the​counterpart​of​the​asc,​ on​June​15,​1932.253​At​that​point,​before​the​rise​of​the​discourse​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow,​Japanese​cinematographers​were​eagerly​trying​to​follow​ the​trend​in​Hollywood. ​ Cinematographers​took​action​alongside​the​dominant​studio​in​Japan.​ Right​ after​ the​ release​ of​ Namiko,​ Shochiku​ announced​ the​ production​ of​Cuckoo​with​Hayashi​Chojiro​as​Takeo,​Namiko’s​lover.​The​film​is​no​ longer​extant,​but​according​to​a​report​in​Kinema Shuho,​the​film​was​also​a​ “vividly​modern”​version.254​Obviously,​Shochiku​was​counterattacking​the​ Oriental​Film​Company,​and​then​pcL,​which​opened​“the​largest​talkie​ studio​in​Japan”​in​December​1932.​Kinema Shuho​reported​that​pcL​spent​ “nearly​65,000​yen​only​for​lighting​equipment,”​which​“luxuriously”​included​ twenty-​two​ sun​ spot​ lights,​ forty​ Ewing​ lights,​ one​ hundred​ top​ lights,​ and​ sairaton contororu​ (the​ system​ that​ could​ control​ lighting​ of​ the​entire​studio).255​Masutani​Rin,​who​had​been​the​department​head​ of​photo​developing​at​Shochiku​and​had​introduced​the​latest​techniques​ from​Hollywood,​such​as​fine-​grained​developing​that​used​borax​instead​ of​sodium​carbonate​as​a​stimulus,​moved​to​pcL​in​1931.256​It​was​natural​ for​Shochiku​to​be​supersensitive​to​pcL’s​every​action.​In​competition,​ Shochiku​had​to​move​out​from​the​old​Kamata​studio​and​open​a​new​ larger​studio​in​Ofuna​in​1936.​In​addition​to​equipment​for​talking​pictures,​each​stage​at​Ofuna​was​equipped​with​a​10​kW​sunspot​per​tsubo​ (approximately​3.3​meters​square)​on​the​ceiling​in​order​to​“strengthen​ top​light”​and​challenge​Toho’s​lighting​system.257 ​ Challenging​the​dominance​of​Shochiku,​pcL​succeeded​in​convincing​ Mimura​to​join​them​in​Japan​in​1934.​As​soon​as​Mimura​arrived​at​pcL’s​ studio​in​Kinuta,​Tokyo,​Mimura​placed​numerous​lamps​high​above​the​ sets​in​order​to​have​the​3/4​frontal-​top​key​lighting,​which​Miura​Mitsuo​ in​Cinematography Reader​called​“the​most​ideal”​in​order​to​achieve​three-​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  235

point​lighting.​As​he​had​done​in​Hollywood,​with​such​settings​of​light,​ Mimura​ preferred​ to​ use​ a​ photographic​ lens​ with​ 100​ mm​ long​ focal​ length,​which​could​focus​on​the​eyes,​nose,​and​mouth​of​an​actor​and​ make​it​easier​to​blur​the​background,​especially​with​a​diffusion​disc.258​ Miyajima​Yoshio,​a​cinematographer​at​Toho,​testifies​that​in​1933​Toho​ studio​was​equipped​with​650​kW​electricity,​while​other​studios​were​in​ the​500​kW​range,​and​Toho​used​numerous​top​and​side​lamps​to​sufficiently​supplement​the​key​light.259​Thus,​with​Mimura,​Toho​was​trying​ to​directly​transfer​Hollywood​technology​and​techniques​to​Japan​in​the​ early​1930s. ​ In​Journal of Wandering​(Horoki,​Kimura​Sotoji,​1935),​the​second​film​ that​ Mimura​ photographed​ at​ pcL,​ his​ signature​ lighting,​ which​ critics​ called​ “subtle​ high​ key”​ or​ “soft​ tones,”​ was​ clearly​ visible.260​ Even​ though​the​narrative​follows​the​early​struggling​years​of​the​female​novelist​Hayashi​Fumiko​(the​character’s​name​is​Fusako​in​the​film),​Mimura​ maintains​the​shining​three-​point​lighting​on​the​protagonist,​especially​ for​her​close-​ups.​When​Fusako,​at​this​point​a​waitress​in​a​café,​decides​to​ leave​her​lover,​Oyama,​a​gentle​womanizer,​the​close-​up​of​her​face​is​displayed​in​ideal​three-​point​lighting​(fig.​4.13).​Although​the​preceding​long​ shot​reveals​that​there​is​only​one​light​bulb​on​the​ceiling,​her​tears​and​ hair​shine​beautifully.​Even​in​the​climactic​scene,​in​which​Fusako​swallows​poison​and​commits​suicide,​the​three-​point​lighting​is​maintained​ in​the​low-​key​surrounding—her​eyes​and​hair​shine​without​any​diegetic​ lighting​source. ​ Critics​did​not​like​this​depiction​of​the​struggling​heroine​of​the​famous​ novel.​Shinohara​Yasushi​maintained,​“The​character​Fusako​in​Journal of Wandering,​the​novel,​is​anarchistic.​She​is​weeping​at​one​point,​but​becomes​cheerful​all​of​a​sudden,​and​then​turns​reckless​at​the​next​moment.​It​is​a​pity​that​there​is​no​difference​[in​appearance​of​the​heroine​ in​the​film​version]​between​the​times​when​she​feels​depressed​and​cheerful.​I​think​Natsukawa​[Shizue]​is​responsible​for​this.​She​is​too​beautiful​ to​play​the​part​of​Fusako.​Plus,​it​seems​that​the​film​does​not​intend​to​ make​her​look​dirty.​It​is​not​good​to​depict​Fusako​like​that.”261​Similarly,​ Otsuka​Kyoichi​argued,​“Natsukawa​Shizue’s​Fumiko​[sic]​only​looks​as​if​ she​is​a​spirited​but​affected​girl​from​a​nice​family​pretentiously​drinking​ sake​and​writing​poems.​Her​acting​skill​is​completely​different​from​an​ inexperienced​amateur,​but​she​does​not​look​like​the​character​at​all.​The​ 236  chapter​4

figure​4.13  The​face​of​Fusako​(Natsukawa​Shizue)​is​displayed​in​three-​point​ lighting.​Journal of Wandering​(1935).

character’s​misery​and​stupidity​is​not​expressed​even​when​she​comes​out​ in​front​of​customers​wearing​a​worn-​out​kimono.”262​The​heroine​Fusako​ was​played​by​Natsukawa​Shizue,​one​of​the​most​popular​stars​of​the​1920s​ and​1930s.​According​to​Hideaki​Fujiki,​Natsukawa​“accomplished​social​ respectability​in​harmonizing​such​new​values​as​sophistication​and​consumerism​with​spirituality,​which​was​a​motif​common​in​tendency​films​ and​national-​policy​films​produced​during​the​latter​half​of​the​1920s​and​ 1930s.”263​The​close-​ups​of​Fusako​were​supposed​to​be​an​ideal​representation​of​Natsukawa’s​star​image:​simultaneously​a​sophisticated​modern​ girl​on​the​surface​and​a​woman​who​embodied​spirituality​within.​Mimura’s​soft​three-​point​lighting​in​close-​ups​quite​obviously​contributed​ to​the​heroine’s​“too​beautiful”​appearance​in​the​film,​but​some​spectators​ indicated​that​the​“spirituality”​of​a​Japanese​woman​was​not​fully​represented​by​such​lighting.264​Kubokawa​(Sata)​Ineko​claimed​about​the​film,​ “I​have​never​seen​a​protagonist​with​such​lively​characteristics​in​Japanese​ films.”265​In​other​words,​under​Mimura’s​lighting​Natsukawa​looked​like​a​ Hollywood​star. ​ Hayashi​Chojiro​(soon​to​be​Hasegawa​Kazuo)​was​surely​aware​of​Mithe​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  237

mura’s​work​at​Toho​when​he​decided​to​move​there​from​Shochiku.​He​ praised​ Toho’s​ structure​ that​ “followed​ the​ American​ studios”​ and​ was​ particularly​impressed​by​the​company’s​cameras​and​lighting​equipment,​ which​were​“the​heart​of​the​film​studio.”266​He​also​said,​“Being​thirty​ years​old,​I​want​to​start​to​revitalize​my​career.​It​is​impossible​to​do​that​ at​Shochiku.​I​want​to​step​forward​and​have​decided​to​move​to​Toho.”267​ Chojiro Fan,​the​fan​magazine,​originally​reported​that​Mimura​would​be​ the​cinematographer​for​Tojuro’s Love.268 ​ When​he​started​working​at​Toho,​Mimura​was​initially​following​the​ cinematographic​tendency​in​Hollywood​after​the​advent​of​supersensitive​panchromatic​film,​which​eventually​resulted​in​the​development​of​ low-​key​lighting,​as​we​have​already​seen.​Throughout​the​1930s,​the​major​ concern​of​Hollywood​cinematographers​regarding​black-​and-​white​cinematography​ was​ tonal​ softness​ and​ crispness​ of​ images.​ The​ trend​ was​ toward​soft​tones:​first​initiated​by​the​introduction​of​incandescent​tungsten​lighting​that​gave​a​softer​effect​than​arc​lights,​which​made​a​hum​unsuitable​for​talking​pictures,​and​then​by​tactful​use​of​diffusers​throughout​ the​decade.​The​film​historian​Patrick​Ogle​claims​that​“heavily​diffused​ images,​soft​tonality,​and​shallow​depth​of​field”​characterized​Hollywood​ films​until​the​later​1930s.269​Barry​Salt​also​notes​that​incandescent​lighting,​which​provided​80​percent​of​film​lighting​in​1931,​produced​“attractive​soft-​edged​shadows​on​the​face”​when​used​for​figure​lighting.270​The​ soft​and​fine-​grain​(in​comparison​to​orthochromatic)​Eastman​Type​One​ panchromatic​emulsion​of​1928​was​followed​later​the​same​year​by​slightly​ faster​and​even​softer​Type​Two​emulsion,​and​then​in​February​1931​by​ Eastman​Supersensitive​Panchromatic​Negative,​a​stock​that​was​at​once​ materially​faster,​finer​grained,​and​softer​than​its​predecessors,​and​then​in​ March​1935​by​Eastman​Super​x​Panchromatic​Negative.271​The​film​historian​Charles​H.​Harpole​lists​a​number​of​films​of​the​1930s​with​a​“depth​ style”​that​used​“great​complexity​of​lighting​in​zones​and​the​deployment​ of​ two​ and​ three​ planes​ of​ important,​ interacting​ ‘business’​ within​ the​ space​of​single​film​frames,”​including​works​by​Gregg​Toland​and​George​ Barnes.272​But​Harpole​still​agrees​with​Ogle​in​terms​of​the​tendency​of​ soft​tonality:​“This​style​was​rendered​through​the​use​of​great​depth​of​ field,​but​not​with​highly​detailed,​sharp​focus.”273 ​ However,​it​was​not​the​“subtle​high​key”​and​“soft​tones”​that​were​ praised​in​the​work​of​Mimura​in​the​discursive​tendency​toward​the​aes238  chapter​4

thetics​of​shadow​in​the​late​1930s.​In​1938,​the​critic​Tsuchiya​Kiyoyuki​of​ the​Japanese​Association​of​Film​Technology​criticized​Mimura’s​use​of​ diffusers,​which,​according​to​Tsuchiya,​followed​“a​kind​of​trend”​in​Hollywood.274​The​asc​cinematographer​Charles​B.​Lang​Jr.​wrote​in​the​September​1933​issue​of​American Cinematographer: Diffusion​ is​ undoubtedly​ one​ of​ the​ most​ valuable​ aids​ to​ good​ dramatic​cinematography​ever​developed.​.​.​.​In​the​first​place,​diffusion​as​ a​whole​should​be​governed​to​a​great​extent​by​the​nature​of​the​story​ in​production;​clearly,​an​ultra​realistic​or​melodramatic​story,​such​as​ ‘Scarface,’​on​the​one​hand,​or​‘Jekyll​and​Hyde,’​on​the​other,​demands​ a​definite​harshness​and​contrast​in​the​photography;​clearly,​diffusion​ will​be​little​of​use​here.​The​same​is​true​of​broad​comedy,​where​high-​ key​lighting​must​flood​every​corner​of​the​set,​so​that​no​slightest​bit​of​ action​is​lost.​The​more​polished,​dramatic​comedy​and​comedy-​drama,​ on​the​other​hand,​are​usually​enhanced​by​a​consistent,​though​slight,​ diffusion​throughout.​Most​dramas,​of​course,​demand​a​greater​degree​ of​diffusion,​while​romantic​or​sentimental​plots​almost​always​call​for​ the​greatest​degree​of​diffusion​of​all.275 Tsuchiya​was​not​in​favor​of​such​a​trend,​based​on​his​inclination​toward​ realism​ in​ lighting.​ He​ claimed,​ “The​ close-​ups​ of​ Toyoda​ Masako​ in​ Mr.​Mimura​Akira’s​Writing Class​[Tsuzurikata kyoshitsu,​Yamamoto​Kajiro,​ 1938]​are​too​bright​throughout​the​film​because​of​using​diffusers.​As​such,​ the​woman​is​depicted​in​a​distorted​manner.”276 ​ What​these​critics​and​cinematographers​highly​valued​was​Mimura’s​ work​that​went​along​with​the​discourse​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow.​In​particular,​critics​praised​how​Mimura​successfully​managed​the​limited​material​conditions​in​Japan,​especially​referring​to​his​use​of​low-​quality​Fuji​ film​stock,​and​how​he​effectively​used​lighting​in​a​compositional​manner​ to​depict​Japanese​spaces​and​in​a​realistic​manner​to​enhance​the​sense​of​ natural​sublime. ​ Eiga Gijutsu​ praised​ Mimura’s​ work​ after​ 1940​ for​ his​ “well-​prepared​ and​careful​lighting,​which​was​perfectly​appropriate​for​Fuji​film​stock.”277​ Most​film​production​companies​in​Japan​used​Eastman​Kodak​film​stock​ in​the​1920s​to​early​1930s.​It​was​as​late​as​January​1937​when​the​Japanese​ film​company​Fuji​first​released​its​films​for​talkies.​In​September​of​the​ same​year,​a​law​that​would​control​importing​and​exporting​was​enforced​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  239

and​the​amount​of​imported​raw​film​was​reduced.​By​1939,​only​6.5​percent​film​stocks​were​imported,​and​the​number​became​zero​by​the​end​of​ 1941.​As​a​result,​Fuji​became​almost​the​sole​provider​of​film​stock​for​film​ production​companies.278 ​ However,​the​quality​of​Fuji’s​negative​film​was​quite​low.​In​the​July​1941​ issue​of​Eiga Junpo,​Tamura​Yukihiko​(manager​of​Paramount​Japan),​Midorikawa,​Mobara​Hideo​(former​cinematographer​for​Ozu​at​Shochiku),​ Hamamura​Yoshiyasu​(editor​at​Shochiku),​Iwabuchi​Kiichi​(special​effects​ cinematography​at​Toho),​and​Murayama​Junji​(recording​sound​division​ at​Toho)​discussed​Fuji​film​negative​stock.​Midorikawa​complained​that​ the​film​stock​was​“not​sensitive​enough​to​shadow.”​Tamura​confirmed:​“It​ is​easier​to​achieve​high​key​than​low​key,​isn’t​it?”279​Similarly,​in​1942,​the​ cinematographer​Sugiyama​Kohei​noted,​“With​the​quality​of​Japanese-​ made​ film,​ light​ sections​ and​ dark​ sections​ made​ contrasts​ too​ strong,​ which​would​distract​the​viewers.”280​In​the​same​year,​citing​a​report​on​ the​new​negative​by​Toho​laboratory,​Nishikawa​Etsuji,​the​head​of​film​ developing​at​Toho,​pointed​out​that​Fuji’s​newly​introduced​negative​was​ even​less​sensitive​to​light​than​the​previous​version.​Therefore,​it​would​ be​necessary​to​“sacrifice”​the​lighting​of​bright​sections​to​depict​details​ of​dark​parts.281​However,​Nishikawa​said​in​his​essay​on​Fuji’s​new​negative:​“We​cannot​only​blame​the​film​stock​for​its​inconsistent​tones​and​ decrease​of​quality​of​images.​It​is​our​current​mission​to​think​of​how​to​ master​the​given​materials.”282​In​this​sense,​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​was​ a​discursive​attempt​to​justify​Fuji​film​stock’s​low​sensitivity​to​light​in​the​ name​of​realism. ​ Nishikawa​noted​Mimura’s​lighting​scheme​in​The Horse​(Uma,​Yamamoto​Kajiro,​1941),​which​incorporated​the​characteristics​of​the​film​negative​with​the​sense​of​realism​and​the​documentary​spirit,​especially​when​ the​original​idea​of​the​film​was​to​document​the​life​of​a​horse-​breeding​ family​in​the​Tohoku​area​of​Japan.​According​to​Yamamoto​Kajiro,​what​ he​had​“wanted​to​do​for​a​long​time”​was​“semidocumentary,”​and​this​ film​was​the​“realization”​of​his​dreams.283​Nishikawa,​who​developed​the​ film​for​The Horse,​stated,​“Mimura​has​been​known​for​his​subtle​bright​ tones,​but​in​this​film​we​can​observe​a​certain​difference​from​his​previous​works.​For​instance,​the​contrasts​of​tones​seem​completely​different​ between​the​details​of​dark​sections​in​the​night​scenes​of​Serpent Princess​ [Hebihimesama,​Kinugasa​Teinosuke,​1940],​his​previous​film,​and​those​in​ 240  chapter​4

the​set​of​the​Onoda​family​in​winter​in​this​film.​The​details​were​much​ more​clearly​depicted​in​the​former​and​the​latter​is​weaker.”284​In​practice,​ Nishikawa​claimed,​“Considering​Mr.​Mimura​and​Mr.​Suzuki​[Hiroshi]’s​ serious​efforts​to​depict​the​local​colors,”​he​“tried​to​achieve​the​details​of​ dark​tones”​when​he​developed​the​film.285​Nishikawa​pointed​out,​“We​ must​say​that​the​photographed​film​lacks​medium​tones​in​its​expression​ of​darkness.”286​Nishikawa​first​assumed​that​it​was​probably​because​the​ conditions​of​the​set​of​the​old​country​house​structurally​made​it​difficult​to​achieve​sufficient​gradation​between​light​and​dark.​Then,​Nishikawa​noticed​that,​in​some​scenes,​Mimura​also​used​a​sufficient​amount​ of​light​that​would​make​the​1.4​density​of​brightness​(high​light)​possible.​ Therefore,​Nishikawa​concluded​that​the​lack​of​medium​tones​was​Mimura’s​strategic​choice​“in​order​to​depict​the​content​of​the​drama​in​a​ realistic​manner.”287​Nishikawa​added,​“The Horse​aimed​at​low-​key​tones,​ but​not​in​the​sense​that​critics​discuss​them​[in​Hollywood​films].​Lack​ of​medium​tones​made​it​impossible​for​me​to​develop​the​negative​and​ achieve​[Hollywood-​style]​low-​key​tones.”288 ​ Mimura’s​turn​to​extreme​dark​tones​dismayed​some.​Tamura​Yukihiko​ wrote:​“Wasn’t​Mr.​Mimura’s​low-​key​cinematography​too​much​this​time?​ We​need​details​in​darkness​even​when​the​scene​is​dark​in​general.​Yet,​ there​were​some​scenes​in​which​the​darkness​was​too​dark​.​.​.​even​though​ I​ am​ absolutely​ against​ such​ overly​ bright​ images​ as​ we​ see​ in​ many​ of​ Ofuna​films.”289​But​Mimura’s​alteration​of​his​methods​was​highly​valued​ overall.​The​cinematographer​Ogura​Kinji​commented​particularly​about​ the​use​of​top​lights.​When​Mimura​started​working​at​Toho​in​1934,​he​ relied​heavily​on​top​lights​in​a​Hollywood​manner.​Ogura​argued:​“It​is​ always​a​great​challenge​to​decide​how​to​use​top​light​when​photographing​ Japanese​houses.​If​we​make​a​mistake,​the​house​looks​as​if​it​did​not​have​ either​a​roof​or​a​ceiling.​The​house​loses​shadows​that​are​necessary​in​a​ Japanese​house.​.​.​.​[In​The Horse]​the​dark​tones​are​successfully​achieved​ overall.​The​crafty​technique​of​the​people​who​were​in​charge​of​lighting​under​Mr.​Mimura​should​be​acknowledged.”290​The​critic​Tachibana​ Nobuo​also​praised​the​film’s​“realistic”​representation​of​the​“dark​atmosphere​of​a​peasant’s​house​in​the​Tohoku​district”​and​the​“darkest​low-​ key​tones​that​challenge​the​developing​laboratory”​that​Mimura​achieved,​ “apart​from​his​signature​tones​of​brightness.”291 ​ Despite​ these​ critics’​ and​ technicians’​ attempts​ to​ associate​ Mimura​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  241

with​the​discourse​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow,​it​is​noteworthy​that​Mimura​ was​ strongly​ concerned​ with​ technological​ innovations​ in​ Hollywood​throughout​his​career.​To​phrase​it​differently,​even​when​Mimura’s​ work​in​The Horse​was​appreciated​in​the​discourse​of​the​documentary​ spirit,​it​was​not​so​much​because​of​his​compromise​to​such​a​discourse​ as​it​was​the​result​of​his​rivalry​with​Gregg​Toland,​his​former​coworker​ at​Samuel​Goldwyn’s​studio,​who​was​not​an​archetypal​cinematographer​ of​Hollywood​in​the​late​1930s​and​1940s​but​rather​an​exceptional​figure.​ Such​an​accidental​connection​between​the​documentary​spirit​and​Hollywood​cinematography​by​way​of​the​man​from​Hollywood​made​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​more​complex​in​nature. ​ Even​though​the​available​materials—such​as​the​quality​and​quantity​ of​raw​film​stock—were​limited,​after​he​came​back​to​Japan​Mimura​was​ always​following​the​styles​of​Toland.​In​1941,​while​Mimura​complained​ about​the​poor​conditions​of​film​technologies​in​Japan,​he​continuously​ discussed​what​Toland​was​achieving​in​Hollywood​and​desperately​asked​ himself​what​he​could​do​in​a​different​geopolitical​and​economic​situation.​ Mimura​ wrote,​ “[American​ cinematographers]​ are​ provided​ with​ first-​quality​machines​ and​allowed​ to​work​in​the​ best​conditions.​They​ can​shoot​in​high​key​or​low​key​depending​on​the​goals​of​the​films.​They​ can​have​anything​they​want​as​long​as​they​are​available​in​the​world,​such​ as​discs,​filters,​screen​processes,​and​special​effects.​Of​course​they​can​do​ better.​If​we​compare​them​to​us,​the​Japanese​counterpart,​it​is​amazing​ how​different​we​are.​.​.​.​Lack​of​lenses,​finders,​tripods,​filters,​and​discs.​ We​do​not​have​anything​complete.”292​In​August​1941,​Mimura​wrote​that​ he​was​impressed​by​the​“clear​tones​and​extreme​low-​key​lighting”​in​such​ films​as​The Grapes of Wrath​(John​Ford,​1940)​and​The Westerner​(William​ Wyler,​1940),​both​photographed​by​Toland.293​Mimura​also​wrote,​“I​don’t​ think​we​are​incompetent​compared​to​American​and​European​technicians​in​the​areas​of​camera​operation,​lighting​characters,​and​composition.”294​Mimura’s​lighting​scheme​in​The Horse​was​meant​to​rival​Toland’s​ in​The Grapes of Wrath,​the​film​that​was​released​in​the​United​States​less​ than​a​year​before​The Horse. ​ What​is​distinctive​about​the​cinematography​in​The Grapes of Wrath,​ the​story​of​the​harsh​lives​of​farmers​during​the​Great​Depression,​was​ its​chiaroscuro​lighting​in​the​interior​scenes.​Vivian​Sobchack​points​out​

242  chapter​4

the​ambivalent​effects​of​such​images​that​are​“shot​in​darkness​punctuated​only​by​candlelight​and​flashlight.”295​Despite​the​explicit​indication​ of​the​lighting​sources,​“the​chiaroscuro​lighting​of​a​major​portion​of​the​ film​does​more​than​merely​supply​atmosphere​and​support​the​thematic​ darkness​of​the​Joads’​odyssey.​It​also​functions​as​a​technique​which​is​abstracting,​which​again​brings​a​sense​of​closure​to​the​screen​image​by​obscuring​the​connection​between​various​objects​in​the​frame​and​turning​ the​viewer’s​attention​inward​toward​the​Joads.​.​.​.​That​blackness​is​less​ grim​than​abstracting,​less​harsh​than​protective;​the​Joads​and​the​viewer​ are​removed​from​a​visually​urgent​and​engaging​context​and​the​result​ is​ a​ predominant​ imagery​ which​ seems​ highly​ aestheticized,​ staged​ and​ framed.”296 ​ The​critic​Yamane​Sadao​claims,​“The​most​attractive​element​of​The Horse​is​the​vividness​of​images​that​could​be​called​semidocumentary.​In​ particular,​the​scene​in​which​a​foal​is​born​and​the​two​scenes​of​a​horse​ market​ are​ very​ impressive​ and​ famous.”297​ The​ semidocumentary-​style​ horse-​market​ scenes,​ which​ open​ and​ close​ the​ film,​ are​ photographed​ under​ambient​sunlight​without​visible​manipulation​of​lighting,​especially​ in​long​shots,​and​set​the​basic​naturalist​tone​of​the​film.​However,​contrary​to​Yamane’s​claim,​the​most​vivid​images​of​this​film​are​observable​ in​the​dark​and​claustrophobic​interior​scenes​with​a​single​light​source​ and​the​shadow​that​surrounds​the​characters.​In​a​Japanese​farmhouse​ where​the​heroine,​Ine​(Takamine​Hideko),​lives,​there​is​a​naked​electric​lamp​hung​from​the​ceiling.​It​is​the​only​diegetic​source​of​light​in​ the​house,​even​though​it​is​obvious​in​the​first​long​shot​of​the​interior​ that​the​space​is​lit​from​a​spotlight​from​above.​Still,​the​main​characters​ of​the​film,​sitting​around​the​fireplace​and​standing​on​the​dirt​floor,​are​ lit​by​the​single​source​of​light​from​above.​Almost​half​of​each​face​is​in​ shadow​most​of​the​time.​Most​sections​of​the​room​are​in​shadow.​Such​ a​drastic​contrast​of​lighting​and​spatial​configuration​functions​not​only​ to​individualize​the​family​members​for​narrational​purposes​but​also​to​ separate​them​from​historical​temporality​and​spatiality.​In​other​words,​ the​diegetic​single​lighting​source​has​ambivalent​qualities.​On​one​hand,​it​ embodies​the​documentary​spirit​that​depicts​a​farmhouse​in​the​Tohoku​ area​in​a​naturalist​manner,​as​Nishikawa​claimed.​On​the​other​hand,​as​ in​The Grapes of Wrath,​it​singles​out​the​family​to​have​mythic​status—

the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  243

figure​4.14  A​close-​up​of​the​face​of​Tom​Joad​(Henry​Fonda)​represents​ abstraction​and​transcendence​in​America.​The Grapes of Wrath​(1940).

a​timeless,​frozen​image​of​a​Japanese​farming​family.​Indeed,​namahage​ (folkloric​mythic​creatures​of​the​Tohoku​area)​suddenly​appear​from​the​ shadowy​off-​screen​space​and​scare​Ine’s​brother. ​ Sobchack​argues​about​The Grapes of Wrath,​“Although​there​is​a​great​ deal​of​dialogue​in​the​film​which​relates​the​family​to​the​land,​to​a​larger​ population,​and​to​a​political​climate​verbally,​the​visual​interest​of​the​film​ is​on​the​Joads​as​an​isolated​and​universal​family​unit​which​transcends​ the​particularity​and​specificity​of​time​and​place.”298​This​interest​seems​ quite​applicable​to​The Horse.​As​in​The Grapes of Wrath,​the​general​composition​of​The Horse​is​consciously​controlled​and​tight.​Especially​in​interior​scenes,​as​in​The Grapes of Wrath,​the​action​of​The Horse​occurs​in​ visually​limited​space—limited​either​by​its​tight​framing​or​by​the​amount​ we​are​allowed​to​see​by​virtue​of​the​given​illumination.299​Medium​close-​ ups​of​Ine​and​her​horse​lit​by​a​single​light​source—a​lamp​hanging​above​ them—are​inserted​in​significant​points​of​the​story​line.​Sobchack​claims​ about​The Grapes of Wrath,​“Either​through​the​actual​proximity​of​close-​ ups​or​the​masking​effect​of​darkness​in​the​medium​shots,​the​abundance​ of​ expressionistic​ cinematography​ which​ emphasizes​ the​ pale​ faces​ and​ 244  chapter​4

figure​4.15  A​close-​up​of​the​face​of​Ine​(Takamine​Hideko)​represents​ abstraction​and​transcendence​in​Japan.​The Horse​(1941).

glistening​eyes​of​the​characters​is​not​really​counterbalanced​to​any​great​ degree​by​an​equivalent​insistence​on​realistic​and​clearly-​defined​imagery”​ (fig.​4.14).300​Even​when​Ine​goes​out​of​this​claustrophobic​space,​she​is​ usually​alone​in​the​vast​landscape—whether​it​is​in​the​midst​of​snowy​ lands​in​search​of​medicine​for​her​horse​when​it​is​sick​or​in​the​bright​hilly​ space​searching​for​her​horse​when​it​is​lost. ​ The Horse​ends​with​a​close-​up​of​Ine’s​face​(fig.​4.15).​Her​eyes​are​in​ tears​because​she​has​just​been​separated​from​the​horse​that​she​has​raised.​ She​softly​puts​her​right​hand​to​her​right​ear​in​order​to​hear​the​voice​of​ her​horse​going​far​away.​Strong​light​from​the​left,​supposedly​the​sunset,​ leaves​the​right​side​of​her​face​in​shade—not​three-​point​lighting​at​all.​ This​is​a​close-​up​and​lighting​that​documents​the​face​of​a​farm​girl,​but​it​ achieves​mythic​and​abstract​spirituality.​In​this​sense,​Mimura’s​cinematography​in​The Horse​combined​the​documentary​spirit​with​the​“abstracting”​blackness​of​The Grapes of Wrath.​In​other​words,​Mimura’s​lighting​ scheme​achieved​the​sense​of​abstraction​and​transcendence​that​Toland​ aimed​for​in​the​context​of​American​history​and​Hollywood​myth​by​displaying​the​space​of​a​Japanese​farmhouse​in​a​realistic​manner. the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  245

​ Having​said​this,​Mimura​was​not​simply​trying​to​catch​up​with​Toland.​ Despite​physically​locating​their​films​in​different​spaces​and​positioning​ them​within​dissimilar​sociopolitical​and​financial​situations,​Toland​and​ Mimura​were​in​tune​in​pursuing​“the​illusion​of​presence”​on​the​screen.301​ They​were​parts​of​co-​eval​modernity​in​the​United​States​and​in​Japan​ where​cinematographic​technologies​and​techniques​developed​separately​ but​with​a​number​of​conflicts​and​negotiations.​In​particular,​both​Toland​ and​Mimura​explored​compositions​of​depth​of​field​in​order​to​give​stories​ harsh,​brutal​moods,​instead​of​simply​clarifying​the​story​with​carefully​ controlled​focus​on​images.​Also,​instead​of​glamorizing​the​stars​of​their​ films​with​soft​three-​point​lighting​in​the​trend​of​soft​tones,​they​experimented​with​hard​light.302 ​ In​September​1938,​Shimazaki​Kiyohiko​criticized​the​work​of​Mimura,​ who,​according​to​Shimazaki,​“learned​nice​techniques​directly​from​the​ world​of​American​cinematography”​and​“ended​up​with​a​simple​imitation.”303​As​I​have​already​discussed,​Shimazaki​insisted​on​the​necessity​ of​ “establishing​ truly​ cinematic​ compositions​ in​ Japanese​ cinema”​ and​ suggested​“three-​dimensionality.”304​Shimazaki​might​have​been​correct​ when​he​pointed​out​Mimura’s​link​to​Hollywood,​but​what​he​overlooked​ was​that​Mimura​was​exploring​ways​to​achieve​“three-​dimensionality”​on​ the​screen,​which​would​go​along​with​the​discourse​on​the​compositional​ lighting​that​Shimazaki​initiated.​Mimura’s​cinematography​and​lighting​in​ Humanity and Paper Balloon​(Ninjo kamifusen,​Yamanaka​Sadao,​1937),​a​jidaigeki​film​that​fully​used​the​effects​of​deep​composition,​was​a​perfect​ example. ​ Toland​insisted​that​the​keynote​of​Citizen Kane​(Orson​Welles,​1941)​ was​realism.​Toland​discussed​with​Orson​Welles​that​in​the​film,​“the​picture​should​be​brought​to​the​screen​in​such​a​way​that​the​audience​would​ feel​it​was​looking​at​reality,​rather​than​merely​at​a​movie.”305​“The​first​ step”​that​Toland​and​Welles​took​“was​in​designing​sets​which​would​in​ themselves​ strike​ the​ desired​ note​ of​ reality.”306​ The​ result​ was​ that​ the​ majority​of​their​sets​for​Citizen Kane​had​actual​ceilings.​Conventionally​ in​Hollywood,​interior​light​effects​come​from​angles​that​“would​be​definitely​impossible​in​an​actual,​ceilinged​room”​because​“the​light​is​projected​from​spotlighting​units​perched​high​on​the​lamp-​rails​paralleling​ the​sets.”307​Since​the​sets​were​“ceilinged,”​according​to​Toland,​the​sets​for​

246  chapter​4

Citizen Kane​weren’t​paralleled​for​overhead​lighting​and​almost​everything​ in​the​picture​was​to​be​lighted​from​the​floor.308 ​ In​ addition​ to​ the​ production​ design​ and​ the​ lighting​ angles,​ Toland​ and​Welles​tried​to​“obtain​the​definition​and​depth”​of​the​human​eye​in​ real​life​and​not​to​require​audiences​to​see​things​on​the​screen​“with​a​ single​point​of​perfect​focus,​and​everything​falling​off​with​greater​or​less​ rapidity​in​front​of​and​behind​this​particular​point.”309​To​do​so,​Toland​ and​Welles​increased​the​illumination​level​by​adopting​the​hard​light​of​ arc​broad​lamps,​which​were​generally​used​in​Technicolor,​in​addition​to​ using​Super​xx​film​“with​a​super-​speed​emulsion.”310 ​ According​to​Patrick​Ogle,​the​introduction​of​Eastman​Plus-​x ​Panchromatic​Negative​in​late​October​1938​and​Super​xx​just​two​weeks​later​with​ their​greater​film​speed​“developed​initially​for​newsreel​work​and​other​ specialized​and​realistic​filming​done​under​difficult​lighting​conditions”​ could​have​“reversed”​the​“tonal​softness”​that​characterized​Hollywood​ cinema​ in​ the​ 1930s.311​ A​ few​ cinematographers,​ such​ as​ Victor​ Milner,​ became​immediately​aware​of​the​possibilities​of​the​increased​crispness​ and​depth​of​field.​Milner​claimed,​“It​[supersensitive​panchromatic​film]​ makes​it​possible​for​us​to​run​the​scale​between​extremely​soft,​naturalesque​low-​level​lightings​(50​foot​candles​or​less),​shot​with​full​lens​apertures,​to​the​opposite​extreme​of​higher​level​illumination​(perhaps​as​high​ as​200​foot​candles​or​more)​exposed​at​greatly​reduced​apertures​for​a​new​ and​greater​depth​and​crispness.”312​Yet,​according​to​Ogle,​“Conservative​ by​nature​and​distressed​by​the​increased​contrastiness​of​the​new​general-​ use​Plus-​x ​emulsion,”​the​greatest​number​of​cinematographers​(Milner​ included)​employed​Plus-​x ​and​Super​xx​“with​deliberate​underdevelopment,​a​procedure​that​gave​them​lowered​contrast”​and​preserved​the​soft​ tonality.313​Toland’s​choice​used​the​potentiality​of​the​fast​film​stock​but​ went​against​the​general​soft​tendency​of​Hollywood​cinematography. ​ Moreover,​as​Patrick​Keating​points​out,​genre-​based​lighting​was​not​ Toland’s​primary​justification​for​his​obsession​with​deep​focus.​He​pushed​ forward​“the​illusion​of​presence”​on​the​part​of​the​spectator.​This,​according​to​Keating,​“conflicted​with​other​ideals,​like​glamour​and​the​illusion​of​roundness,”​because​the​dominant​style​of​Hollywood​film​was​a​ “modulating”​style​with​“artful​compromises,”​in​which​the​lighting​was​adjusted​from​scene​to​scene​and​shot​to​shot​as​the​emphasis​changed​from​

the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  247

storytelling​to​realism​to​pictorial​quality​to​glamour.314​Keating​argues​that​ Toland’s​fellow​cinematographers​even​worried​that​his​“obsessive​attention​to​one​technique​was​bound​to​upset​the​delicate​balance​that​a​multifunctional​style​required.”315 ​ In​Japan,​however,​Toland’s​obsession​with​realism​was​bound​for​admiration,​in​the​midst​of​the​discourse​of​the​documentary​spirit.​Milner’s​ essay​that​pointed​out​the​potential​increase​of​contrast​in​photography​ with​Super​xx​was​translated​into​Japanese​and​published​in​the​December​1941​issue​of​Eiga Gijustu​only​one​month​after​the​original​publication​ in​American Cinematographer.316​Kawamoto​Masao​of​Eiga Gijutsu​insisted​ on​ the​emergence​of​the​ “halftone​ photography”​that​ would​ emphasize​ the​sharpness​between​black​and​white​enabled​by​“fine-​grained​panchromatic​emulsion​with​extensive​sensitivity​to​all​colors​and​extremely​fast​ speed.”317​Kawamoto​then​named​Toland​as​the​key​figure​who​was​“earnestly​studying​such​a​new​photography.”318​In​his​interview​with​Mimura,​ Kawamoto​praised​the​sharp​low-​key​tones​of​Humanity and Paper Balloon​ in​contrast​to​the​soft​tones​of​Journal of Wandering.319 ​ In​August​1941,​Mimura​wrote​in​his​article​praising​the​cinematography​ in​Citizen Kane,​“I​cannot​help​expecting​the​appearance​of​Japanese-​made​ products​ that​ can​ compete​ with​ American​ film​ technologies,​ including​ supersensitive​ films,​ coated​ lenses,​ and​ high-​intensity​ carbon​ lamps.”320​ Mimura’s​aspiration​sounded​desperate​because​he​was​already​attempting​the​same​thing—the​illusion​of​presence​without​using​either​modern​ lamps​or​the​most-​advanced​film​stock. ​ The​critic​Sugiyama​Heiichi​argued​in​1941​that​the​director​Yamanaka​ Sadao​“invented​the​composition​of​depth​[tate no kozu].”321​In​the​trend​of​ inventing​tradition,​Sugiyama​connected​the​composition​of​depth​to​the​ tradition​of​Japanese​painting.​Sugiyama​wrote,​“[Yamanaka]​must​have​ been​inspired​by​[Ando]​Hiroshige.”322​Sugiyama​discussed​the​relationship​between​the​detailed​close-​ups​in​front​and​the​grand​background​that​ is​indicated​in​ink​paintings​(sansui-ga)​by​Sesshu​Toyo.​The​composition​ of​depth,​according​to​Sugiyama,​“revives​the​‘tradition’​of​indicating​something​grand​behind​the​things​in​close-​ups.”323 ​ As​Sugiyama​suggested,​the​composition​of​depth,​which​was​fully​employed​ in​ Humanity and Paper Balloon,​ could​ be​ juxtaposed​ with​ a​ certain​composition​of​woodblock​paintings​or​ink​paintings.​But​at​the​same​

248  chapter​4

time,​we​could​detect​at​least​another​function:​the​illusion​of​presence.​ The​critic​Aikawa​Kusuhiko,​who​used​the​term​tate no kozu​for​the​first​ time​to​praise​the​films​of​Yamanaka,​argued,​“Constructing​the​relationship​between​characters​and​between​objects​and​characters​in​a​three-​ dimensional​manner​in​a​deep​space​of​the​screen,​the​director​Yamanaka​ Sadao​fantastically​and​effectively​uses​this​composition​of​depth​in​order​ to​express​passing​of​time,​psychological​states​of​characters,​atmosphere​ of​scenes,​and​so​forth.”324 ​ Humanity and Paper Balloon​begins​with​a​long​shot​of​a​vacant​street​ on​a​rainy​night.​Parts​of​the​wet​street​shine,​reflecting​lights​from​somewhere.​Shinza​(Nakamura​Ganemon),​a​young​and​ambitious​former​hairdresser,​challenges​a​gangster​boss​by​kidnapping​the​only​daughter​of​a​ pawnshop​owner.​The​boss​is​a​protector​of​the​pawnshop,​and​the​owner​ has​promised​Mori,​the​samurai​who​rules​the​town,​to​wed​his​daughter​to​ Mori’s​son.​In​many​scenes,​lighting​is​contrasty​low​key​and​imitates​the​ convention​of​Hollywood’s​gangster​genre​lighting.​Shinza’s​illegal​gambling​place​is​only​lit​by​an​andon​lamp;​the​side​street​of​the​secret​gambling​place​is​lit​only​by​the​lamp​of​a​noodle​stand;​Shinza’s​room​at​the​ nagaya​ (tenement​ houses),​ where​ he​brings​the​pawnshop​owner’s​ kidnapped​daughter,​is​also​lit​by​an​andon​lamp;​and​the​final​showdown​between​Shinza​and​the​gangsters​is​on​Enmado​Bridge​under​the​moonlight,​ where​their​figures​create​dark​shadows​and​their​swords​ominously​but​ spectacularly​shine. ​ In​addition​to​such​generic​lighting​suitable​for​this​gangster​jidaigeki​ film,​light​and​shadow​are​used​for​a​compositional​purpose​and​enhance​ the​depth​of​field​in​long​shots.​The​set​of​the​nagaya​is​structured​on​the​ principle​of​deep​space.​Two​rows​of​nagaya​occupy​the​two​sides​of​the​ frame​from​front​to​back​(fig.​4.16).​At​the​far​end,​there​is​a​warehouse-​like​ building,​and​the​streets​are​T-​shaped​there.​The​T-​shaped​area​at​the​back​ is​brightly​lit​and​enhances​the​sense​of​depth.​People​who​live​there​but​do​ not​have​particular​roles​in​the​narrative​walk​back​and​forth​on​the​street​ in​the​deep-​space​composition.​It​seems​that​they​speak​rather​arbitrary​ dialogue​and​move​similarly​arbitrarily.​In​the​long​shots​of​the​street​between​the​nagaya​that​are​constantly​inserted​between​scenes,​movements​ of​the​people​who​live​there​are​the​major​focus​mainly​because​their​rather​ arbitrary​movements​constantly​block​the​brightest​area​of​the​screen​at​

the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  249

figure​4.16  The​tenement​houses​are​depicted​in​the​composition​of​depth.​ Humanity and Paper Balloon​(1937).

the​far​end.​The​deep-​space​composition​functions​as​if​it​were​documenting​the​actual​lives​of​people​in​the​nagaya,​many​of​whom​do​not​have​significant​roles​in​the​narrative. ​ There​are​major​characters​of​this​film​whose​fates​come​to​tragic​ends​ in​the​finale,​but​their​movements​are​not​captured​in​a​particularly​privileged​or​melodramatic​manner.​Like​other​people​of​the​nagaya,​they​walk​ on​a​daily​basis​from​the​frontal​dark​area​to​the​brighter​area​at​the​back.​ As​a​result,​their​backs​are​often​displayed​in​silhouette.​Unno​(Kawarazaki​Chojuro),​a​masterless​samurai​living​in​the​nagaya,​walks​down​the​ rainy​street​from​a​frontal​shadowy​area​to​a​lit​area​at​the​back​after​he​is​ dismissed​by​Mori,​a​high-​ranking​samurai,​after​asking​for​a​job.​After​she​ hears​other​women​of​the​nagaya​gossiping​about​her​husband​for​helping​ Shinza,​Unno’s​wife​walks​down​the​narrow​street​between​the​row​houses​ to​her​place​at​the​back​and​is​trailed​by​a​thick​shadow​of​herself.​Even​ inside​a​house,​the​composition​of​depth​is​maintained.​At​home​Unno’s​ wife​slowly​approaches​her​husband,​who​is​drunk​and​sleeping​beside​an​ andon​lamp​at​the​back​of​their​room,​from​a​dark​corner​with​a​shiny​small​ dagger​in​her​hand.​When​she​blows​out​the​andon​lamp,​a​window​at​the​ 250  chapter​4

back​becomes​the​only​visibly​lit​area​of​the​screen.​The​people​from​the​ nagaya​learn​about​the​“double​suicide”​of​Unno​and​his​wife​the​following​morning.​The​film​ends​with​a​long​shot​of​a​vacant​street​with​a​side​ ditch,​where​one​of​the​paper​balloons,​probably​made​by​Unno’s​wife​to​ earn​their​living,​slowly​floats​from​the​frontal​shadowy​area​to​the​light​ area​at​the​back.​Praising​the​craftily​constructed​set​and​“rich​tones​that​ fully​convey​the​sense​of​season,”​the​critic​Tsumura​Hideo,​who​abhorred​ any​imitation​of​Hollywood​films—Hasegawa​Kazuo​star​vehicles​in​particular—claimed,​“There​are​‘lives’​here,​which​have​been​lacking​in​conventional​jidaigeki​films.”325 ​ Considering​his​attachment​to​Hollywood​and​his​despair​at​the​filmmaking​conditions​in​Japan,​Mimura​must​have​been​thrilled​when​he​was​ appointed​to​be​the​director​of​photography​of​The War at Sea from Hawaii to Malaya​(Hawai Mare oki kaisen,​Yamamoto​Kajiro,​1942).​Even​though​ that​was—and​is—the​most​common​title​for​cinematographers​in​Hollywood,​there​was​no​such​term​or​concept​in​Japan​before​1942.​It​was​so​ odd​to​have​such​a​title,​a​direct​import​from​Hollywood,​in​a​film​endorsed​ by​the​Ministry​of​Navy​to​commemorate​the​first​anniversary​of​the​attack​ on​Pearl​Harbor​that​critics​and​cinematographers​discussed​the​concept​ on​every​occasion.​In​Hollywood,​directors​of​photography​are​in​charge​ of​all​the​practices​of​lighting​technicians​(gaffers).​In​Japan,​cinematographers​are​called​cameramen​and​are​usually​only​in​charge​of​cameras.​ Even​though​cameramen​inform​lighting​technicians​of​their​lighting​plan,​ it​is​lighting​technicians​who​decide​which​light​is​to​be​used.​In​Japan,​ cinematographers​and​lighting​technicians​are​still​two​separate​positions​ with​equal​authority.​Thus,​cinematographers​in​Japan​do​not​have​the​autonomy​to​manipulate​lighting.​Since​the​1920s,​lighting​has​been​an​autonomous​ department​ (as​the​department​ of​electricity,​ in​ many​cases)​ in​studios,​separate​from​the​department​of​cinematography.​In​1936,​with​ the​ establishment​ of​ the​ Japanese​ Association​ of​ Film​ Lighting​ (Nihon​ Eiga​Shomei​Kyokai),​the​lighting​technician​system​was​officially​recognized.326​In​1929​the​cinematographer​Isayama​Saburo​wrote,​“The​most​ difficult​thing​is​that​the​people​of​the​lighting​department​cannot​always​ be​my​good​friends.”327​The​lighting​practices​in​Japanese​filmmaking​that​ I​have​discussed​so​far​were​products​of​continuous​negotiations​between​ cinematographers​and​lighting​technicians,​even​though​I​have​only​used​ the​names​of​cinematographers,​such​as​Sugiyama​Kohei,​Atsuta​Yuharu,​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  251

and​Mimura​Akira,​as​the​people​who​were​responsible​for​the​films’​lighting.​Such​a​separation​might​have​made​it​difficult​for​cinematographers​ such​as​Henry​Kotani​to​realize​their​lighting​ideas​on​the​screen.​Lighting​technicians​had​their​own​conventions​and​standards​for​using​equipment.​ That​ separation​ might​ have​ made​ it​ easy,​ however,​ for​ producers​ such​as​Kido​Shiro​to​intervene​in​the​production​and​standardize​Shochiku’s​products.​I​am​simply​assuming​these​issues​because​unfortunately​ I​cannot​find​any​specific​evidence​to​support​such​arguments.​There​is​ no​document​that​clearly​states​why​the​department​of​electricity​was​set​ up​separately​from​that​of​cinematography.​I​assume​that​separation​derived​from​the​theatrical​tradition.​Kabuki​theaters​already​had​electricity​ and​lighting​technicians.​Motion​picture​cameras​were​new​equipment​and​ needed​new​people​to​be​in​charge,​especially​in​a​company​such​as​Shochiku​that​had​entered​the​film​business​from​the​world​of​Kabuki. ​ Under​such​conditions,​ in​reality,​ the​director​of​photography​ in​the​ production​of​The War at Sea from Hawaii to Malaya​was​director​in​name​ only.​ Mimura​ was​ nothing​ but​ the​ chief​ of​ four​ cinematographers​ (Mimura,​Miura​Mitsuo,​Suzuki​Hiroshi,​and​Hirano​Yoshimi).​Four​cinematographers​were​necessitated​by​the​navy​to​engage​with​this​big​production,​which​would​be​photographed​in​multiple​locations​in​a​short​period​ of​time.​Instead​of​being​called​the​head​cameraman​or​chief​cameraman,​ the​title​of​director​of​photography​was​adopted​because​it​was​the​title​ already​known​in​Hollywood. ​ However,​Mimura​took​this​opportunity​and​tried​to​operate​as​the​director​of​photography​in​the​Hollywood​system’s​way​as​much​as​he​could​ (which​was​ironic​given​the​militarist​propaganda​film​in​production).​During​preproduction,​when​Hollywood​directors​of​photography​of​the​time​ generally​discussed​visual​schemes​of​films​with​the​directors​and​production​designers,​Mimura​also​gathered​all​the​cinematographers,​their​assistants,​and​lighting​technicians​and​clearly​delivered​his​lighting​scheme​for​ this​film.328​Mimura’s​apparent​dictatorship​worked,​probably​because​he​ acted​ consciously​ in​accordance​with​ the​discourse​of​the​documentary​ spirit.​What​Mimura​emphasized​throughout​the​production​was​“severe​ realistic​effects.”329​As​Nornes​points​out,​the​fact​that​special​effects​footage​of​this​film​has​been​presented​as​actual​footage​of​the​attack​on​Pearl​ Harbor​in​postwar​documentary​and​news​broadcasts​is​“a​testament​to​ the​documentary​look​of​the​wartime​feature​film.”330​In​particular,​accord252  chapter​4

ing​to​Mimura’s​production​notes,​he​spoke​of​realism​almost​always​in​ connection​with​the​aesthetic​of​shadow.​He​avowed​to​abolish​his​usual​ makeup​“in​order​to​emphatically​depict​the​energetic​look​of​darkly​tanned​ faces​of​the​imperial​navy”​and,​at​the​same​time,​“banned​reflectors​from​ being​used​as​much​as​possible​on​location​in​order​to​achieve​documentary​effects.”331 ​ During​ the​ production,​ Mimura​ did​ everything​ he​ could​ think​ of​ to​ maintain​his​original​idea​of​limited​lighting​and​shadow​effects.​He​wrote,​ “The​ most​ challenging​ issue​ when​ we​ photographed​ the​ interior​ of​ the​ mother​ship,​whose​set​had​ceilings,​was​that​we​limited​lighting​in​an​extreme​manner​in​order​to​aim​for​a​sense​of​reality.​We​created​a​hole​in​the​ ceiling​and​only​used​a​few​2​kW​spotlights​and​a​few​1​kW​baby​spotlights.​ We​did​not​use​any​3​kW​spotlights.”332​Mimura​confessed​that​the​second​ unit​“had​a​difficult​time​photographing​reverse​shots”​that​would​correspond​to​what​Mimura​had​already​photographed​because​they​looked​too​ hard​ and​ contrasty​ in​ lighting.333​ Similarly,​ in​ the​ scene​ set​ at​ a​ French​ Indochina​base​on​the​night​of​December​9,​Mimura​avoided​using​bright​ lamps​ but​ used​ filters​ in​ an​ unprecedented​ manner​ “in​ order​ not​ to​ be​ unfaithful​to​the​facts​of​light​control​and​the​beautiful​moonlight​of​the​ night.”334 ​ Shimazaki​Kiyohiko,​who​had​continued​to​criticize​Mimura’s​work​at​ Toho​as​a​slavish​imitation​of​Hollywood​techniques,​finally​congratulated​ his​accomplishment.​Unlike​in​Hollywood,​Shimazaki​argued,​the​director​ of​photography​of​The War at Sea from Hawaii to Malaya​was​not​the​one​ who​would​take​“responsibility​in​all​photographic​achievements”​by​planning​all​the​visual​schemes​for​the​director​and​by​managing​camera​operators,​gaffers,​and​photo​developers​at​the​laboratory.335​Instead,​in​Japan,​ he​was​the​one​who​needed​only​to​“formulate​the​goals​and​methods​of​ cinematographic​technologies​for​this​film​only,​to​assign​fellow​cinematographers​to​appropriate​scenes​.​.​.​and​to​maintain​control​and​consistency​in​technological​maneuvers​along​with​the​original​goals.”336​Shimazaki’s​distinction​between​the​two​systems​was​quite​ambiguous,​however.​ The​only​difference​seems​to​be​that​in​Hollywood​the​director​of​photography​is​the​title​of​a​profession​and​in​Japan​it​is​the​name​of​a​position​for​ one​film​only—in​this​case,​for​the​duration​of​the​production​of​The War at Sea from Hawaii to Malaya.​Even​so,​Shimazaki​had​to​call​the​director​ of​photography​system​in​The War at Sea from Hawaii to Malaya​“a​form​ the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW  253

unique​to​our​country”​and​claim​that​the​result​of​such​a​unique​system​ would​“set​the​unshakable​cornerstone​for​the​future”​in​order​to​achieve​ such​“a​new​mission”​as​“using​locally​made​materials”​and​“establishing​ a​new​and​strong​view​of​the​nation​and​the​world.”337​Shimazaki’s​bent​ argument​was​another​indication​of​the​ambivalent​status​of​the​aesthetic​ of​shadow​and​the​documentary​spirit,​as​well​as​the​hybrid​nature​of​the​ wartime​film​policy​in​Japan.

Postscript:​After​the​war,​Shimazaki​insisted​on​the​establishment​of​the​ Hollywood-​style​director​of​photography​system​in​Japan.​He​lamented​ that​Japanese​cinematographers​were​nothing​but​camera​operators​and​ strongly​suggested​freeing​them​from​such​“uselessly​tiresome”​​positions.338

254  chapter​4

conclusIon

the​cineMatography​ ​ of​MiyagaWa​kazuo

Publicizing Japanese Aesthetics

“Naming​the​most​skillful​cinematographer​of​a​country​often​is​ a​difficult​task.​In​Japan​the​job​has​been​simplified​somewhat​by​ the​international​reputation​which​has​been​earned​by​Kazuo​Miyagawa,”​the​critic​Clifford​V.​Harrington​wrote​in​American Cinematographer​in​January​1960.1​The​so-​called​golden​age​of​Japanese​cinema​in​the​post–World​War​II​period​opened​with​the​ accumulation​of​prizes​in​international​film​festivals.​Miyagawa​ Kazuo​was​the​cinematographer​for​many​of​the​awarded​films,​ including​ Kurosawa​ Akira’s​ Rashomon​ (1950;​ Venice​ Golden​ Lion​in​1951),​Mizoguchi​Kenji’s​Ugetsu​(Ugetsu monogatari,​1953;​ Venice​Silver​Lion​in​1953),​and​Sansho the Bailiff​(Sansho dayu,​ 1954;​Venice​Silver​Lion​in​1954).​In​the​United​States,​Rashomon​ initiated​ the​ “art​ cinema”​ movement.​ In​ Europe,​ Ugetsu​ and​Sansho the Bailiff​astonished​such​young​filmmakers​as​Jean-​ Luc​Goddard​and​Francois​Truffaut,​who​would​lead​the​French​ New​Wave.​These​films​with​Miyagawa’s​cinematography​represented​Japanese​cinema​for​many​international​audiences.​Even​ some​decades​later​in​1985,​when​Paul​Schrader​directed​the​film​ Mishima,​a​biopic​of​the​famous​Japanese​novelist​Mishima​Yukio,​ the​asc​cinematographer​John​Bailey​visited​Miyagawa​in​Japan​ and​consulted​him​on​how​to​photograph​Japanese​landscapes. ​ Miyagawa​was​officially​regarded​as​a​major​publicist​of​Japa-

nese​cinema​in​the​post–World​War​II​period.​In​1953,​the​Ministry​of​Education​of​Japan​awarded​Miyagawa​a​national​prize​for​his​“introduction​ and​promotion​of​Japanese​beauty​in​cinema.”2​In​particular,​throughout​ Miyagawa’s​post–World​War​II​career,​there​was​a​discourse​that​connected​ his​work​to​traditional​Japanese​aesthetics.​In​1961,​in​his​review​of​Yojimbo​ (Kurosawa​Akira,​1961),​the​critic​and​cinematographer​Watanabe​Yutaka​ claimed​that​Miyagawa​“craftily​created​a​microcosm​by​using​extremely​ subtle​lighting,​which​could​be​called​the​Japanese​style.”3​Watanabe​concludes​in​his​biography​on​Miyagawa,​“We​could​say​that​the​life​of​Miyagawa​was​devoted​to​pursuing​Japanese​beauty.”4​Similarly,​in​1979,​the​ acclaimed​screenwriter​Yoda​Yoshitaka,​whose​work​with​Mizoguchi​Kenji​ was​widely​known,​said​that​Miyagawa​“captured​Japanese​landscape,​culture,​and​history​in​films​more​consciously​than​other​cinematographers.5​ Miyagawa​himself​played​his​part​in​the​construction​of​the​discourse.​In​ 1960,​of​his​award-​winning​films,​Miyagawa​himself​declared,​“These​pictures​I​believe​come​close​to​giving​a​true​impression​of​the​real​Japan.”6 ​ In​most​cases,​the​traditional​Japanese​aesthetics​that​Miyagawa’s​work​ displayed—especially​his​conception​of​lighting—was​connected​to​a​certain​image​of​Kyoto,​the​capital​of​Japan​between​794​and​1603.​In​this​discourse,​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​that​emerged​in​the​late​1930s​was​naturalized​as​the​representation​of​Japanese​beauty.​Watanabe​Yutaka​argues​ that​Miyagawa’s​cinematography​was​oriented​to​low-​key​tones​because​ Miyagawa​was​born,​grew​up,​and​started​his​career​in​Kyoto.​Watanabe​describes​a​typical​house​in​Kyoto:​“The​house​is​a​little​dark​inside,​only​with​ a​few​lights​from​somewhere.​The​backyard​and​the​fish​bowl​on​the​terrace​ are​the​only​bright​spots​in​the​space.​.​.​.​Miyagawa​was​born​and​grew​up​ in​such​an​ordinary​house​in​Kyoto,​and​he​vividly​depicted​these​houses​ in​his​films.”7​Watanabe’s​argument​is​in​accordance​with​the​film​historian​Ota​Yoneo’s​claim​about​the​landscape​and​atmosphere​in​Kyoto.​Ota​ particularly​notes​the​low-​key​lighting​in​the​architecture​in​Kyoto:​“The​ sunlight​comes​into​courtyards.​The​sunlight​goes​through​lattice​windows.​ White​sands​of​rock​gardens​[karesansui]​reflect​the​sunlight​and​send​it​ deep​into​the​house.​Shoji​screens​softly​spread​direct​light.​Above​all,​the​ key​lighting​in​jidaigeki​comes​from​the​light​of​andon​lamps.​.​.​.​Lighting​ as​such​has​enhanced​dramas​and​served​to​emphasize​atmospheric,​emotional,​psychological,​and​magnificent​qualities.​Such​lighting​has​occupied​ the​rigid​basis​of​films​produced​in​Kyoto.”8 256  concLusion

​ Miyagawa​ confirmed​ such​ arguments​ that​ connected​ his​ cinematographic​style​to​his​biography​as​well​as​to​the​culture​of​Kyoto.​In​1985,​ Miyagawa​wrote,​“I​was​born​and​raised​in​Kyoto.​As​you​know,​the​objects​ and​ the​ landscapes​ of​ Kyoto​ are​ filled​ with​ quiet​ and​ dark​ colors.​ My​eyes​naturally​remember​them​and​have​formed​my​sense​of​colors.​ Also,​I​learned​sumi-e​[traditional​monochrome​ink​paintings],​from​my​ teacher​Harada​Korei.​.​.​.​Mr.​Harada​was​a​strange​teacher​and​never​permitted​us​to​use​colors.​He​kept​saying,​‘Use​exclusively​sumi​[Japanese​ black​ink].’​Sumi-​e​is​a​world​of​black​and​white,​and​infinite​levels​of​gray.​ He​meant​that​we​had​to​make​viewers​feel​colors​by​the​level​of​thickness​[of​gray].​My​cinematographic​tone​was​born​thanks​to​my​training​in​ sumi-e.”9​In​1999,​Miyagawa​said​in​an​interview,​“[In​my​house​in​Kyoto]​ there​was​a​backyard​right​behind​a​completely​dark​kitchen.​The​sunlight​ came​through​a​window​on​the​ceiling,​which​made​only​the​well​bucket​in​ the​backyard​shine.​Such​a​view​that​I​saw​when​I​was​a​child​left​an​unexpectedly​strong​impression​on​my​mind​.​.​.​even​though​I​was​one​of​those​ children​who​were​so​shy​that​they​would​not​go​outside​but​stayed​in​a​ dark​corner​of​the​house.”10 ​ Shinoda​Masahiro,​a​renowned​filmmaker​of​the​Japanese​New​Wave,​ disagreed​with​such​a​view​of​Kyoto:​“People​in​Kyoto​are​living​in​the​ Westernized​world,​where​contrasts​are​strong.​I​do​not​believe​that​Kyoto​ is​typically​Japanese.​Mr.​Miyagawa​Kazuo​prefers​Western​food​to​Japanese​dishes.​It​is​wrong​to​say​that​Kyoto’s​landscape​is​ambiguous.”11​Even​ so,​when​he​collaborated​with​Miyagawa​on​several​films,​Shinoda​said​he​ “was​not​able​to​think​of​any​cinematographer​other​than​Miyagawa​Kazuo​ who​had​captured​Japanese​landscape​as​Japanese.”12​Right​after​working​ with​Shinoda,​Miyagawa​also​declared​in​his​lecture​at​the​Japan​Society​in​ New​York,​“My​lifelong​theme​is​how​to​capture​the​unique​beauty​of​the​ Japanese​landscape​on​film​by​using​the​best​industrial​technology​that​was​ born​in​the​American​civilization.”13 ​ The​incessant​confirmation​of​Miyagawa’s​career​as​the​explorer​of​Japanese​beauty​was​striking​because,​whether​the​lighting​of​Kyoto​architecture​was​authentic​or​not,​Miyagawa​was​not​aiming​to​capture​it​and​to​ call​it​Japanese​beauty​when​he​worked​at​Nikkatsu’s​Kyoto​studios​in​the​ prewar​period.14​Miyagawa​admitted​that​at​the​base​of​his​style​of​lighting​ was​a​strong​influence​of​both​Hollywood​and​German​cinemas.​Miyagawa​ once​ said​ that​ he​ mainly​ learned​ how​ to​ place​ and​ move​ cameras​ from​ the​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo  257

Hollywood​films,​even​though​“their​lighting​seems​to​be​flatly​bright.”15​ Miyagawa​wrote,​“We​cannot​teach​or​be​taught​camerawork.​We​have​to​ think​of​a​camera​as​a​part​of​our​bodies​and​move​it​based​on​our​own​ sense.​There​is​no​other​way.​We​have​to​master​it​naturally.​I​watched​many​ foreign​films,​American​films​in​particular,​and​learned​this.​I​learned​especially​from​Hollywood​musicals​that​I​watched​in​1939–40.”16 ​ Miyagawa’s​ debut​ film​ as​ a​ cinematographer​ was​ O-Chiyo’s Umbrella​ (O-Chiyo gasa,​1935).​It​was​a​jidaigeki​film,​but​it​was​actually​a​remake​of​ Dishonored​(1931),​a​spy​genre​film​starring​Marlene​Dietrich​and​directed​ by​Josef​von​Sternberg,​the​German​star​and​director​who​had​arrived​in​ Hollywood​the​year​before.​Dishonored​was​photographed​by​Lee​Garmes,​ not​only​Miyagawa’s​but​also​many​Japanese​cinematographers’​favorite​ cinematographer​ because​ of​ his​ low-​key​ style.​ O-Chiyo’s Umbrella​ is​ no​ longer​extant,​but​according​to​the​screenplay​in​Miyagawa’s​own​handwriting,​it​is​clear​that​the​film​tried​to​imitate​Garmes’s​low-​key​and​contrasty​“north​light”​technique.​The​film​begins​in​the​middle​of​the​night,​ and​spotlights​serve​for​the​lighting​scheme.​O-​Chiyo,​a​female​spy,​appears​ as​a​dark​shadow​on​a​white​wall,​preceded​by​a​strong​spotlight—a​lamp​ that​she​has​in​her​hand​as​the​source​light.​According​to​the​screenplay,​ “lightings​of​the​rooms​in​the​background​change​as​O-​Chiyo​moves.”17 ​ When​ Miyagawa​ talked​ about​ the​ dark​ tones​ in​ cinema​ that​ he​ preferred,​it​was​not​the​lighting​of​Kyoto​but​that​used​by​such​German​filmmakers​ as​ Murnau,​ especially​ the​ “gloomy​ contrast​ between​ black​ and​ white”​in​their​films.18​Miyagawa​said​in​an​interview,​“In​short,​French​film​ was​soft​focus,​American​film​was​high​key​and​bright,​and​German​film​ was​good​in​the​contrast​between​black​and​white.​I​prefer​the​lighting​in​ German​film.”19​More​specifically,​he​stated,​“[German​films]​fully​utilized​ contrasts​between​black​and​white.​Relatively,​they​looked​dark​in​tones,​ but​with​solid​images,​didn’t​they?​When​I​was​in​the​production​units​of​ jidaigeki,​I​learned​a​lot​from​them.”20 ​ If​that​was​the​case,​the​connection​among​Miyagawa,​the​traditional​ culture​ of​ Kyoto,​ and​ Japanese​ beauty​ seemed​ nothing​ but​ a​ discursive​ construct​in​accordance​with​the​post–World​War​II​policy​of​Japanese​ cinema.​After​the​success​of​Rashomon​at​the​Venice​International​Film​ Festival,​international​distribution​of​films​became​a​prevalent​aspiration​ for​ the​ Japanese​ film​ industry.​ A​ major​ strategy​ taken​ by​ Japanese​ film​ companies​to​appeal​to​international​audiences​was​to​emphasize​such​cul258  concLusion

tural​motifs​as​noh​play​and​Kabuki​drama,​Zen​Buddhism,​samurai,​and​ geisha​that​were​self-​consciously​marked​as​traditionally​Japanese.​Exotic​ Japaneseness​was​sold​as​a​commodity​to​foreign​audiences​and​publicized​ as​a​symbol​of​the​national​identity​of​Japan​to​be​approved​internationally. ​ Daiei​(Dai​Nippon​Eiga​Seisaku​Kabushiki​Gaisha,​established​on​January​27,​1942,​combining​Nikkatsu,​Shinko​Kinema,​and​Daito​Eiga),​where​ Miyagawa​ worked,​ initiated​ the​ exoticization​ of​ Japanese​ cinema​ under​ Nagata​Masaichi,​the​president.​There​was​one​symbolical​incident.​Nagata​ originally​cast​Sessue​Hayakawa,​a​Japanese​actor​who​had​obtained​his​ international​fame​in​the​early​decades​of​the​century,​in​Place for Leo​(Shishi no za,​Ito​Daisuke,​1953),​a​jidaigeki​film​that​would​depict​the​traditional​ world​of​noh​theater.21​Persuaded​by​Nagata,​Hayakawa​had​returned​to​ Japan​in​1949​for​the​first​time​in​twelve​years.​Hayakawa​was​expected​to​ become​a​representative​of​Japan,​not​because​of​his​Japanese​nationality​ but​because​of​his​foreign-​made​star​image,​in​order​to​gain​recognition​ for​Japanese​cinema​from​international​audiences.22​Hayakawa​himself​declared​in​1949​that​he​intended​to​“make​a​Japanese​film​really​targeting​foreign​audiences.​.​.​.​I​want​to​create​a​new​style​that​would​go​beyond​the​ framework​of​Japanese​cinema​so​far.”23​Hayakawa​also​said,​“If​I​work​in​ Japan,​I​am​only​working​in​films​with​international​perspectives.”24​Hayakawa’s​international​fame​was​also​considered​to​be​a​safety​valve​for​the​ Allied​occupation​government​in​Japan​that​was​trying​to​reestablish​the​ Japanese​film​industry.25​Immediately​after​the​end​of​World​War​II,​Japan​ was​subject​to​the​Allied​occupation​(from​September​1945​to​April​1952).​ The​goal​of​the​occupation​was​to​abolish​the​militarism​and​ultranationalism​that​had​prevailed​in​Japanese​politics​and​culture​before​and​during​the​war​and​to​educate​Japanese​people​with​American-​style​liberalism​ and​democracy.​The​occupation​government​turned​to​the​effectiveness​of​ media,​especially​cinema,​to​publicize​this​new​ideology​to​Japanese​society​at​large.​As​early​as​September​1945,​the​government​met​with​the​executives​of​Japanese​film​studios​to​communicate​their​interest​in​the​film​ industry.​By​October​1945,​the​Information​Dissemination​Section​(later​ the​Civil​Information​and​Education​Section,​or​cie)​was​established​and​ started​exercising​censorship​of​film​projects,​scripts,​and​completed​films​ by​checking​translated​materials​submitted​by​film​companies.26​The​government​highly​valued​Hayakawa’s​Hollywood​star​image​from​the​prewar​ period,​which​had​prevented​him​from​staying​in​Japan​during​the​war.​ the​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo  259

Hayakawa’s​international​star​image​became​the​symbol​of​Japan’s​deviation​ from​ a​ militaristic​ past​ and​ the​ transplantation​ of​ democracy​ from​ abroad.​Hayakawa​played​the​role​of​a​Japanese​officer​who​defends​international​laws,​family​values,​and​a​white​American​heroine​in​the​Hollywood​film​Three Came Home​( Jean​Negulesco,​1949),​starring​Claudette​ Colbert.​In​some​interview​articles​in​Japanese​magazines,​Hayakawa​also​ played​the​role​of​an​instructor​of​the​American​way​of​life.​In​one​article​ in​a​Japanese​magazine,​Hayakawa​instructed​Tanaka​Kinuyo,​arguably​the​ most​popular​female​star​of​Japan​in​the​prewar​period,​who​was​about​to​ go​on​a​trip​to​the​United​States,​on​how​to​behave​there.​He​said,​“You​ must​forget​the​Japanese​way​of​thinking​and​behave​confidently.​.​.​.​You​ might​be​surprised​how​frankly​American​people​speak​and​behave,​but​ once​you​get​used​to​it,​you​will​feel​comfortable.​.​.​.​[In​Hollywood,]​all​ staff​members​make​efforts​to​create​the​best​atmosphere​for​the​actors​to​ perform​as​they​want,​and​vice​versa.​This​harmony,​this​morality,​is​what​ you​should​learn​from​them.”27 ​ Despite​all​this,​Hayakawa​did​not​appear​in​Place for Leo,​which​was​ released​after​the​occupation​ended.​His​role​was​taken​over​by​Hasegawa​ Kazuo,​ whose​ star​ image​ had​ almost​ always​ been​ associated​ with​ Japanese​theatrical​arts.​This​replacement​of​stars​indicated​the​inclination​of​ the​Japanese​film​industry​toward​traditionalism​and​exoticism,​free​from​ an​“imposed”​American-​style​and​democratic​“revolution​from​above.”28​ The​Japanese​film​industry’s​turn​to​traditionalism​and​exoticism​was​not​ only​a​result​of​international​success​of​Rashomon,​but​it​could​have​been​ a​nationalist​reaction​to​the​drastic​changes​and​radical​reforms​led​by​the​ occupation​ government.​ Hayakawa​ himself​ was​ aware​ of​ this​ changing​ trend​in​Japanese​filmmaking.​He​said,​“[Japanese​cinema]​will​never​be​ successful​by​merely​imitating​American​films.​Without​using​the​unique​ Japanese​tradition,​such​as​the​haragei​[refrained]​acting​style,​American​ audiences​will​not​welcome​Japanese​films.”29 ​ Under​such​conditions,​Miyagawa’s​work​became​one​of​the​important​ sites​in​which​Japanese​aesthetics​was​reimagined​to​suit​the​new​cultural​ ends​of​post–World​War​II​Japan.​The​discourse​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​ was​reapplied​to​his​work​with​reference​to​the​architecture​and​culture​of​ Kyoto.​The​prewar​discursive​tendency​that​invented​Japanese​cultural​tradition​was​renewed​in​the​postwar​period.​Once​again,​the​issue​was​about​ the​relationship​between​the​aesthetic​and​the​geopolitical.​The​aesthetics​ 260  concLusion

of​shadow​was​necessitated​and​used​in​order​to​justify​Japanese​cinema​in​ the​negotiations​with​other​cinemas​in​international​markets. ​ While​playing​an​official​role​with​the​publicizing​of​Japanese​aesthetics,​however,​Miyagawa​was​not​simply​subscribing​to​the​discourse​of​the​ aesthetics​of​shadow.​Even​when​Daiei’s​strategy​of​self-​exoticization​was​ one​of​the​central​discourses​for​Japanese​filmmaking,​Miyagawa’s​work​ was​not​contained​within​the​Japanese​traditionality​that​was​emphasized​ in​that​strategy.​Instead,​the​detailed​notes​on​lighting​that​Miyagawa​inscribed​on​many​pages​of​the​scripts​of​his​post–World​War​II​films​indicate​that​he​was​more​concerned​about​the​potentiality​of​cinematography.​ He​was​fully​aware​of​the​existence​of​the​discourse​of​the​aesthetics​of​ shadow.​That​was​why​he​publicized​that​his​work​had​a​strong​connection​with​the​culture​of​Kyoto​and​apparently​collaborated​to​promulgate​ that​discourse.​But​in​practice​Miyagawa​was​examining​what​exactly​the​ aesthetics​of​shadow​in​cinema​were​and​was​exploring​the​notion​of​cinematic​realism,​in​particular,​which​occupied​the​core​of​the​discourse​of​the​ aesthetics​of​shadow.​If​we​focus​on​the​lighting​of​Miyagawa’s​work,​we​ realize​that​there​were​diverse​efforts​of​cinematography​behind​the​publicized​Japanese​beauty.​In​this​sense,​just​as​wartime​Japanese​cinema​was​ never​unified​but​was​instead​a​complicated​mix​of​tendencies,​Daiei’s​filmmaking​for​export​with​the​strategy​of​self-​exoticization,​which​achieved​a​ certain​amount​of​international​successes,​was​not​unified. Incorporating the Aesthetics of shadow: during world war II

By​the​late​1930s,​in​spite​of​his​preference​for​Hollywood​and​German​ cinematography,​as​an​active​member​of​the​nsc,​Miyagawa​became​fully​ involved​ in​ the​ emerging​ discourse​ of​ the​ aesthetics​ of​ shadow.​ Singing Lovebirds​(Oshidori utagassen,​Makino​Masahiro,​1939),​the​film​that​has​ recently​achieved​the​status​of​a​cult​classic,​is​a​good​example​of​Miyagawa’s​skillful​incorporation​of​Hollywood-​style​three-​point​lighting​and​ jidaigeki-​style​spectacular​lighting​in​a​realist​manner​that​would​go​along​ with​the​documentary​spirit. ​ The​production​of​Singing Lovebirds​was​nothing​but​accidental.​The​director,​Makino,​was​in​production​of​another​musical​film,​Yaji Kita: The Great Emperor’s New Year​(Yaji Kita: Meikun hatsu agari),​in​mid-​November​ 1939.​When​Kataoka​Chiezo,​the​star​of​the​film,​became​ill​and​had​to​rest​ for​two​weeks,​Nikkatsu​did​not​want​to​waste​the​singers​on​loan​from​Teithe​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo  261

chiku​Company​and​requested​that​Makino​make​another​film​with​them.​ Singing Lovebirds​was​therefore​a​substitute​film​that​was​photographed​in​ “only​nine​days.”30​The​film​was​in​completion​by​December​10,​when​Makino​went​back​to​the​set​of​Yaji Kita.​Similarly,​Miyagawa​photographed​ this​film​while​the​production​of​the​Miyamoto Musashi​trilogy​(Inagaki​ Hiroshi,​1940)​was​briefly​on​hold.31​Since​Singing Lovebirds​was​made​on​ such​a​bread-​and-​butter​schedule​and​budget,​it​is​very​likely​that​the​film​ displays​the​typical​characteristics​of​the​techniques​and​styles​of​Miyagawa’s​work​of​the​time. ​ In​the​opening​sequence,​O-​Haru,​the​heroine,​is​drying​numerous​paper​ parasols​in​the​alley.​The​parasols​reflect​the​sunlight​and​enhance​the​sense​ of​high-​key​tones​of​the​film.​But​the​film​was​not​simply​bright​in​a​manner​of​either​Hollywood​or​Shochiku.​Apparently,​O-​Haru​was​captured​ in​three-​point​lighting,​but​she​was​carefully​placed​in​the​midst​of​source​ lights:​the​strong​sunlight​coming​into​the​rooms​through​the​windows​and​ open​shoji​in​the​back.​Her​face​and​hair​are​beautifully​rimmed​by​those​ lights​and​stand​out​from​the​background,​but​in​a​realistic​​manner. ​ At​night,​the​same​Japanese​room​was​again​realistically​lit.​Light​comes​ from​an​andon​lamp,​the​only​diegetic​source​of​light,​and​offers​strong​ sidelight​on​the​faces​of​O-​Haru​and​her​depressed​father​when​they​find​ out​that​the​father’s​antiques​are​all​fake.​The​darkness​of​the​room​not​only​ satisfies​the​documentary​spirit​in​depicting​a​Japanese​room​but​also​has​ a​Hollywood-​style​narrational​function​of​formulating​the​tragic​mood​of​ the​scene​and​of​conveying​the​psychological​states​of​the​characters. ​ The​finale​of​the​film​on​the​street​displays​naturalistic​but​skillfully​maneuvered​transition​of​lighting:​from​a​contrasty​one,​supposedly​photographed​as​day​for​night​in​order​to​enhance​the​beauty​of​shadow​during​ the​sword​fighting,​to​a​bright​high-​key​tone.​When​O-​Haru​is​attacked​in​ the​middle​of​the​night​by​gangsters,​her​body​casts​a​strong​shadow​on​the​ wall​of​the​house.​The​hero,​played​by​Kataoka​Chiezo,​comes​to​the​rescue.​The​sword​fighting​between​the​hero​and​the​gang​progresses,​along​ with​a​nondiegetic​rumba​score,​and​is​skillfully​choreographed​under​a​ hut​with​naked​logs.​The​shadows​of​the​logs​create​contrasty​patterns​of​ light​and​shadow​upon​the​constantly​moving​characters​and​their​shining​ swords.​When​the​fight​is​over​and​the​hero​confesses​his​love​to​O-​Haru,​ the​sky​is​visibly​brighter​at​dawn.​Kataoka’s​star​vehicles​were​often​called​ meiro jidaigeki​(bright​and​cheerful​period​drama)​because​of​their​comical​ 262  concLusion

tones,​but​in​the​case​of​Singing Lovebirds,​realism​of​lighting​also​served​the​ bright​tones. examining the Aesthetics of shadow: After world war II

In​his​March​1957​essay,​Miyagawa​wrote,​“Having​experiences​in​making​ black-​and-​white​films​with​realistic​lighting,​I​had​a​difficult​time​in​reproducing​colors​realistically​in​color​films.​.​.​.​The​reality​of​black​and​white​ is​that​of​completed​images​on​the​screen,​but​the​reality​of​color​is​that​ of​actual​objects.”32​Here,​Miyagawa​admitted​that​the​realism​of​black-​ and-​white​films​was​different​from​actual​objects.​What​he​spoke​of​was​ achieving​reality​effects​rather​than​documenting​reality​as​it​was.33​Miyagawa​even​used​colors​in​Ugetsu​for​the​purpose​of​reality​effects.​In​a​scene​ when​Lady​Wakasa​(Kyo​Machiko)​reveals​her​identity​as​a​ghost,​Miyagawa​changes​the​lights​from​red​to​blue.​Kyo​was​made​up​in​a​noh-​style​ scary​red.​Under​the​red​light,​her​face​“looks​whiter​on​black-​and-​white​ films,”​according​to​Miyagawa.​Then,​when​the​spotlight​on​her​changes​ to​blue,​“the​red​becomes​so​emphasized​that​it​turns​into​black,​which​ makes​ the​ expression​ of​ her​ eyes​ change​ drastically.”34​ Miyagawa​ once​ talked​about​colors​in​terms​of​enhancing​reality​effects:​“Red​is​the​color​ with​the​strongest​impact,​but​it​vanishes​into​other​grays​in​monochrome​ images.​Therefore,​I​often​used​sumi​ink​instead​to​show​blood​in​films.​It​ looks​redder.​When​I​started​my​career​in​a​film​studio,​films​were​already​ panchromatic,​but​the​previous​[orthochromatic]​films​were​not​sensitive​ to​red.​So,​my​image​of​red​in​cinema​had​been​a​certain​black.”35​Here,​ Japanese​sumi​ink​was​not​used​for​Japanese​aesthetics​but​for​cinematic​ reality​effects. ​ The​wartime​discourse​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​was​leaning​toward​ documenting​reality​as​it​was.​If​Hollywood​cinema​was​characterized​as​ transparency​with​seamless​reality​effects,​the​dream​of​Japanese​cinematographers​of​the​1930s​was​to​achieve​the​same.​Yet​when​they​realized​ that​that​would​be​difficult​because​of​the​material​limitations,​they​needed​ to​justify​their​work​by​speaking​of​truthful​documentation​of​the​reality​ of​Japanese​culture,​Japanese​people,​and​Japan’s​war​efforts​without​formative​manipulation​of​raw​materials.​Miyagawa’s​work​questioned​such​ ambivalent​notions​of​realism​in​cinema​and​consequently​examined​the​ status​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​in​the​history​of​Japanese​cinema. ​ In​ his​ interview​ with​Watanabe​Yutaka,​ Shinoda​ Masahiro​differentithe​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo  263

ates​Miyagawa’s​post–World​War​II​work​from​the​“so-​called​postwar​realism.”36​Neither​Watanabe​nor​Shinoda​clarify​what​exactly​“postwar​realism”​means,​but​Shinoda​juxtaposes​Miyagawa’s​work​with​Gregg​Toland’s​ and​ calls​ these​ cinematographers​ “photogenists,”​ who​ prioritize​ acquiring​cinematic​images​with​“clear​lines”​and​“contrasts”​between​lights​and​ shadows.37 ​ Indeed,​ what​ characterized​ Miyagawa’s​ postwar​ cinematography​ was​ conspicuous​clarity​of​images​and​prominent​distinction​between​light​and​ shadow,​both​of​which​had​nothing​to​do​with​the​Japanese​traditional​aesthetics​in​nature.​In​Miyagawa’s​work,​the​illusion​of​presence​on​screen​ and​the​existence​of​darkness​were​enhanced​by​the​constant​use​of​deep​ focus​and​contrasty​lighting.​With​such​a​conspicuous,​or​even​obsessive,​ emphasis​ on​ clarity​ and​ contrast​ via​ lighting,​ Miyagawa​ was​ exploring​ reality​effects​in​cinema​that​the​discourse​of​the​documentary​spirit​did​ not​fully​pursue.​When​Daiei​studio​executives​begged​Miyagawa​to​open​ the​aperture​of​his​camera​more​widely​to​economize​the​electricity​used​ for​lighting,​Miyagawa​rejected​that​idea​so​as​not​to​lose​the​sharpness​of​ the​images​that​he​would​capture.38​Miyagawa​was​“amazed”​at​Cezanne’s​ painting​of​a​forest​(Kari no mori;​the​original​title​is​untraceable),​which​ used​a​“deep​focus”​style​so​that​every​detail​was​painted​very​carefully,​ from​the​fallen​leaves​in​front​to​the​small​human​being​and​a​dog​at​the​ back.​Miyagawa​juxtaposed​the​Western​painter’s​deep​focus​with​Japanese​paintings.39​Miyagawa​also​wrote​about​Maeda​Seiton’s​paintings:​“As​ if​they​were​photographs​shot​with​the​depth​of​field,​all​parts​of​the​image​ are​in​focus.​He​even​painted​small​people​at​the​edge​of​the​painting​in​ detail.​His​image​is​really​sharp.”40 ​ For​a​similar​reason,​Miyagawa’s​exploration​of​reality​effects​was​distinguished​from​the​“so-​called​postwar​realism”​that​Shinoda​noted.​Mitsuhiro​ Yoshimoto​argues​that​a​new​dominant​idea​of​realism​emerged​in​Japan​ after​World​War​II:​“realism​as​a​documentary​record​of​contemporary​society​and​everyday​life.”41​Such​Italian​neorealist​films​as​Paisan​(Roberto​ Rossellini,​1946),​which​was​released​in​Japan​in​1949​and​was​selected​as​ the​best​film​of​the​year​by​Kinema Junpo,​and​Bicycle Thieves​(Ladri di biciclette,​Vittorio​de​Sica,​1948),​which​was​released​in​Japan​in​1950​and​was​ also​selected​as​the​best​film​of​the​year​by​Kinema Junpo,​influenced​the​ formation​of​postwar​realism.​Italian​neorealist​films​arose​from​the​devastation​of​postwar​Europe.​Rejection​of​the​“formative​manipulation​of​ 264  concLusion

raw​materials”​and​photographing​only​with​available​light,​no​matter​how​ dark​it​would​look,​turned​into​a​justification​of​neorealist​filmmaking​that​ resorted​to​the​notion​of​mechanical​reproduction​as​the​nature​of​cinema​ under​the​extremely​limited​material​conditions.42​Despite​different​geopolitical​and​historical​situations,​such​an​idea​was​not​very​different​from​ the​documentary​spirit​during​wartime​Japan.​In​contrast,​the​extremely​ sensitive​and​rather​hyperbolic​emphasis​on​clarity​of​images​and​contrast​ between​ light​ and​ shadow​ in​ Miyagawa’s​ work​ brought​ the​ question​ of​ cinematic​realism​to​the​surface,​an​issue​with​which​neither​the​discourses​ of​documentary​spirit​nor​postwar​realism​engaged. ​ Rashomon​established​Miyagawa’s​international​fame​for​the​first​time.​ When​he​was​working​on​it,​he​did​not​say​anything​about​Japanese​beauty​ or​ traditional​ aesthetics.​ Instead​ he​ was​ emphasizing​ that​ the​ film​ was​ nothing​but​contrast​and​clarity​for​the​purpose​of​capturing​the​“seriousness”​of​the​story​that​“would​express​the​true​nature​of​human​beings.”43​ Miyagawa​said​of​Rashomon:​“Absolutely​with​black​and​white.​No​gray.​I​ want​to​shoot​pictures​with​strong​contrasts.”44​Miyagawa​pursued​such​ contrast​and​clarity​by​intentionally​limiting​the​materials​that​he​would​ use,​as​if​he​had​been​revisiting​the​wartime​conditions​of​filmmaking​and​ reexamining​the​ultimate​potentiality​of​those​limited​materials.​His​attempt​to​achieve​reality​effects​to​display​the​“true​nature​of​human​beings”​ was​paradoxically​acknowledged.​A​reviewer​of​Rashomon​for​Eiga Gijutsu​ noted,​“Mr.​Miyagawa​did​not​pay​any​attention​to​realism​but​simply​subscribed​formalism.”45​Miyagawa’s​hyperbolic​attention​to​clarity​and​contrast​was​surely​distinguished​from​the​realism​of​documentarism​and​was​ absolutely​obsessive​as​to​forms​and​materials. ​ First,​Miyagawa​selected​“hard”​Fuji​film,​identical​to​the​only​film​stock​ available​during​wartime.46​In​the​script​of​Rashomon,​we​can​find​Miyagawa’s​handwritten​notes​on​f-​stops​and​emulsion​for​the​scenes​of​the​ open​courtyard​(fig.​c.1).​Kneeling​on​the​shiningly​white​sands,​suspects​ and​witnesses​make​their​testimonies​to​the​invisible​judge.​The​notes​read​ “400,​150,​250,​f13”​at​the​top​of​the​page​for​the​scene​in​which​a​woodcutter​(Shimura​Takashi)​talks​to​the​judge​and​“200,​300,​f14”​for​the​one​ in​which​a​Buddhist​monk​(Chiaki​Minoru)​does​the​same.47​Such​faster​ f-​stops​as​13​and​14​usually​indicate​less​depth​of​field.​Therefore,​obviously,​ Miyagawa​had​to​have​used​extremely​bright​lighting​for​the​scene.​Miyagawa​said​about​the​scene,​“I​attempted​deep​focus​with​lots​of​light​with​ the​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo  265

figure​c.1  Miyagawa’s​notes​on​f-​stops​and​emulsion​in​the​screenplay​for​ Rashomon​(1950).​Courtesy​of​3​Mast​Kyoto.

f16​or​so.​I​am​very​sorry​for​the​actors​[who​hurt​their​eyes​because​of​the​ too​bright​light].”48​The​numbers​400,​150,​250,​200,​and​300​indicate​that​ Miyagawa​was​experimenting​with​how​his​composition​of​depth​would​ look​with​different​types​of​Fuji​film​stocks.​As​a​result​of​his​experiment​ with​film​stocks​and​lighting,​the​sharpness​of​the​image​from​front​to​back​ in​the​courtyard​is​striking.​With​such​a​depth​of​field,​the​illusion​of​presence​on​the​screen​was​achieved,​as​in​the​works​of​Gregg​Toland. ​ Second,​when​he​photographed​scenes​in​the​woods,​Miyagawa​used​ mirrors​ to​ directly​ reflect​ the​ sunlight.​ It​ was​ impossible​ to​ use​ electric​ lights​deep​in​the​woods—the​location​created​a​limited​material​condition.49​Miyagawa​even​painted​trees,​grasses,​and​leaves​black​to​emphasize​the​contrast​between​black​and​white.50​Miyagawa​said,​“Shadows​are​ not​ only​ created​ by​ lamps​ and​ lights.​ Water​ on​ the​ streets​ can​ create​ a​ dark​spot​that​may​look​like​shadows.”51​Such​exploration​of​reality​effects,​ which​could​be​even​called​hyperrealism,​was​distinguished​from​the​documentaristic​realism​that​was​adopted​by​Miura​Mitsuo​in​the​scenes​in​the​ woods​in​The Battle of Kawanakajima.​While​Miura​craftily​used​light​in​The Battle of Kawanakajima​and​aimed​for​“a​vividly​contrastive​tone​in​order​ to​depict​the​core​theme​of​the​film,”​the​basis​of​his​lighting​scheme​was​ application​of​available​lighting​sources.52​Facing​“the​extreme​difficulty​of​ setting​the​darkness​of​the​thick​woods​as​the​basis​of​the​film​and​of​displaying​a​large​group​of​armored​samurai,”​which​was​“too​insensitive​to​ light​as​a​photographic​subject”​when​it​was​impossible​to​bring​lighting​ equipment​into​the​deep​woods,​Miura​decided​to​“erase​details”​in​darkness.53​In​contrast,​Miyagawa​adopted​“formative​manipulation​of​raw​materials”​to​obtain​the​sharp​details​of​the​images​and​simultaneously​the​ strong​contrasts​between​light​and​shadow. ​ Miyagawa’s​work​with​Mizoguchi​Kenji,​which​followed​the​accidental​international​success​of​Rashomon,​has​been​praised​not​for​the​contrasty​cinematography​but​for​the​realization​of​infinite​levels​of​gray​between​ black​ and​ white,​ which​ can​ be​ connected​ to​ traditional​ Japanese​ aesthetics.​Watanabe​Yutaka​writes,​“Miyagawa’s​best​monochrome​works​ are​similar​to​ink​paintings,”​which​contain​“multiple​levels​of​gray​between​ black​ and​ white.”54​ Miyagawa​ called​ Ugetsu​ a​ film​ with​ “infinite​ gray​ as​ the​basic​tone,”​which​could​give​“a​sense​of​calmness​to​human​eyes.”55​ “In​movie​theaters,”​Miyagawa​added,​“gray​melts​into​blackness​that​surrounds​the​screen.​When​we​watch​films​in​theaters,​gray​certainly​appears​ the​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo  267

to​be​spreading​out​of​the​frame​into​the​space​outside.​This​is​what​cinematographers​have​to​think​of​most.”56 ​ However,​again,​such​emphasis​on​gradation​seemed​to​be​Miyagawa’s​ official​attitude​to​publicize​his​cinematography​as​the​Japanese​or​Kyoto​ aesthetics​for​the​purpose​of​exoticization.​If​we​read​more​closely,​we​find​ that​Miyagawa​discussed​such​multiple​“levels​of​gray”​in​terms​of​his​hyperbolic​pursuit​of​contrasts​and​clarity.​And​the​emphasis​of​the​actual​ films​was​on​reality​effects​of​lighting​instead​of​realism.​When​Miyagawa​ talked​about​the​“infinite​gray,”​he​contradicted​himself​by​saying,​“Technically,​I​used​arc​light.​The​lighting​source​of​arc​light​is​a​dot​so​that​it​creates​a​sharp​shadow.​.​.​.​If​we​use​an​arc​lamp​for​frontal​light,​it​can​make​ soft​diffusing​light.”57​Here,​Miyagawa​mentioned​how​he​achieved​certain​ soft​tones,​but​actually​he​was​referring​to​the​resulting​sharp​shadows​by​ use​of​the​same​lighting​equipment.​Miyagawa​even​experimented​with​a​ special​developing​technique​to​emphasize​the​significance​of​blackness:​ “In​ order​ to​ make​ black​ stand​ out,​ sensuality​ of​ white​ and​ vividness​ of​ levels​of​gray​are​essential.​Gin-nokoshi​[leaving​silver]​is​one​such​method​ that​emphasizes​blackness​in​images.”58​Gin-​nokoshi​is​a​special​technique​ of​film​developing,​which​prevents​color​film​from​developing​colors​and​ makes​everything​have​green-​tinted​gray​tones.59 ​ In​the​script​for​Ugetsu,​Miyagawa​left​only​a​few​handwritten​notes​on​ his​lighting​scheme​for​the​film.​But​because​there​are​only​a​few,​they​indicate​Miyagawa’s​particular​attention​to​the​differences​in​lighting​between​ these​scenes.​On​the​pages​that​describe​a​location​scene​under​daylight,​ where​Tobei​(Ozawa​Eitaro),​a​farmer​and​one​of​the​protagonists,​begs​to​ become​a​samurai,​Miyagawa​noted,​“35​mm,​f/5.6​and​1/175,”​“f/8​and​ 1/90​with​3n5​filter,”​or​“f/8​and​1/175,​with​3n5​filter.”​When​Tobei​finally​ becomes​ a​ samurai​ and​ proudly​ marches​ in​ the​ street,​ Miyagawa​ chose​ both​ 35​ mm​ and​ 50​ mm​ lens,​ f/6.3​ for​ the​ f-​stop,​ 1/175​ aperture​ speed,​ and​again​a​3n5​filter.60​Based​on​the​facts​that​such​faster​f-​stops​as​f/8​or​ f/6.3​were​used​with​the​3n5​yellow-​green/neutral​density​filter​and​that​ the​image​of​the​shots​were​in​deep​focus​with​normal​35​mm​or​50​mm​ lenses,​we​can​assume​that​Tobei’s​success​in​his​career​was​photographed​ under​very​bright​light​and​displayed​in​sharp​contrast.​In​fact,​of​another​ black-​and-​white​work​of​his​from​roughly​the​same​period,​Younger Brother​ (Ototo,​Ichikawa​Kon,​1960),​Miyagawa​said,​“I​generally​used​f/8​as​the​ normal​f-​stop​so​that​it​was​terrible​[terribly​hot].”61 268  concLusion

​ By​contrast,​Miyagawa​used​40​mm,​f/2.8,​and​1/170​for​a​night​scene​ with​samurais​attacking​a​village​where​Tobei’s​wife​resides.​The​victimization​of​Tobei’s​wife​and​the​downfall​of​the​other​protagonist​are​envisioned​in​conspicuous​low​key.​Miyagawa​shot​the​night​scenes​with​f/2.8​ or​ f/2.4​ and​ needed​ all​ the​ extra​ exposure​ he​ could​ obtain​ to​ keep​ the​ images​as​dark​as​possible.​As​such,​Miyagawa’s​particular​notes​indicate​ that​it​was​the​contrast​of​images,​not​the​realistic​documentation​of​people​ and​ landscape​ in​ in-​between​ colors,​ that​ was​ at​ the​ core​ of​ his​ lighting​ scheme​of​Ugetsu. ​ When​Miyagawa​ worked​ with​filmmakers​ such​ as​Ichikawa​ Kon​ and​ Masumura​Yasuzo,​who​became​directors​ in​the​postwar​period,​his​examination​of​reality​in​cinema​beyond​documentarism,​by​way​of​clarity​of​ images​and​contrasts​of​light​and​shadow,​came​to​the​surface​more​than​ ever.​Ichikawa​and​Masumura​were​considered​modernist​in​the​sense​that​ they​had​an​acute​understanding​of​the​history​of​Japanese​cinema​and​ were​obsessed​with​the​questions​of​what​Japanese​modernity​was​and​how​ Japanese​cinema​could​present​a​new​mode​of​subjectivity​that​was​genuinely​liberated​and​modern. ​ Odd Obsession​(Kagi,​Ichikawa​Kon,​1959)​is​based​on​a​novel​of​1956​by​ Tanizaki​Jun’ichiro.​On​the​surface,​in​Odd Obsession​the​shadowy​spaces​ of​a​house​in​Kyoto​that​Tanizaki​celebrated​in​In Praise of Shadows​looks​ realistically​documented.​This​is​particularly​visible​in​the​sequences​set​in​ the​house​of​Kenmochi,​an​elderly​art​dealer​(Nakamura​Ganjiro​II).​The​ corridor,​the​staircase,​and​the​kitchen​in​the​house​are​illuminated​only​indirectly​and​kept​dark​even​in​the​daytime.​In​those​spaces,​sidelights​come​ from​one​side​of​the​frame—a​white​shoji​screen​next​to​the​corridor​or​ frosted-​glass​windows​in​the​kitchen. ​ But,​in​many​scenes,​the​contrasts​between​strong​highlights​and​deep​ shadows​are​displayed​in​a​manner​too​overwhelming​to​be​called​realistic​ in​the​sense​of​the​documentary​spirit.​Tanizaki’s​focus​in​the​novel​is​not​ on​“the​magic​of​shadows”​in​Japanese​architecture​that​he​identified​in​In Praise of Shadows​even​when​the​story​of​Odd Obsession​is​set​in​Kyoto.62​ What​Tanizaki​emphasizes​in​Odd Obsession​is​the​brutally​white​brightness​ of​fluorescent​light.​An​elderly​husband​is​obsessed​with​revealing​his​wife’s​ white​body​under​the​white​light​while​the​forty-​five-​year-​old​wife​wants​ to​stay​in​the​dark.​The​story​reaches​its​climax​when​the​wife​comes​to​ admit​her​sexual​drive​and​decides​to​use​her​body​to​murder​her​husband​ the​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo  269

by​increasing​his​blood​pressure.​She​becomes​willing​to​reveal​her​body​ under​the​increased​number​of​fluorescent​lamps,​with​hard​light​used​for​ her​husband’s​gaze​or​desire,​and​with​her​body​magnified​by​her​husband’s​ glasses​and​his​Polaroid​camera. ​ However,​Miyagawa’s​focus​is​not​limited​to​the​fluorescent​lamp​that​ Tanizaki​highlighted​in​his​novel.​Miyagawa​turns​the​entire​space​of​Kyoto​ architecture​into​a​hyperbolic​space​of​contrasts​between​light​and​shadow.​ Sharp​images​in​deep​focus​enhance​such​contrasts.​As​Harrington​points​ out,​Miyagawa​leaves​“large​sections​of​the​frame​shrouded​in​darkness,​but​ at​the​same​time​with​artful​lighting​cleverly​guides​the​eye​of​the​viewer​ to​the​area​in​which​the​director​has​placed​his​center​of​interest.”63​The​ viewer’s​eye​cannot​help​being​“riveted​to​the​lit​object”​because​of​Miyagawa’s​rather​hyperbolic​use​of​contrasts​in​lighting​and​the​composition​ in​depth.64 ​ While​Tanizaki’s​novel​is​narrated​in​a​form​of​crosscutting,​going​back​ and​forth​between​two​diaries​written​by​the​husband​and​the​wife,​the​film​ version​opens​with​a​close-​up​of​Kimura,​a​twenty-​five-​year-​old​medical​intern​(Nakadai​Tatsuya)​in​his​office,​who​speaks​directly​to​the​camera​(the​ viewer)​about​his​odd​experience​with​a​man​obsessed​with​a​femme​fatale​ (fig.​c.2).​This​crosscutting​could​be​a​reference​to​the​narrative​devices​of​ voiceover​and​flashback​in​such​contemporaneous​Hollywood​crime​thrillers​as​Double Indemnity​(Billy​Wilder,​1944)​and​Lady in the Lake​(Robert​ Montgomery,​1947),​many​of​which​were​released​in​Japan​after​the​postwar​occupation​came​to​an​end​in​1952.​These​Hollywood​films​were​called​ film​noir​and​often​employed​contrasty​effects​lighting​to​enhance​psychological​tensions​of​characters,​attraction​and​anxiety​of​the​cities,​and​so​ forth.​As​if​Miyagawa​had​been​consciously​referring​to​the​styles​of​these​ films​(and​he​probably​was),​in​the​opening​of​Odd Obsession,​the​strong​ key​spotlight,​with​the​help​of​white​makeup,​makes​Kimura’s​face​look​ extremely​pale​in​opposition​to​the​black​wall​behind​him.​The​shot​is​described​in​the​script:​“The​screen​is​all​in​black.​.​.​.​Kimura’s​face​stands​ out​in​the​dark.”65​Miyagawa​underlined​the​first​sentence​in​red​(fig.​c.3).​ In​addition,​he​drew​a​picture​continuity​of​the​scene​on​the​script.​For​this​ first​shot​of​the​film,​Miyagawa​painted​the​background​of​Kimura​in​pitch​ black​in​clear​contrast​to​his​white​face.​He​does​not​blink.​His​eyes​reflect​ the​key​spotlight. ​ When​Kimura​stops​talking​and​walks​up​to​the​front​and​then​to​the​ 270  concLusion

figure​c.2  Kimura​(Nakadai​Tatsuya)​speaks​directly​to​the​camera​at​the​ opening​of​Odd Obsession​(1959).

figure​c.3  The​opening​of​Odd Obsession​(1959),​with​Miyagawa’s​drawing​in​the​ screenplay.​Courtesy​of​3​Mast​Kyoto.

left​of​the​screen,​the​camera​accordingly​moves​back​and​then​pans​to​the​ left​to​follow​his​movement.​The​close-​up​eventually​turns​into​a​long​shot​ of​the​office​without​a​cut.​The​long​shot​does​not​have​the​strong​key​spotlight​any​longer​but​is​photographed​in​diffused​lighting.​Lights​supposedly​ come​into​this​room​from​windows​with​frosted​glass.​The​script​notes,​ “Simultaneously,​lighting​becomes​realistic.​It​turns​into​cold​white​tones,​ characteristic​to​any​hospital.”66 ​ This​transition​of​lighting,​from​a​strongly​contrasty​one​to​a​rather​flat​ one,​together​with​the​change​of​shot​size,​smoothly​leads​the​viewers​from​ the​scene​of​the​protagonist’s​obsessive​confession​into​the​space​of​objective​third-​person​narrative​without​any​interruption.​It​is​also​arguable​ that​ in​ this​ opening​ shot,​ lighting​ changes​ conspicuously​ and​ expresses​ two​types​of​realism:​subjective​and​objective.​While​the​objective​mode​ in​flat​lighting​looks​more​realistic,​we​cannot​discard​the​subjective​view​ as​unrealistic.​Extremely​contrasty​lighting​realistically​creates​a​sense​of​ insanity​or​obsession​in​Kimura.​In​this​sense,​the​function​of​the​flat​lighting​is​not​simply​being​“realistic.”​It​enhances​the​contrast​of​two​possible​ realities. ​ Conspicuous​contrasts​of​lighting​also​signify​obsessive​gazes,​another​ psychological​reality​in​the​film.​While​Kenmochi,​the​gazing​subject,​is​ almost​always​in​black,​Ikuko,​Kenmochi’s​young​wife​(Kyo​Machiko),​the​ object​of​his​gaze,​is​in​white​in​most​cases.​Kenmochi​prefers​to​stay​in​ shadows.​In​a​scene​in​his​study,​as​soon​as​Hana​the​female​servant​turns​ on​the​light,​Kenmochi,​from​the​dark​corner​of​the​room,​orders​her​to​ turn​it​off.67​Coming​in​from​the​dark​corridor,​Hana​does​not​know​that​ Kenmochi​is​sitting​at​his​desk.​She​is​astonished.​In​a​different​scene​in​ the​evening,​Kenmochi​also​says​to​Ikuko,​“It​is​still​bright,”​even​though​ the​space​in​the​house​is​already​dark,​especially​in​long​shots.​She​replies,​ “I​cannot​see​anything​right​after​I​come​inside.” ​ By​contrast,​Miyagawa​used​fluorescent​lamps​in​an​extreme​manner​ to​ make​ Ikuko’s​ whiteness​ stand​ out.​ Instructed​ by​ Kenmochi,​ Kimura​ looks​in​the​house​for​Ikuko,​who​has​felt​sick​after​having​a​few​glasses​of​ wine,​until​he​finds​that​she​has​fainted​in​a​brightly​lit​bathroom,​naked​ (fig.​c.4).​It​is​in​fact​Kenmochi’s​perverse​plot​to​stimulate​his​own​sexual​ desire​by​forcing​the​young​physician​to​fall​for​his​young​and​beautiful​ wife.​Walking​through​dark​corridors​where​lights​are​weakly​coming​out​ of​rooms​on​one​side​through​shoji​screens,​Kimura​appears​as​the​object​ 272  concLusion

of​attention​to​the​viewers​and​as​the​one​trapped​in​an​uncanny​conspiracy​ in​a​dark​corner​of​Kyoto​architecture​that​is​displayed​in​this​shot​of​deep​ focus.​Right​after​a​shot​of​the​same​dark​corridor,​in​which​lights​from​ the​shoji​screens​on​one​side​create​high​contrast,​a​bust​shot​of​Ikuko,​in​ a​faint​in​a​bathtub,​follows.​Even​though​this​shot​is​not​clearly​presented​ as​the​point-​of-​view​shot​of​Kimura​or​Kenmochi,​its​function​is​the​same.​ The​skin​of​her​naked​shoulders,​the​hyperbolic​object​of​the​gazes,​is​extremely​white​in​the​brightly​lit​bathroom.​Miyagawa’s​own​drawing​of​the​ shot​in​the​script​emphasizes​the​whiteness​of​her​body​(fig.​c.5).​The​area​ surrounding​her​body​is​left​blank​as​if​the​body​is​emitting​white​light:​tactile​lighting.​In​the​drawing​of​the​previous​shot​by​Miyagawa,​Kenmochi​ and​Kimura​stand​in​the​corridor​in​thickly​dark​silhouette.​By​contrast,​the​ whiteness​of​Ikuko’s​body,​captured​in​their​subjective​reality,​is​striking.68 ​ Even​after​Kenmochi​and​Kimura​lay​Ikuko​down​on​her​bed​in​her​ bedroom,​the​whiteness​of​her​body​continues​to​be​emphasized​in​strong​ spotlights​ while​ the​ two​ men​ are​ positioned​ in​ the​ darker​ space​ of​ the​ room.​ A​ shot​ of​ the​ very​ dark​ corridor​ wraps​ up​ this​ scene:​ Kenmochi​ sneaks​ back​ into​ the​ room​ where​ his​ wife​ is​ resting,​ holding​ a​portable​ fluorescent​lamp​in​his​hand.​With​this​lamp​that​emits​strong,​cold​white​ lights,​he​exposes​his​wife’s​white​body​and​captures​it​in​the​viewfinder​of​ his​camera:​the​objectification​of​his​subjective​reality.​Miyagawa’s​handwriting​on​the​script​suggests​that​he​aims​to​emphasize​Kenmochi’s​gazing​ act​with​light​by​“panning​the​light.”69​According​to​the​script,​the​room​ becomes​“very​bright​without​any​shadow,”​where​a​totally​naked​Ikuko​ does​not​move​at​all​on​her​bed​but​Kenmochi​with​“ecstatic”​expressions​ keeps​taking​photos​of​her.70​When​she​moves,​Kenmochi​panics,​turns​off​ the​lamp,​and​goes​back​to​his​safe​place​in​the​dark.​Ironically,​when​he​ exposes​himself​under​the​bright​light​because​of​his​own​act​of​gazing,​he​ turns​into​an​object​of​gazing​as​well.​From​the​dark​corridor​of​the​Kyoto​ architecture,​Toshiko,​Kenmochi’s​daughter,​peeps​at​her​father’s​perverse​ conduct. ​ Later​in​the​film,​Kenmochi​is​fatally​ill​in​bed​in​the​dark.​Still,​without​ speaking​but​only​with​his​eyes,​he​asks​Ikuko​to​take​off​her​clothes.​According​to​the​screenplay,​“Ikuko’s​naked​body​stands​out​in​white​by​the​ dull​light​from​the​shoji​screens.​.​.​.​Kenmochi’s​gaze​goes​up​from​her​legs.​ Her​legs​rise​straight.​They​are​transparently​white.​A​sand​dune​appears​all​ of​a​sudden.​Infinite​white​barren​space​expands.”71​Miyagawa’s​drawings​ the​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo  273

figure​c.4  Ikuko​(Kyo​Machiko)​has​fainted​in​a​brightly​lit​bathroom.​ Odd Obsession​(1959).

figure​c.5  The​scene​of​Ikuko​in​a​bathroom​from​Odd Obsession​(1959),​with​ Miyagawa’s​drawing​in​the​screenplay.​Courtesy​of​3​Mast​Kyoto.

figure​c.6  Tactile​whiteness​of​Ikuko’s​body​in​Odd Obsession​(1959),​with​ Miyagawa’s​drawing​in​the​screenplay.​Courtesy​of​3​Mast​Kyoto.

of​this​scene​conspicuously​contrast​Kenmochi​as​a​shadowy​figure​with​an​ obsessive​gaze​and​Ikuko’s​body​as​tactile​whiteness,​as​if​it​were​radiating​ light​(fig.​c.6).​In​Odd Obsession,​contrast​of​lighting​is​conspicuously​used​ for​the​purpose​of​enhancing​reality​effects​and​depicts​the​obsessive​nature​ of​the​subjective​gazes. ​ Although​filmed​in​color,​Odd Obsession​was​very​restrictive​in​the​use​of​ vivid​colors​and​even​looked​like​a​black-​and-​white​film.​Miyagawa​focused​ on​the​hyperrealistic​contrast​between​light​and​dark​in​the​film.​But​Spider Tattoo​(Irezumi,​Masumura​Yasuzo,​1966),​another​film​based​on​Tanizaki’s​works—his​debut​novella​“Tattoo”​(“Shisei,”​1910)​and​his​later​work​ “Murdering​ O-​Tsuya”​ (“O-​Tsuya​ goroshi,”​ 1915)—was​ in​ bright​ colors.​ Even​in​this​color​film​Miyagawa​extended​his​exploration​of​contrasts​in​ lighting​and​clarity​of​images​and​his​pursuit​of​cinematic​realism.​Spider Tattoo​was​made​nine​years​after​Miyagawa​said​that​he​“had​a​difficult​time​ in​reproducing​colors​realistically​in​color​films.”72​Throughout​the​film,​in​ interior​scenes,​Miyagawa​formulates​the​lighting​scheme​in​a​way​that​an​ andon​lamp​is​the​sole​origin​of​light​in​the​room.​Consequently,​the​interior​spaces​in​the​film​are​almost​always​in​low​key​with​a​single​direction​ the​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo  275

of​light,​which​creates​conspicuous​contrasts​between​lights​and​shadows,​ as​in​Odd Obsession. ​ Watanabe​Yutaka​claims​that​Spider Tattoo​“came​closer​to​Miyagawa’s​ ideal​ of​ re-creating​ tones​ of​ sumi-​e​ in​ films.”73​ Contrary​ to​ Watanabe’s​ claim,​ Spider Tattoo​ goes​ far​ beyond​ the​ rather​ restrained​ aesthetics​ of​ sumi-e.​Again,​Miyagawa’s​focus​was​on​the​contrast​of​light​and​clarity​of​ images,​which​were​effectively​used​to​enhance​subjective​reality.​Throughout​the​film,​the​skin​of​the​heroine,​O-​Tsuya​(Wakao​Ayako),​is​astonishingly​white,​as​is​Ikuko’s​skin​in​Odd Obsession.​The​difference​is​that​ in​Spider Tattoo​whiteness​is​highly​contrasted​not​only​to​the​dark​spaces​ within​frames​but​also​to​the​vivid​red​colors​of​the​kimonos,​the​red​ink​ for​tattoos,​and​blood.​The​contrasts​are​between​black​and​white​and​red​ and​white.​Even​when​the​andon​lamp,​the​single​source​of​light​in​a​room,​ represents​realistic​use​of​light,​the​heroine’s​naked​skin​looks​as​if​it​were​ glowing​with​an​inner​light—tactile​lighting—often​by​reflecting​the​unrealistically​strong​light​emitted​from​the​andon​lamp​and​in​contrast​to​ the​vivid​red​kimono.​The​spider​tattoo​in​red​ink​forcefully​inscribed​on​ the​heroine’s​back​moves​as​if​it​were​alive​on​the​white​skin​that​seems​to​ radiate​light. ​ In​fact,​Miyagawa’s​plan​for​this​film​was​not​to​re-create​the​tones​of​ sumi-​e​or​to​realistically​represent​Japanese​spaces​lit​by​the​andon​lamps.​ His​goal​was​to​achieve​more​vivid​and​sharper​images.​In​“Miyagawa​Report:​Spider Tattoo,”​Miyagawa​wrote: As​ a​ result​ of​ director​ Masumura’s​ intention​ and​ exchanges​ of​ opinions​between​us,​we​decided​to​film​the​story​in​Kabuki-​style​dialogues​ and​scenes,​which​are​close​to​the​original​stories​[by​Tanizaki].​Even​ though​we​would​refer​to​the​ukiyo-e​[woodblock​print]-​style​manners​ and​customs​of​that​period,​we​agreed​to​depict​O-​Tsuya,​the​woman​ in​the​past,​as​no​different​from​any​contemporary​women.​Aiming​for​ the​colors​of​ukiyo-​e​and​the​sharp​tones​of​woodblock​printing,​I​decided​to​use​f/6​as​the​standard​f-​stop.​Actually,​acting​in​deep​space​ increased​during​production,​and​there​are​nearly​thirty​shots​in​deep​ focus​with​f/11,​f/9,​or​f/8.​I​tried​to​enhance​the​vividness​of​scenes​by​ dense​​colors.74 Miyagawa​argued​elsewhere​that​even​when​they​are​placed​in​the​background,​ colors​ would​ vividly​ appear​ on​ the​ screen​ and​ invalidate​ the​ 276  concLusion

sense​of​depth​in​images.75​The​deep​space​composition​in​Spider Tattoo​ is​achieved​by​blocking,​which​tactfully​creates​dark​spaces​and​brighter​ spaces​within​frames.​Miyagawa​certainly​made​special​notes​on​the​script​ with​his​pencil​of​the​different​f-​stops,​f/11​in​particular,​for​these​deep-​ space​shots.76 ​ Miyagawa’s​choice​of​Eastman​negative​for​Spider Tattoo​indicated​his​ obsession​ with​ contrasts​ and​ clarity.77​ When​ Eastman​ negative​ was​ not​ considered​ to​ be​ suitable​ for​ contrasty​ cinematography,​ Miyagawa​ approached​it​from​a​different​perspective​and​achieved​conspicuously​contrasty​images.​It​was​his​way​of​incorporating​Hollywood​technologies,​a​ way​not​necessarily​affected​by​a​local​sociopolitical​and​socioeconomic​ necessity​but​in​accordance​with​his​attitude​to​explore​the​potentiality​of​ cinematic​materials. ​ In​the​early​1950s,​Eastman​Kodak​introduced​a​single-​strip​color​film​ and​a​dye-​coupling​process​that​eliminated​the​need​for​expensive​Technicolor​equipment.​By​1954,​at​least​half​the​films​produced​in​Hollywood​ were​shot​in​Eastmancolor.​According​to​the​film​historian​James​Naremore,​“Because​of​the​relative​brightness​of​the​Eastmancolor​photography,​the​transitional​years​between​1955​and​1970​were​ill​suited”​to​contrasty​cinematography.78 ​ Such​brightness​of​Eastmancolor​was​suitable​for​Daiei’s​policy.​Daiei​ started​experimenting​with​color​film​beginning​in​April​1951​in​order​to​enhance​the​exotic​quality​of​its​films​for​export.79​In​1952,​Nagata​Masaichi​ sent​Midorikawa​Michio​to​the​United​States​to​investigate​the​cinematographic​technologies​of​color.​Midorikawa​first​visited​Dr.​Emery​Hughes​ at​ Eastman​ Kodak​ Company​ in​ upstate​ New​ York​ and​ obtained​ brand-​ new​Eastmancolor​film.​Midorikawa​then​visited​the​Mitchell​Company​ and​purchased​new​Mitchell​cameras​and​projectors,​which​would​allow​ for​ the​ color-​screen​ process.​ Midorikawa​ also​ visited​ Universal​ Studios​ and​observed​the​shooting​of​Mississippi Gambler​(Rudolph​Maté,​1953).​ In​particular,​Midorikawa​was​impressed​by​the​bright​lighting​for​color​ films,​which​would​consistently​need​two​or​three​times​as​much​light​as​ black-​and-​white​films.​Gate of Hell​(Jigokumon,​Kinugasa​Teinosuke,​1953)​ was​the​first​film​that​used​the​technologies​that​Midorikawa​brought​back​ from​the​United​States.​Midorikawa​served​as​the​technical​advisor​for​the​ film.​In​Gate of Hell,​bright​colors​intensify​the​pictorialism​from​the​very​ beginning​ of​ the​ film:​ a​ colorful​ twelfth-​century​ scroll​ painting​ depictthe​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo  277

ing​the​1160​Heiji​revolt​is​rolled​out​by​an​anonymous​hand.​In​the​following​thirty​minutes​or​so,​the​story​in​this​scroll​painting​is​dramatized​ with​more​colorful​costumes,​props,​and​sets.​Traditional​Japanese​beauty​ is​thus​replaced​by​a​cinematic​form,​and​because​of​the​scroll​paintings,​ bright​colors​especially​in​the​sets​appear​to​be​a​realistic​depiction​of​historical​incidents.​Thanks​to​such​a​realization​of​exotic​culture​that​used​ the​most​innovative​color​technology​of​the​time,​Gate of Hell​received​the​ Grand​Prize​at​Cannes​and​the​Best​Foreign​Film​Academy​Award​of​the​ year. ​ What​is​emphasized​in​Spider Tattoo​is​not​the​brightness​of​color​photography​or​exotic​objects​in​color,​but​the​vivid​contrast​between​white​ and​red.​Miyagawa​visualized​the​last​scene​in​order​to​enhance​the​contrast​of​O-​Tsuya’s​white​skin,​on​which​the​spider​tattoo​is​painted,​and​the​ red​blood.80​On​the​last​page​of​an​early​version​of​the​screenplay​of​Spider Tattoo,​Miyagawa​writes​in​red​pencil,​“Regarding​the​last​scene:​a​spider​ and​blood.”​In​this​early​version,​O-​Tsuya,​Seikichi,​and​Shinsuke​(who​ desperately​loves​O-​Tsuya​and​cannot​help​murdering​her​out​of​jealousy)​ all​die​in​an​exterior​scene​set​on​the​riverbank​in​heavy​rain.​The​final​shot​ of​this​early​version​is​a​long​shot​of​the​crescent​moon​over​the​three​dead​ bodies—presumably​in​low​key,​even​though​Miyagawa​rewrites​in​pencil,​ “it​starts​raining​hard”​over​“the​rain​has​stopped.”81 ​ Instead,​the​final​version​is​set​in​O-​Tsuya’s​room​in​the​evening.​Thunder​is​roaring​outside,​and​a​flash​of​white​lightning​from​outside​shines​ on​Shinsuke’s​sword​as​well​as​on​the​spider​tattoo​in​a​close-​up.​O-​Tsuya​ deprives​Shinsuke​of​his​sword​and​stabs​him.​Another​“flash​of​bluish-​ white​lightning​shines​on​O-​Tsuya,​who​stands​and​stares​at​the​dying​Shinsuke.”82​Then,​“Seikichi​comes​into​the​room​from​behind​her,​quietly​like​ a​shadow.”83​Miyagawa​underlines​the​first​direction​in​red​pencil​and​the​ second​in​black.​As​O-​Tsuya​takes​off​her​kimono​and​shows​the​spider​tattoo​on​her​back​to​Seikichi,​“another​flash​of​bluish-​white​lightning​shines​ on​the​spider,”​according​to​the​description​in​the​screenplay,​which​Miyagawa​again​underlines​in​red.​Seikichi​says,​“The​spider​is​as​lively​as​ever.​ How​many​men​will​she​eat​to​kill?​Every​time​she​does​so,​I​feel​like​I​am​ the​one​who​murders​them.”​O-​Tsuya​“turns​pale,”​underlined​by​Miyagawa.​At​the​moment​when​O-​Tsuya​tries​to​put​her​clothes​back​on,​Seikichi​stabs​her​in​the​back​with​Shinsuke’s​sword:​“The​spider​spills​blood.”​ O-​Tsuya​falls​down​under​the​“tremendous​electric​light​and​roaring​thun278  concLusion

der.”​In​a​close-​up,​the​spider​tattoo​is​continuously​spilling​blood​onto​ the​white​skin​of​O-​Tsuya’s​back.​The​change​of​location​from​a​rainy​and​ low-​key​moonlit​exterior​to​a​contrasty​high-​key​lit​interior​enhances​the​ vivid​contrast​of​colors​between​the​skin​and​the​blood:​white​and​red.84​ The​point​was​not​realistic​documentation​of​a​Japanese​space​in​an​exotic​ manner​but​the​psychological​reality​effects​on​the​subjects​of​the​gazes— in​this​case,​Seikichi​and​spectators,​in​the​dark. ​ The​arrival​of​color​film​was​“the​most​shocking”​change​in​filmmaking​ in​Miyagawa’s​career,​according​to​Miyagawa.85​In​color​films,​cinematographers​tend​to​light​the​entire​set​in​order​to​maximize​the​effects​of​its​ various​colors,​rather​than​painting​black​and​white​with​lights.​The​importance​of​lighting​is​less​in​color​films​in​this​sense.​Mimura​Akira​noted,​ “Compared​to​black-​and-​white​films,​[color​films]​need​more​lights.​.​.​.​ In​cinematography,​taste​has​mainly​come​from​how​to​differentiate​highlights​and​shadows,​but​in​color​films​flat​lighting​has​become​the​most​important​lighting,​while​it​has​been​mostly​avoided.”86 ​ In​Odd Obsession,​Miyagawa​did​not​fully​incorporate​colors​into​his​ cinematography.​Odd Obsession​looks​like​a​black-​and-​white​film.​The​only​ notable​use​of​color​is​with​the​servant​Hana,​who​is​colorblind​and​cannot​distinguish​a​can​of​soap​from​that​of​insecticide.​In​Spider Tattoo,​on​ the​other​hand,​Miyagawa​used​red​in​a​significant​manner.​Still,​the​function​of​color​in​the​film​is​based​on​the​lighting​scheme​of​black-​and-​white​ films​even​though​Miyagawa​used​colors​in​a​hyperbolic​manner​to​enhance​contrasts​and​the​clarity​of​images.​Miyagawa​admitted,​“Colors​of​ objects​are​considered​to​be​so​important​that​all​parts​of​the​set​tend​to​be​ lit​rather​evenly.​More​lights​mean​more​shadows.​Therefore,​in​color​films​ it​is​important​to​think​of​lighting​that​does​not​create​shadows.”87​Miyagawa​even​painted​green​or​red​leaves​gray​when​he​did​not​want​colors​in​ the​background​to​stand​out​within​frames.88 lighting matters

I​ have​ brought​ the​ aesthetics​ of​ shadow​ out​ from​ its​ hidden​ place​ and​ tried​ to​ find​ a​ historical​ way​ to​ “understand​ it​ correctly.”89​ Before​ the​ 1920s,​there​was​no​aesthetics​of​shadow​in​Japanese​filmmaking.​The​use​ of​shadow​was​inconceivable​then​under​the​slogan​of​“clarity​first.”​It​became​an​experiment​in​the​1920s​with​the​return​of​Henry​Kotani​and​his​ introduction​of​Hollywood’s​effects​lighting,​but​visibility​prevailed​as​the​ the​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo  279

first​priority​of​filmmaking​during​Shochiku’s​capitalist​development​in​the​ film​industry.​In​the​process​of​that​development,​Shochiku​did​not​refuse​ the​Hollywood-​style​business​model​and​cinematographic​styles​and​even​ incorporated​its​rationalization​strategy​as​well​as​its​star-​publicity​methods,​for​instance,​especially​when​Shochiku​had​a​dream​of​exporting​its​ own​products​to​the​international​market.​However,​simultaneously,​the​ company​resorted​to​the​conventionalized​theatrical​styles​of​lighting​in​ order​to​satisfy​the​demands​from​exhibitors​and​spectators.​In​this​sense,​ the​capitalist-​industrial​modernity​that​Japanese​cinema​experienced​was​ not​simply​a​localized​adoption​of​the​American​or​European​system​but​a​ multilayered​mix​of​local​and​foreign​as​a​result​of​sociopolitical​and​socioeconomic​negotiations.​There​were​innovative,​spectacular,​and​critically​ engaging​uses​of​contrasts​between​light​and​shadow​in​jidaigeki​and​street​ films,​with​reference​to​Hollywood​swashbuckler​films,​Weimar​films,​and​ French​impressionist​film​theory,​among​others.​Shochiku​responded​to​ such​movements​with​complicated​manipulations​of​light​and​shadow​on​ its​star​films.​As​such,​the​culture​of​light​in​Japanese​cinema​became​multifaceted​by​the​late​1920s,​but​the​dominant​mode​was​still​bright​and​cheerful​as​Shochiku​established​its​dominant​status​in​the​film​business. ​ Then,​as​a​mixed​result​of​Toho’s​entry​into​the​film​business​at​the​beginning​of​the​era​of​talking​pictures,​the​rising​popularity​of​low-​key​lighting​in​Hollywood​films​among​Japanese​cinematographers​and​critics,​the​ limited​material​conditions​that​Japanese​filmmakers​had​to​face​during​ the​period​of​war,​and​the​influence​of​militarist​and​imperialist​policy​on​ the​film​culture,​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​emerged​as​a​major​discursive​and​ practical​tendency​in​filmmaking​in​the​late​1930s​to​1945.​The​appreciation​ of​darkness​as​representative​of​traditional​Japanese​culture​was​not​the​ only​dominant​tendency.​The​variety​of​how​to​conceptualize​light​and​dark​ that​ranged​from​adoration​of​Hollywood​films​(low-​key​soft-​tone​cinematography,​deep​focus,​etc.),​to​guidance​of​German​cinematography,​to​ “Bright​and​cheerful​Shochiku​cinema,”​to​the​documentary​spirit,​and​to​ the​Japanese​sublime​complicated​the​situation.​In​this​sense,​wartime​film​ culture​in​Japan​never​was​unitary. ​ During​the​postwar​period,​there​was​a​continuing​effort​to​naturalize​ the​use​of​shadow​as​the​traditional​Japanese​aesthetics.​Films​produced​ under​ the​ self-​exoticizing​ strategy​ were​ acknowledged​ by​ international​ viewers,​and​the​so-​called​golden​age​of​Japanese​cinema​arrived​in​the​ 280  concLusion

1950s​when​Japan​as​a​nation​was​in​the​midst​of​reconstruction​from​the​ devastation​of​World​War​II.​The​aesthetics​of​shadow​in​cinema​played​a​ significant​role​in​the​renewed​international​relations​to​formulate​a​cultural​image​of​Japan.​As​such,​lighting​technologies​and​techniques​existed​ within​a​dialogic​site​of​constant​conflict​and​volatile​negotiations​among​ filmmakers,​critics,​and​spectators​over​the​ownership​of​the​images​on​the​ screen;​the​business​initiative​of​the​film​industry;​and​the​formation​of​ Japanese​cultural​identity. ​ When​color​films​became​the​dominant​mode​of​filmmaking​in​the​1960s,​ it​seemed​that​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​had​once​been​forgotten,​as​indicated​by​Yoshino​Nobutaka’s​claim​in​1979​that​“the​aesthetics​of​shadow”​ was​in​“its​hidden​place.”90​Such​oblivion​might​have​something​to​do​with​ Japan’s​high​rate​of​economic​growth​in​the​late​1950s​and​1960s.​The​future​ looked​bright​and​cheerful​in​Japan.​Or​there​was​no​room​for​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​in​the​rising​popularity​of​television,​the​medium​that​emphasized​immediate​visibility.​But​contemporary​J-​horror​( Japanese-​made​ horror)​filmmakers​often​speak​of​their​preferences​for​darkness​and​shadows​specifically​in​Japanese​spaces.​In​the​midst​of​the​digital​era,​what​do​ their​inclinations​to​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​mean?​How​different​are​their​ aesthetics​of​shadow​from​those​in​the​wartime​discourse​and​from​the​self-​ exoticized​version​in​the​1950s?​These​are​the​questions​for​the​future​works​ on​the​cinematography​of​contemporary​cinema​and​media.​Lighting​still​ matters.

the​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo  281

n ot e s

Introduction

All​translations​of​Japanese​books,​leaflets,​and​newspaper​and​magazine​articles​in​this​ book​are​by​me​unless​otherwise​noted.​I​have​preserved​Japanese​name​order,​which​ places​the​family​name​first​(e.g.,​Ono​Shichiro),​except​for​famous​persons​and​scholars​based​in​the​United​States​who​are​commonly​referred​to​by​their​given​names​first​ (e.g.,​Sessue​Hayakawa).​I​do​not​use​macrons​for​Japanese​transliterated​texts. ​ 1.​Yoshino,​“‘Inei​raisan’​ni​yosete​II,”​15.​Eiga Shomei​is​a​journal​for​the​Japanese​ Association​of​Film​Lighting​Technicians​(Nihon​Eiga​Shomei​Gijutsusha​Kyokai). ​ 2.​Guerin,​A Culture of Light,​xiii. ​ 3.​Tanizaki,​In Praise of Shadows,​32–33. ​ 4.​Midorikawa,​“Kameraman​no​seikatsu​to​kyoyo,”​65. ​ 5.​Ota​Saburo,​“Kuro​no​gaika,”​102–3. ​ 6.​Shimazaki,​“Nihon​no​eiga​gijutsu​hatten​ni​hatashita​Tsuburaya​Eiji​no​yakuwari,”​ 38;​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​60;​Kawatani,​Mato o kakenuketa ototko,​14–15,​38–41.​ There​ are​ different​ versions​ of​ Makino’s​ words.​ According​ to​ some​ sources,​ “story”​precedes​“clarity.”​According​to​Joanne​Bernardi,​Takizawa​Osamu,​who​ knew​Makino​Shozo​personally,​supports​this​version​(Bernardi,​Writing in Light,​ 301).​The​cinematographer​Morita​Fujio​claims​that​it​was​originally​“clarity​first”​ but​was​changed​to​“story​first”​later​(Morita,​“Nihon​eiga​no​jidaigeki​saho​dai​3​ kai,”​71).​Even​if​it​had​been​“clarity​second,”​the​fact​that​Makino​emphasized​the​ importance​of​lighting​in​cinema​stays​the​same. ​ 7.​Mizuta,​“Luminous​Environment,”​342. ​ 8.​Ono,​“Sutanbagu​o​tsuiseki​suru,”​44.​For​Sternberg,​this​voyage​to​Japan​was​the​ first​leg​of​a​lone​westward​cruise​to​Asia​after​his​heartbreaking​experiences​in​ Hollywood.​The​Vienna-​born​filmmaker,​who​had​made​a​star​of​Marlene​Dietrich​in​Hollywood,​had​been​fired​by​Paramount​after​both​critical​and​box​office​ failures​of​The Scarlet Empress​(1934)​and​The Devil Is a Woman​(1935).​The​latter​ became​the​last​film​that​Sternberg​and​Dietrich​worked​on​together​(Baxter,​Von Sternberg,​ 202–3).​ Arguably,​ the​ experience​ in​ Japan​ revived​ Sternberg’s​ confi-

dence​in​his​theory​of​cinema.​Even​though​Sternberg​did​not​talk​particularly​ about​Japan​and​lighting,​he​noted​in​one​interview​his​realization​after​the​trip:​ “My​ideas​about​the​cinema​became​more​precise​in​the​light​of​my​experiences.​ I​was​tired​of​seeing​studio​opposition​to​any​creative​ideas​of​the​cinéaste​at​the​ different​stages​of​its​expression.​Whereas​a​painter​uses​his​brushes,​canvas​and​ colors,​following​only​the​bent​of​his​imagination,​the​film​director​has​to​consider​ other​men​and​human​material.​After​a​trip​around​the​world,​I​wanted​to​work​ according​to​certain​principles;​for​instance,​that​we​should​be​concerned​to​create​expressive​effects​achieved​in​literature—and​I​hoped​to​work​with​more​freedom”​(Weinberg,​Josef von Sternberg,​125). ​ 9.​Sternberg,​Fun in a Chinese Laundry,​311–12. ​ 10.​Miura​Mitsuo,​“Cameraman​no​Cameraman​hihyo,”​82;​Miura​Mitsuo,​“Horiuddo​ kara,”​41. ​ 11.​Takii,​“Mitchell​Noiseless,”​79. ​ 12.​Ibid. ​ 13.​Hansen,​“Vernacular​Modernism,”​305. ​ 14.​The​prevalence​of​shadows​produced​by​the​nonmimetic​mise-​en-​scène​and​by​ artificial​lighting​was​recognized​by​such​historians​and​theorists​as​Lotte​Eisner​ and​Siegfried​Kracauer​in​a​different​historical​context​(see​Eisner,​The Haunted Screen;​Kracauer,​From Caligari to Hitler).​Both​Eisner​and​Kracauer​see​shadow​ in​the​films​of​the​early​German​studios​as​a​visual​metaphor​for​evil​or​for​the​ dark​and​threatening​forces​that​allegedly​lurked​in​the​pre-​Hitler​German​psyche​ or​soul.​My​book​also​regards​the​cinematic​shadow’s​significance​as​“an​‘other’​ reality​that​must​be​perceived​for​the​sake​of​existential​security​or​psychic​stability”​and​then​suggests​another​function​of​it​as​a​“modernist​narrative​device”​ that​enables​a​communicative​relationship​between​filmmaker​and​viewer​regarding​ “a​ simultaneity​ of​ multiple​ narrative,​ a​ diegetic​ complexity”​ (see​ Franklin,​ “Metamorphosis​of​a​Metaphor,”​178–79).​Yet​the​major​focus​of​Eisner​and​Kracauer​seemed​to​be​the​narrational​functions​of​the​cinematic​shadow,​whether​as​ a​means​of​metaphor​or​of​communication.​What​about​the​lighting​technologies​ and​the​people​who​dealt​with​such​technologies​behind​the​cinematic​shadow​on​ the​screen?​How​were​such​technologies​discussed​in​contemporary​criticism? ​ 15.​Regarding​ definitions​ of​ the​ terms​ modernity,​ modernism,​ and​ modernization,​ I​ basically​draw​on​the​film​historian​Aaron​Gerow’s​usage.​Modernity​is​“the​state​ of​being​new”​on​the​material​level;​modernism​is​the​heterogeneous​but​interconnected​“set​of​discourses​attempting​to​shape​a​particular​vision​of​modernity,”​ often​characterized​by​self-​reflexivity​and​rebellion​against​bourgeois​values;​and​ modernization​is​a​process​“in​a​field​of​struggle​where​there​are​not​only​other​ competing​modernisms​.​.​.​but​also​complex​traversing​forces​of​power​and​historical​contingencies”​(Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​34–35). ​ 16.​Burch,​To the Distant Observer,​49;​emphasis​in​the​original. ​ 17.​Ibid.;​emphasis​in​the​original. ​ 18.​Ibid.,​71–72. ​ 19.​Takamura,​Satsuei kantoku Takamura Kurataro,​386. ​ 20.​I​try​not​to​subscribe​to​technological​determinism,​no​matter​how​significant​ the​impact​that​material​conditions​had​upon​the​emergence​of​the​aesthetics​of​

284  notes​to​introDuction

shadow.​Instead​my​focus​is​to​carefully​delineate​the​competing​discourses​and​ practices​that​cinematographers​and​critics​were​subject​to​when​facing​certain​ material​conditions. ​ 21.​Gijutsu​ shi​ Iinkai,​ “Yunyu​ dai​ 1​ go​ no​ kamera​ wa​ bakkusuta​ ando​ rei,”​ 69–72;​ Tanaka​Junichiro,​Nihon eiga hattatsu shi I,​70. ​ 22.​Edamasa,​“Naze​waga​kuni​ni​yuryo​eiga​umarezaruka,”​107.​Edamasa​started​his​ career​as​a​cinematographer​when​Yoshizawa​Shoten,​one​of​the​oldest​film​companies​in​Japan,​constructed​the​first​glass​stage​in​Japan. ​ 23.​Bordwell,​“Visual​Style​in​Japanese​Cinema,​1925–1945,”​7,​23. ​ 24.​Hansen,​“Vernacular​Modernism,”​291. ​ 25.​Ibid.;​emphasis​added. ​ 26.​Harootunian,​Overcome by Modernity,​xvi–vii. ​ 27.​Ibid.,​xvii,​xxi;​emphasis​in​the​original. ​ 28.​Stuart​Hall,​“Encoding/Decoding,”​128–38. ​ 29.​See​Mayne,​Cinema and Spectatorship,​92–93. ​ 30.​Singer,​Melodrama and Modernity,​91.​See​also​Zhang,​An Amorous History of the Silver Screen,​9. ​ 31.​Burch,​To the Distant Observer,​154. ​ 32.​LaMarre,​Shadows on the Screen,​82. ​ 33.​Ibid.,​80. ​ 34.​Ibid.,​19. ​ 35.​Ibid.,​83. ​ 36.​Guerin,​A Culture of Light,​xviii,​170. ​ 37.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​3. ​ 38.​Ibid.,​4. ​ 39.​Nornes,​Japanese Documentary Film,​xvii,​xx. ​ 40.​Ibid.,​xxi. ​ 41.​LaMarre,​Shadows on the Screen,​14. ​ 42.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​13. ​ 43.​Nornes,​Japanese Documentary Film,​xviii;​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​ 3. 1. lighting and modernity

​ ​ ​ ​ ​

​ ​ ​

1.​Ushihara,​“Kamata​no​koro,”​21. 2.​Shirai​Shigeru,​Kamera to jinsei,​25. 3.​Miura,​“Kiseki,”​42. 4.​Otani​Takejiro,​“Shochiku​kinema​sosetsu​ni​tsuite”​[On​establishing​Shochiku​ cinema],​Engei Gaho,​May​1920,​quoted​in​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Shochiku shichijunen shi,​239. 5.​Quoted​in​Wakiya,​Otani Takejiro engeki rokuju nen,​208.​Otani​also​mentioned​the​ number​of​reels​that​the​U.S.​film​industry​exported​every​month​(eight​million)​ and​the​amount​of​income​taxes​paid​by​those​who​engaged​in​the​business​in​Los​ Angeles​(6.4​million​dollars). 6.​Quoted​in​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​5,”​47. 7.​Taguchi,​“Shochiku​Kinema​soritsu​hiwa​(5),”​95. 8.​Bordwell,​Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema,​19.

notes​to​chapter​1  285

​ 9.​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Nihon eiga hattatsu shi I,​309–11;​Bordwell,​Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema,​19. ​ 10.​The​three-​volume​set​published​ in​honor​of​the​one​hundredth​ anniversary​of​ Shochiku’s​filmmaking​proudly​places​photos​of​Kotani’s​films​on​the​first​two​ pages​of​“The​Birth​of​Shochiku​Cinema”:​Woman of the Island​(Shima no onna,​ 1920),​photographed​and​directed​by​Kotani;​A New Life​(Shinsei,​1920),​directed​ and​ photographed​ by​ Kotani;​ Secret of the Mine​ (Kozan no himitsu,​ 1920),​ directed​ by​ Edward​ Tanaka​ and​ photographed​ by​ Kotani;​ and​ Poppy​ (Gubijinso,​ 1921),​directed​and​photographed​by​Kotani​(Nagayama,​Shochiku hyakunenshi Honshi,​47–48).​Other​Kamata​films​by​Kotani​were​Schools in Los Angeles​(Rafu no gakugyo en,​1920),​newsreel,​photographed​by​Kotani;​News of the Explosion of Mt. Asama​(Asamayama daibakuhatsu jikkyo,​1920),​newsreel,​photographed​by​ Kotani;​Electrician and His Wife​(Denko to sono tsuma,​1921),​directed​and​photographed​by​Kotani,​censored​and​delayed​from​1921;​Trunk​(Toranku,​1921),​written,​directed,​and​photographed​by​Kotani;​Village at the Sunset​(Yuyo no mura,​ 1921),​directed​and​photographed​by​Kotani;​A Dark Street​(Yami no michi,​1921),​ directed​ by​ Kotani;​ Carnegie Planetarium​ (Kanegi tenmondai,​ 1921),​ newsreel,​ photographed​by​Kotani;​and​Return of Tom​(Tomu no kicho,​1921),​unreleased,​directed​by​Kotani. ​ 11.​Hansen,​“The​Mass​Production​of​the​Senses,”​69.​See​also​59–77. ​ 12.​Miyajima,​Tenno to yobareta otoko,​27. ​ 13.​“Matenro​zadankai,”​51. ​ 14.​Kotani,​“Ichininmae​no​satsuei​gishi​ni​naru​made,”​84,​86. ​ 15.​Miki,​“Eiga​wa​ikanishite​umare​ikanishite​hattasushitaka,”​29. ​ 16.​Ushihara,​“Kamata​no​koro,”​21;​Ushihara,​Kiyohiko eiga fu goju nen,​92. ​ 17.​Ushihara,​“Gijutsu​teki​tenkan​ki​ni​saishite,”​32. ​ 18.​Saito,​Nippon no kigeki o,​23.​Officially,​the​cinematographer​of​the​film​Otosan​is​ Midorikawa​Michio.​Kotani​was​already​at​Shimokamo​in​1924.​Even​if​Saito’s​ recollection​is​incorrect,​there​is​no​mistake​that​Kotani​had​a​certain​influence​ on​him. ​ 19.​Quoted​in​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​5,”​48.​In​September​1921,​one​year​ after​ Kotani’s​ arrival,​ Katsudo Zasshi​ published​ an​ article​ with​ six​ photos​ that​ explained​how​to​use​reflectors​appropriately​(“Jinbutsu​satsuei​ho​no​kenkyu”​ [A​study​of​photographing​a​person],​Katsudo Zasshi,​September​1921,​quoted​in​ Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​7,”​48–49). ​ 20.​Quoted​in​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​5,”​48. ​ 21.​Kawaguchi,​“Mukashi​no​satsueijo​ato​o​tazunete​(1),”​60. ​ 22.​See​Akiyama,​“1930​Nen​Satsueijo​tenbo​3​gatsu​no​maki,”​43;​Yamamoto​Ryokuyo,​“Shimokamo​sutajio​no​ashiato​2,”​19;​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Nihon eiga hattatsu shi I,​344;​Masumoto,​Jinbutsu Shochiku eiga shi,​51.​Kotani’s​films​made​at​Shimokamo​included​Yui Shosetsu​(1924),​photographed​by​Kotani;​Spy of Love​(Koi no misshi,​1924),​directed​and​photographed​by​Kotani;​Black Monk​(Kurohoshi,​ 1924),​directed​by​Kotani;​Plover Sings at Night​(Chidori naku yoru,​1924),​directed​ by​ Kotani;​ Cherry Blossoms​ (Tei no sakura,​ 1924),​ directed​ by​ Kotani;​ A Secret Comes Around​(Meguru himitsu,​1924),​directed​by​Kotani;​and​Ship of the City​ (Miyako no fune,​1924),​directed​by​Kotani.

286  notes​to​chapter​1

​ 23.​Taguchi,​“Shochiku​Kinema​soritsu​hiwa​(5),”​97. ​ 24.​Katsudo Zasshi​ originally​ planned​ to​ publish​ an​ article​ that​ would​ question​ the​reasons​why​Kotani​left​Shochiku,​but​the​article​does​not​appear​to​have​ever​ been​published​(Hanayagi,​“Shochiku​kinema​kabushiki​gaisha​shacho​Otani​Takejiro​kun​e​no​kokaijo,”​83). ​ 25.​Masumoto,​“Kinema no tenchi​no​haikei,”​238. ​ 26.​Shochiku’s​official​history​states,​“There​was​a​more​or​less​difficult​time​in​the​ launching​years”​(Tanaka​Junichiro,​Shochiku shichijunen shi,​246).​One​reason​for​ Shochiku’s​economic​hardship​was​that​the​company​did​not​have​its​own​theaters​ for​the​films​it​produced​(Nagayama,​Shochiku hyakunenshi honshi,​559). ​ 27.​“Henri​Kotani​Soichi,”​7;​Kurishima,​“Gubijinso​no​koro,”​21–22. ​ 28.​The​Home​Ministry​did​not​nationalize​film​censorship​until​1925. ​ 29.​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Shochiku shichijunen shi,​244. ​ 30.​Furukawa​Roppa,​“Henri​tono​hannichi,”​7. ​ 31.​The​third​was​Corpse of Love​(Ai no mukuro),​another​Shochiku​film​directed​by​ the​film​theorist​Kaeriyama​Norimasa​(Makino​Mamoru,​Nihon eiga kenetsu shi,​ 157). ​ 32.​Kinema Junpo,​February​21,​1923,​5. ​ 33.​“Henri​Kotani​Soichi,”​7. ​ 34.​Shirai​Shigeru,​“Kameraman​jinsei,”​57. ​ 35.​Wada-​Marciano,​Nippon Modern,​114.​Wada-​Marciano​argues​that​Shochiku’s​film​ enterprise​became​a​form​of​an​active​resistance​to​Hollywood’s​cultural​imperialism​and​that​the​Kamata​tone​can​best​ be​understood​ as​cultural​ nationalist​ cinema​that​made​modernity​safe​for​Japan.​I​agree​with​Wada-​Marciano​when​ she​emphasizes​the​parodic​aspect​of​Kamata​films​in​relation​to​Hollywood,​but​ the​focus​of​my​argument​is​not​resistance​but​negotiation. ​ 36.​Hansen,​“Vernacular​Modernisms,”​290. ​ 37.​Shinpa​introduced​modern​stories​into​the​theatrical​repertoire​in​Japan.​Shinpa​ originated​in​a​political​drama​associated​with​the​freedom​and​people’s​rights​ movement​ of​ the​ 1880s.​ The​ genre​ dealt​ with​ contemporary​ social​ issues​ and​ Western​ ideas,​ but​ was​ stylistically​ within​ Kabuki​ conventions.​ Thematically,​ shinpa​plays​often​have​tragic​endings​(Hagii,​Shinpa no gei,​226–28).​According​ to​Gerow,​these​plays​were​“often​conventionally​melodramatic,​focusing​on​the​ sufferings​of​women​who,​due​to​fate​or​social​circumstance,​could​not​fulfill​their​ romantic​desires”​(Gerow,​A​Page​of​Madness,​2). ​ 38.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​100.​See​also​40–47. ​ 39.​Ibid.,​101–3. ​ 40.​Ibid.,​106. ​ 41.​Ibid. ​ 42.​Cazdyn,​The Flash of Capital,​29. ​ 43.​Ibid.,​45–46. ​ 44.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​114. ​ 45.​Bernardi,​Writing in Light,​133. ​ 46.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​114. ​ 47.​“Eiga​puropaganda​ron”​[An​idea​of​film​propaganda],​ Katsudo Shashin Zasshi​ 5.5​(May​1919):​38–39.

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​ 48.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​115. ​ 49.​Bernardi,​Writing in Light,​13;​Numata,​“Katsudo​shashin​no​geijutsu​bi,”​142. ​ 50.​Souls on the Road​was​photographed​by​Aoshima​Junichiro,​who​left​Shochiku​and​ moved​to​Nikkatsu​in​1923.​Aoshima​preferred​very​contrasty​Lasky-​style​lighting,​ using​only​a​small​number​of​reflectors​and​pushing​the​limit​of​orthochromatic​ films.​Tsukagoshi​Seiji,​the​cinematographer​of​What Made Her Do It?​(Nani ga kanojo o so saseta ka,​1930),​recollects​that​Aoshima,​his​mentor,​did​not​even​care​if​ there​was​no​detail​in​shadow​as​long​as​there​were​strong​contrasts​between​light​ and​shadow​(Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​9,”​52). ​ 51.​Standish,​A New History of Japanese Cinema,​64. ​ 52.​Otsuka,​“Ojosan,”​50–52,​translated​and​quoted​in​Wada-​Marciano,​Nippon Modern,​156. ​ 53.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​10. ​ 54.​Ibid.,​224. ​ 55.​Ibid.,​9. ​ 56.​Wakiya,​Otani Takejiro engeki rokuju nen,​227.​The​pure​film​movement​turned​out​ not​to​completely​define​the​major​trend​at​Shochiku,​in​spite​of​the​company’s​ initial​ support.​ Osanai​ Kaoru​ left​ Shochiku​ in​ 1921.​ Otani​ Takejiro’s​ biography​ clearly​states​that​Otani​was​not​able​to​stand​Osanai’s​“idealism​that​is​not​concerned​with​finance​at​all”​but​chose​the​“compromising​policy”​that​would​privilege​financial​factors​to​artistic​conscience​(227). ​ 57.​Hansen,​ “Vernacular​ Modernism,”​ 301;​ emphasis​ in​ the​ original.​ Appropriation​ might​not​be​a​proper​term​to​describe​the​process​though.​As​Gerow​also​points​ out,​appropriation​presupposes​a​binary​opposition:​the​center​and​the​periphery.​ The​definition​and​formation​of​cinematic​styles​in​Japan​at​that​time​was​not​ based​on​a​dichotomy​but​more​of​a​negotiation​among​several​different​choices​ (Visions of Japanese Modernity,​23). ​ 58.​Hansen,​“Vernacular​Modernism,”​303. ​ 59.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​64. ​ 60.​Burch,​To the Distant Observer,​83;​emphasis​in​the​original. ​ 61.​Ibid. ​ 62.​Raymond​ Williams,​ Marxism and Literature,​ 115;​ emphasis​ in​ the​ original.​ See​ also​ Hobsbawm​ and​ Ranger,​ The Invention of Tradition;​ and​ Vlastos,​ Mirror of Modernity. ​ 63.​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​63. ​ 64.​Quoted​ in​ Suzuki​ Kazuyoshi,​ Aizen​ katsura​ to Nipponjin,​ 234.​ See​ also​ Kobayashi​Kyuzo,​Nihon eiga o hajimeta otoko,​21;​Standish,​A New History of Japanese Cinema,​32. ​ 65.​Kido,​“Kicho​daiichigen,”​1.​In​1956,​four​years​after​the​postwar​occupation​ended,​ Kido​rephrased​what​he​had​said​in​1929:​“There​are​two​ways​we​can​view​it​[art],​ with​a​warmth​and​brightness,​or​with​a​feeling​of​gloom.​.​.​.​But​at​Shochiku,​we​ try​to​view​human​life​with​a​sense​of​warm​aspiration​and​brightness.​In​conclusion,​the​basis​of​a​film​must​be​hope.​It​must​not​impart​to​the​spectator​a​sense​of​ despair.​This,​in​other​words,​is​the​baseline​of​the​Kamata​tone”​(Nihon eiga den,​ 39–40).​Also​quoted​in​Standish,​A New History of Japanese Cinema,​64. ​ 66.​Tanaka​Toshio,​“Obara​Joji,”​148.

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​ 67.​Shirai​Shigeru,​Kamera to jinsei,​25. ​ 68.​“Kage no meiyu,”​9;​“Himitsu no hanazono,”​9. ​ 69.​Ito,​Jidaigeki eiga no shi to shinjitsu,​65–66. ​ 70.​Tanaka​Toshio,​“Obara​Joji,”​148;​Tanaka​Toshio,​“Camera​no​sowa​to​kessan,”​ 12. ​ 71.​“Gosho​Heinosuke​Kikigaki,”​6. ​ 72.​Nagahama,​“Makino​purodakushon​to​watashi,”​60. ​ 73.​Ibid. ​ 74.​Tanaka​Toshio,​“Camera​no​sowa​to​kessan,”​12. ​ 75.​Bordwell,​Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema,​19. ​ 76.​Jacobs,​“Belasco,​DeMille,​and​the​Development​of​Lasky​Lighting,”​405. ​ 77.​Birchard,​Cecil B. DeMille’s Hollywood,​17. ​ 78.​Bordwell,​Staiger,​and​Thompson,​The Classical Hollywood Cinema,​223;​Thompson,​Herr Lubitsch Goes to Hollywood,​37. ​ 79.​Bordwell,​ Staiger,​ and​ Thompson,​ The Classical Hollywood Cinema,​ 224–25.​ Wyckoff’s​ name​ as​ a​ cinematographer​ seems​ to​ have​ been​ highly​ regarded​ in​ Japan.​An​article​from​1922​titled​“In​Order​to​Become​a​Cameraman”​in​Katsudo Zasshi​quoted​only​Wyckoff​when​it​listed​the​necessary​characteristics​for​cinematographers:​“They​need​to​know​the​customs​of​the​world​of​filmmaking,​to​be​ courageous,​and​hopefully​not​to​drink​too​much”​(“Kameraman​ni​naru​niwa,”​ 132). ​ 80.​Jacobs,​ “Belasco,​ DeMille,​ and​ the​ Development​ of​ Lasky​ Lighting,”​ 408.​ According​to​Peter​Baxter,​DeMille​became​more​interested​in​set​and​costume​design​than​lighting​after​1916​and​eventually​departed​with​Wyckoff​(“On​the​History​and​Ideology​of​Film​Lighting,”​97,​101). ​ 81.​Baxter,​“On​the​History​and​Ideology​of​Film​Lighting,”​99;​Jacobs,​“Belasco,​DeMille,​and​the​Development​of​Lasky​Lighting,”​408. ​ 82.​Jacobs,​“Belasco,​DeMille,​and​the​Development​of​Lasky​Lighting,”​408–9.​From​ 1914​to​1918,​in​Germany,​Max​Reinhardt​also​experimented​with​lighting​effects​ that​threw​light​on​what​was​important​to​see​and​emphasized​the​“shock​of​lights​ and​shadows”​in​his​theatrical​tragedy​(Baxter,​“On​the​History​and​Ideology​of​ Film​Lighting,”​100).​See​also​Yura,​Celluloid Romanticism,​27. ​ 83.​Bordwell,​Staiger,​and​Thompson,​The Classical Hollywood Cinema,​225. ​ 84.​Thompson,​ Herr Lubitsch Goes to Hollywood,​ 39;​ Keating,​ “The​ Birth​ of​ Backlighting​in​the​Classical​Cinema,”​46. ​ 85.​Jacobs,​“Belasco,​DeMille,​and​the​Development​of​Lasky​Lighting,”​416;​italics​in​ the​original. ​ 86.​Keating,​“The​Birth​of​Backlighting​in​the​Classical​Cinema,”​46. ​ 87.​Kawaguchi,​ “Amerika​ eiga​ to​ Henri​ Kotani​ sensei,”​ 20.​ Kotani​ started​ his​ film​ career​in​Hollywood​around​1914​as​a​supporting​actor​in​Thomas​Ince’s​“Japanese​films”​starring​Sessue​Hayakawa.​For​Ince’s​Japanese​films,​see​Miyao,​Sessue Hayakawa,​50–75.​James​Wong​Howe,​the​acclaimed​cinematographer​of​Hollywood,​who​was​particularly​known​for​his​hard​lighting​styles,​started​his​career​as​ Kotani’s​assistant.​See​James Wong Howe: The Man and His Movies,​a​documentary​ film​preserved​at​the​ucLa​Film​and​Television​Archive. ​ 88.​“Famous​Players-​Lasky​Corporation:​Correspondence​and​Production​Records,”​

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Box​240,​Folder​9,​in​the​Cecil​B.​DeMille​Archive,​Harold​B.​Lee​Library,​Brigham​Young​University. ​ 89.​Aoyama,​“Kotani​shashin​gishi​no​satsuei​dan,”​49. ​ 90.​Okabe,​ “Amerika​ jidai​ no​ Henri​ Kotani,”​ 26–27.​ See​ also​ Midorikawa,​ “Tsuito,”​ 25. ​ 91.​Aoyama,​“Kotani​shashin​gishi​no​satsuei​dan,”​48. ​ 92.​Jacobs,​“Belasco,​DeMille,​and​the​Development​of​Lasky​Lighting,”​413. ​ 93.​Ibid. ​ 94.​Ibid.,​415. ​ 95.​Other​ films​ in​ which​ Kotani​ used​ effects​ lighting​ include​ The Hostage​ (Robert​ Thornby,​1917),​The Firefly of France​(Donald​Crisp,​1918),​Puppy Love​(R.​William​ Neill,​ 1919),​ Rustling a Bride​ (Irvin​ Willat,​ 1919),​ The Secret Garden​ (G.​ Butler​ Clonebough,​1919),​and​Mrs. Temple’s Telegram​( James​Cruze,​1920),​according​to​ the​still​photos​of​these​films​preserved​at​the​Margaret​Herrick​Library. ​ 96.​Patrick​ Keating​ suggests​ that​ the​ silhouette​ was​ popular​ with​ the​ ambitious​ cinematographer​of​the​American​Society​for​Cinematographers​because​of​the​ pictorialist​ photography​ championed​ by​ Alfred​ Stieglitz’s​ famous​ photography​ journal,​ Camera Work,​ in​ the​ first​ decades​ of​ the​ twentieth​ century​ (Keating,​ Hollywood Lighting from the Silent Era to Film Noir,​69). ​ 97.​Grodal,​“Film​Lighting​and​Mood,”​160. ​ 98.​Keating,​Hollywood Lighting from the Silent Era to Film Noir,​46. ​ 99.​Grodal,​“Film​Lighting​and​Mood,”​156. ​100.​Miura​ Rei,​ “Kiseki,”​ 43.​ A​ set​ of​ a​ Chinese​ castle​ was​ built​ at​ a​ Shinkoyasu​ beach​near​Kamata​on​an​unprecedented​scale,​which​“astonished”​the​cinematographer​Nagai​Shinichi​(Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​5,”​48).​Ushihara​ Kiyohiko​and​Nomura​Akira​remember​that​it​was​a​Pathé​camera​that​Kotani​ mainly​used​(Ushihara,​“Kamata​no​koro,”​21;​Nomura​Akira,​“Shi​toshiteno​Henri​ Kotani,”​22). ​ 101.​Quoted​in,​“Nasake no hikari,”​23. ​102.​The​ films​ that​ follow​ Light of Compassion​ display​ Kotani’s​ effectively​ emphasized​contrasts​between​light​and​shadow​for​thematic​purposes.​In​A Village at Dawn​(Akeyuku mura,​1927,​35​mm,​nfc),​an​educational​film,​Kotani​adopted​ the​contrasty​lighting​scheme,​which​enhances​the​dichotomy​between​a​city​and​ a​farming​village.​The​film​opens​with​a​series​of​long​shots​of​a​farming​village​by​ the​river.​Under​the​strong​sunlight​from​above,​a​man​digs​a​hole​in​the​mud.​Despite​physically​and​economically​severe​lives,​people​of​this​farming​village​live​ cheerfully​under​the​bright​sunlight,​which​is​displayed​in​a​festival​scene.​The​day-​ for-​night​technique​with​blue​tinting​adds​a​bright​atmosphere​to​the​festivity.​On​ the​contrary,​the​city​of​Tokyo​is​electrically​lit​but​dark.​Kotani​did​not​use​the​ day-​for-​night​technique​when​he​represented​the​city.​Instead,​a​series​of​extreme​ long​shots​of​the​city​and​phantom-​ride-​like​traveling​shots​from​trams​display​ electric​neon​signs​in​the​dark. ​103.​Kotani,​“Eiga​ga​dekiagaru​made​(1),”​5. ​104.​Woman of the Island​ was​ not​ originally​ planned​ as​ Shochiku’s​ first​ film.​ The​ original​project​was​Island of Women of the Heike Clan​(Heike nyogogashima,​Matsui​ Shoyo).​Yet,​because​the​shooting​of​Island of Women of the Heike Clan​at​Eno-

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shima​in​Kanagawa​prefecture​was​delayed​several​times​“due​to​bad​weather,”​ Otani​Takejiro​changed​the​plan​quickly,​switched​to​another​film,​Woman of the Island,​and​finished​shooting​it​on​location​at​Tomiura​in​Chiba​prefecture.​According​to​Otani,​it​took​only​two​days​to​finish​shooting​Woman of the Island​using​ Kotani​as​his​cameraman​(Tanaka​Junichiro,​Nihon eiga hattatsu shi I,​316–17). ​105.​“Kido​Shiro​kikigaki,”​3. ​106.​Ito,​Jidaigeki eiga no shi to shinjitsu,​65–66. ​107.​Quoted​in​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​5,”​49. ​108.​Masumoto,​Jinbutsu Shochiku eiga shi,​41. ​109.​Hanabusa​Taneta,​“Gikoteki​kosen,”​3. ​ 110.​Morita​sei,​“Honposei​eiga​no​ketten​ka?,”​62–63. ​ 111.​The​significance​of​lighting​techniques​was​not​highly​appreciated,​and​neither​ was​ the​ status​ of​ cinematographers.​ In​ 1928​ the​ critic​ Takeda​ Akira​ lamented,​ “When​we​talk​about​films,​we​think​we​know​how​to​discuss​directors,​writers,​ and​actors.​Yet,​we​pay​least​attention​to​or​even​ignore​cameramen.​.​.​.​It​seems​ widely​thought​that​as​long​as​we​see​images​accurately​and​beautifully​without​ any​mistakes,​that​is​okay​with​cameras.​.​.​.​Even​cameramen​themselves​do​not​ respect​cameras​fully​as​long​as​they​can​capture​images”​(Takeda​Akira,​“Cameraman​ni​tsuite,”​50). ​ 112.​Jacobs,​“Belasco,​DeMille,​and​the​Development​of​Lasky​Lighting,”​408. ​ 113.​Muguruma,​Eiga no komado,​223. ​114.​“Shirai​Shigeru,”​Otake​Toru​et​al.,​Eizo kenkyu bessatsu,​Shira-​6–7. ​ 115.​Okada​ Munetaro,​ “Hakujitsu​ no​ moto​ ni​ sarasaretaru​ Shochiku​ Kinema:​ Riso​ tsuizui​ka​no​kanashiki​hatan”​[Shochiku​cinema​revealed:​Tragic​failure​of​the​ idealists],​ Katsudo Kurabu,​ December​ 1921​ and​ January​ 1922,​ quoted​ in​ Hirai,​ “Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​5,”​50–51. ​ 116.​“Shochiku​okoku​monogatari,”​112.​Kako​incorporated​some​effects​lighting​in​his​ film​Lamb​(Kohitsuji,​1923)​though.​For​instance,​when​an​elderly​woman​overhears​her​husband’s​conversation​with​his​employee​in​the​next​room,​her​husband​is​displayed​as​a​shadow​on​a​shoji​screen.​This​shot​exactly​mimics​the​one​ in​The Cheat,​a​Hollywood​melodrama,​where​Edith​Hardy​(Fannie​Ward)​and​the​ Japanese​art​dealer​Tori​(Sessue​Hayakawa)​overhear​Edith’s​husband​talking​to​ his​colleague​in​the​next​room.​The​two​men​are​seen​as​two​shadows​on​a​shoji​ screen.​A​35​mm​print​of​Lamb​is​preserved​at​the​National​Film​Center,​National​ Museum​of​Modern​Art,​Tokyo. ​ 117.​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Shochiku shichijunen shi,​246. ​ 118.​Nomura​Hotei,​“Nihon​no​eiga​o​tsukuritai,”​24. ​ 119.​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Shochiku shichijunen shi,​247. ​120.​Nagayama,​Shochiku hyakunenshi honshi,​562;​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Nihon eiga hattatsu shi I,​349–50. ​ 121.​Nagayama,​Shochiku hyakunenshi honshi,​562. ​122.​Ibid.​Ushihara​Kiyohiko​even​insists​that​it​was​Nomura​“who​established​the​very​ basis​of​the​Kamata​tone”​(Ushihara,​“Kamata​modanizumu​no​gunzo,”​138). ​123.​A​review​in​Katsudo Zasshi,​though,​praised​the​“diffused​white”​lighting​of​the​ love​ scene​ for​ its​ realization​ of​ “very​ soft​ tone”​ (Katsudo Zasshi​ [June​ 1922],​ quoted​in​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​8,”​57).​Soft​focus​was​very​popular​

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among​Shochiku’s​cinematographers​after​the​Japanese​release​of​D.​W.​Griffith’s​ A Romance of Happy Valley​(1919)​in​1921​and​Broken Blossoms​(1919)​in​1922​(Hirai,​ “Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​9,”​50). ​124.​The​ only​ exception​ is​ a​ backlit​ shot​ at​ a​ train​ station​ where​ Namiko​ waits​ for​ Takeo​with​her​father.​Takeo​does​not​arrive.​Because​of​the​strong​sunlight​that​ spotlights​the​train​in​the​back,​Namiko​and​her​father​in​front​are​displayed​in​ complete​silhouette.​This​backlit​deep​space​composition,​by​which​this​film​is​ barely​connected​to​Kotani’s​preferred​lighting​techniques,​functions​to​enhance​ Namiko’s​sense​of​loss​and​despair.​In​the​following​scene​of​the​print,​Namiko​ falls​into​a​fatal​illness​and​passes​away​before​Takeo​arrives.​This​was​probably​not​ intended,​but​the​returned​high-​key​lighting​ironically​enhances​the​paleness​of​ the​dying​heroine.​Under​the​bright​light,​Namiko’s​face​in​close-​up​lying​on​the​ bed​looks​extremely​white. ​125.​Yanagi,​Shinpa no rokuju nen,​25–26. ​126.​Kawada​and​Asahara,​“Butai​shomei,”​50.​Still,​Matsui​is​considered​to​be​an​innovator​of​theatrical​lighting.​With​Onoe​Kikugoro​XI,​Matsui​started​using​color​filters​in​order​to​indicate​changes​of​seasons​or​to​enhance​drama.​In​Chushingura,​ the​scene​of​the​suicide​is​lit​in​much​whiter​lighting​than​other​scenes.​Nihon​ Shomeika​Kyokai,​Nihon butai shomei shi,​68.​In​January​1925,​when​Kabuki-​za​ theater​reopened​after​the​Great​Kanto​Earthquake​of​1923​and​exhibited​a​new​ play,​Ieyasu Enters the Country​(Ieyasu nyukoku),​Matsui​represented​passing​of​ time​from​dusk​to​night​with​lighting​(Kawada​and​Asahara,​“Butai​shomei,”​51). ​127.​Kawatake,​“Hakujitsuko​no​butai,”​18–19. ​128.​Toyama,​“Gekijo​no​akari,”​167–68.​Toyama​admits​that​there​were​some​examples​ of​using​lighting​for​“expressive​measures​to​enhance​the​atmosphere​of​scenes.”​ In​Yotsuya Ghost Story​(Yotsuya kaidan)​the​protagonist​Iemon​closes​blinds​in​the​ evening,​which​not​only​indicates​the​time​of​the​sunset​but​also​prepares​for​the​ following​brutal​spectacle​of​a​ghost’s​appearance. ​129.​Toyama,​Butai shomei goju nen,​5. ​130.​Engei Gaho,​August​1925,​quoted​in​Shadanhojin​Nihon​haiyu​kyokai,​Kabuki no butai gijutsu to gijutsu sha tachi,​51. ​ 131.​Yanagi,​Shinpa no rokuju nen,​304. ​132.​“Henri​Kotani​Soichi,”​7. ​ 133.​Kano,​“Shimokamo​homon,”​57. ​134.​Kotani,​“Haro!​Aoyama​Yukio​shi!”​135.​Kotani​also​wrote​in​April​1922,​“I​tried​ to​make​only​a​few​films​at​Shochiku​Kinema,​but​I​was​not​satisfied​with​them​at​ all”​(Kotani,​“Nihon​no​eiga​seisaku​kai​dewa​kantoku​ni​taisuru​rikai​ga​tarinai,”​ 40–41). ​ 135.​Okajima,​“Japan’s​Case,”​2. ​136.​Bordwell,​Poetics of Cinema,​338. ​137.​Suzuki​Juzaburo,​“Yume no ukihashi,”​66.​See​also​Yamamoto​Rokuha,​“Tsukahara​ Kotaro,”​67. ​138.​Shimazaki,​“Nihon​no​eiga​gijutsu​hatten​ni​hatashita​Tsuburaya​Eiji​no​yakuwari,”​ 38;​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​60;​Kawatani,​Mato o kakenuketa otoko,​14–15,​38–41. ​139.​Nagahama,​“Makino​Purodakushon​to​watashi,”​60;​Morita​Fujio,​“Nihon​eiga​no​ jidaigeki​saho​dai​3​kai,”​71.

292  notes​to​chapter​1

​140.​Morita​Fujio,​“Nihon​eiga​no​jidaigeki​saho​dai​3​kai,”​71. ​141.​Mizusawa,​“Taihaiseru​Nikkatsu​Kyoto​ha,”​3. ​142.​Miura​Rei,​“Kiseki​II,”​54. ​143.​Quoted​in​Miura​Rei,​“Kiseki​II,”​54. ​144.​Mizusawa,​ “Taihaiseru​ Nikkatsu​ Kyoto​ ha,”​ 3.​ Mizusawa​ (Kaeriyama)​ explicates​such​technical​elements​of​cinematography​as​composition,​contrast,​gradation,​ and​ exposure​ in​ detail​ in​ his​ book​ Katsudo shashin no sosaku to satsuei ho​(1921),​which​was​mainly​based​on​Frederick​A.​Talbot’s​Practical Cinematography and Its Applications​(1913).​Kaeriyama​clearly​defines​the​role​of​cinematographers:​“Since​cameramen​work​with​cinematographic​machines,​they​need​to​ fully​understand​all​the​functions​of​their​own​cameras,​how​to​repair​them;​the​ characteristics​of​films,​lights,​and​exposure;​how​to​photograph;​and​how​to​do​ trick​photography;​and​so​forth”​(Kaeriyama,​Katsudo shashin no sosaku to satsuei ho,​227–28).​Even​though​Kaeriyama​published​a​detailed​article​that​explained​ how​to​use​artificial​lighting​in​filmmaking​in​1917,​artificial​lighting​equipment​was​ out​of​the​question​even​then.​Kaeriyama,​“Jinzo​kosen​oyobi​sono​shashin​jutsu,”​ 61–63.​Uchida​Soichi,​an​early​cinematographer​at​Nikkatsu’s​Mukojima​studio,​ said,​“The​sunlight​was​the​only​reliable​source​of​lighting​and​therefore​we​built​ a​glass​stage”​(quoted​in​Okabe,​“Nikkatsu​Mukojima​Satsueijo​ni​tsuite,”​59). ​145.​Shigeno,​“Katsudo​shashin​geki​no​satsuei​o​mita​toki,”​3. ​146.​Miura​Rei,​“Kiseki,”​42. ​147.​Fujiki,​Zoshokusuru perusona,​82–83. ​148.​Obora​ Gengo,​ “Warera​ no​ kokyo​ Mukojima”​ [Our​ hometown​ Mukojima],​ Mukojima no kai kaiho​1​(January​1961),​quoted​in​Sato​Tadao,​Nihon eiga shi I,​138.​ A​camera​lens​has​a​set​of​numbers​called​f-​stops​that​correspond​to​the​size​of​the​ aperture​opening.​A​large​aperture​opening​(e.g.,​f/2.8,​3.5,​4)​creates​a​shallow​ depth​of​field,​while​a​small​aperture​opening​(e.g.,​f/11,​16,​22)​produces​a​long​ depth​of​field.​Thus,​a​camera​with​only​f/3.5​has​less​flexibility​in​terms​of​depths​ of​field. ​149.​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​3,”​50. ​150.​Thompson,​Herr Lubitsch Goes to Hollywood,​39. ​ 151.​Itakura​Fumiaki​convincingly​discusses​the​“long​shot​+​long​take​+​static​frame​ style​that​dominates”​the​films​of​the​second​decade​of​the​twentieth​century​in​ Japan,​including​Chushingura,​and​then​points​out​unique​uses​of​mise-​en-​scène​ in​Chushingura​that​do​not​deviate​from​but​display​“the​active​creativity​of​the​ filmmaker,”​but​he​does​not​mention​the​film’s​lighting​scheme​(Itakura,​“‘Kyugeki’​kara​‘jidaigeki’​e,”​96–97). ​152.​Chushingura​was​made​into​a​film​almost​every​year.​Since​new​films​freely​incorporated​old​versions​in​these​periods,​the​version​of​Chushingura​from​1912​probably​has​much​footage​from​earlier​versions,​including​the​one​from​1910. ​ 153.​Gerow​suggests​how​Chushingura​and​The Story of the Filial Child Goro Masamune​ deviated​from​the​theatrical​proscenium​by​including​variation​in​framing​and​ camera​distance​(Visions of Japanese Modernity,​101–3). ​154.​There​is​one​scene​in​this​film​in​which​a​special​lighting​effect​is​melodramatically​ used.​In​a​long​shot,​a​child​and​his​grandfather​sit​in​front​of​a​house.​A​strong​ beam​of​light​from​upper​right​off​screen​places​the​two​in​light​while​other​spaces​

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are​in​shadow.​The​spotlight​enhances​their​financially​challenging​situation​as​well​ as​their​loneliness.​Yet​lighting​as​such​stays​within​the​realm​of​theatrical​staging. ​ 155.​Fujiki,​Zoshokusuru perusona,​93–99. ​156.​Obata,​“Satsueijo​no​shomei​sochi,”​125. ​ 157.​Regarding​comparison​of​the​narratives​and​characters​of​Docks of New York​and​ First Step Ashore,​see​Wada-​Marciano,​Nippon Modern,​35–40. ​ 158.​Kamata​11.12​(December​1932):​63,​66. ​159.​Bordwell,​Staiger,​and​Thompson,​The Classical Hollywood Cinema,​225–26. ​160.​Kido,​Nihon eiga den,​40. ​ 161.​Kido,​Waga eiga ron,​277. ​162.​Kido,​“Seisakusha​no​tachiba​yori,”​18–20;​Kido,​Nihon eiga den,​42. ​163.​Kido,​Nihon eiga den,​21–22. ​164.​Kido,​“Seisakusha​no​tachiba​yori,”​18–19. ​165.​Masumoto,​“Kinema no tenchi​no​haikei,”​247. ​166.​Takeda,​Eiga juni ko,​177. ​167.​Kido,​“Seisakusha​no​tachiba​yori,”​19. ​168.​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Shochiku shichijunen shi,​264. ​169.​Mori,​“Kido​Shiro​ron,”​34. ​170.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​224–25. ​ 171.​Kido,​“Eiga​seisaku​gorika​ron,”​22–23. ​172.​See​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​10–11;​Shillony,​“Friend​or​Foe,”​187–211;​ Clark,​“Indices​of​Modernity,”​25. ​173.​The​cinematographer​Midorikawa​Michio​did​not​stay​long​at​Shochiku​either​and​ moved​to​Nikkatsu​in​1926​(Miyajima​and​Midorikawa,​“Miyajima​Yoshio​kaisoroku,”​115). ​174.​Kido,​“Seisakusha​no​tachiba​yori,”​76–77. ​175.​Nagayama,​Shochiku hyakunenshi honshi,​570. ​176.​Muguruma,​Eiga no komado,​73–74. ​177.​Yoshimura,​Oba,​and​Yamada,​“Ofuna-​cho​towa​nanika,”​87. ​178.​Atsuta​and​Hasumi,​Ozu Yasujiro monogatari,​96. ​179.​“Kido​Shiro​Kikigaki,”​2;​Cazdyn,​The Flash of Capital,​18–19. ​180.​“Kido​Shiro​Kikigaki,”​4;​Masumoto,​Shochiku eiga no eiko to hokai,​20–22. ​ 181.​Obata,​“Satsueijo​no​shomei​sochi,”​122–26. ​182.​“Honpo​nanadai​satsueijo​jitsuryoku​chosa,”​1. ​183.​Kokusai Eiga Shinbun,​July​10,​1928,​11. ​184.​Sakamoto,​Nikkatsu yonju nen shi,​n.p.;​Sato​Tadao,​Suta no bigaku,​53. ​185.​Inoue,​“Chiho​kaitaku​ni​doryoku,”​104. ​186.​“Honpo​kaku​satsuei​shisetsu​jinyo​hikaku,”​13. ​187.​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Nihon eiga hattatsu shi II,​263. ​188.​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​18,”​44. ​189.​Sakamoto,​Nikkatsu yonju nen shi,​53. ​190.​Shibata,​ Sasaki,​ and​ Kawaguchi,​ “Mukashi​ no​ satsueijo​ ato​ o​ tazunete​ (20),”​ 61–62. ​ 191.​Ikeda​and​Tomoda,​“1934​nen​gyokai​kessan,”​277. ​192.​Masumoto,​Shochiku eiga no eiko to hokai,​24–30.

294  notes​to​chapter​1

​193.​In​the​same​period,​Shochiku​made​a​profit​of​718,900​yen​(Kinema Junpo,​January​1,​1936,​321;​Sakamoto,​Nikkatsu yonju nen shi,​n.p.). ​194.​Kinema Junpo,​ January​ 1,​ 1937,​ 77;​ Masumoto,​ Shochiku eiga no eiko to hokai,​ 30–33,​52–57. ​195.​F.K.R.,​“Toho​Shochiku​nidai​burokku​no​kaibo,”​90. ​196.​Nagata,​“Eiga​kai​e​no​kokaijo,”​99.​In​Nagata’s​article,​despite​his​own​position​ within​the​Shochiku​block,​Nagata​claimed​that​60–70​percent​of​the​Japanese​ film​industry​was​occupied​by​the​Shochiku​block​and​could​prevent​the​future​ development​of​Toho. ​197.​Kido,​Eiga e no michi,​212. ​198.​Kokusai Eiga Shinbun,​26​(April​10,​1929):​2.​See​also​Nagahama,​“Katsudo​shashin​ no​kisoteki​gijutsu​(2),”​464–66. ​199.​Isayama,​“Satsuei​kushin​dan,”​93;​Isayama,​“‘Cameraman’​shiko​kiroku,”​340–41. ​200.​Okumura,​“Eiga​no​shomei​koka​ni​tsuite,”​39. ​201.​Furukawa​Roppa,​“Henri​tono​hannichi,”​7. ​202.​Fujiki,​Zoshokusuru perusona,​7,​133–34.​See​also​Keating,​“From​the​Portrait​to​ the​Close-​Up,”​90–108. ​203.​Fujiki,​ Zoshokusuru perusona,​ 132–33.​ See​ also​ Kracauer,​ Theory of Film,​ 45–46;​ and​Doane,​“The​Close-​Up,”​89–111. ​204.​Fujiki,​Zoshokusuru perusona,​17. ​205.​Ibid. ​206.​Kurishima,​“Gubijinso​no​koro,”​21–22;​Okabe,​“Amerika​jidai​no​Henri​Kotani,”​ 25;​Tamaki,​Nihon eiga seisui ki,​109. ​207.​Noda,​“Soritsu​toji​no​Kamata​eiga,”​61. ​208.​Keating,​“The​Birth​of​Backlighting​in​the​Classical​Cinema,”​49;​Fujiki,​Zoshokusuru perusona,​369. ​209.​Katsudo Gaho​1.3​(March​1917):​n.p.​See​also​Fujiki,​Zoshokusuru perusona,​227– 29,​263–83. ​210.​Fujiki,​Zoshokusuru perusona,​240. ​ 211.​Ibid.,​258. ​212.​Nomura​Hotei,​“Kogyo​kachi​eiga​ni​tsuite”​[About​films​with​exhibition​value],​ Kamata,​ October​ 1931,​ quoted​ in​ Tanaka​ Masasumi,​ Ozu Yasujiro zen hatsugen 1933–1945,​259. ​213.​Ogawa​Noboru,​Nihon butai shomei shi,​59;​Toyama,​“Gekijo​no​akari,”​172. ​214.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​167.​Nikkatsu,​for​instance,​owned​only​19​ of​its​169​chain​theaters​in​1913​and​30​of​its​365​theaters​in​1923​(Sakamoto,​Nikkatsu yonjunen shi,​41–45). ​215.​Itakura,​“‘Kyugeki’​kara​‘jidaigeki’​e,”​92–93. ​216.​Ibid.,​164. ​217.​Ibid.,​169. ​218.​Ibid.,​170. ​219.​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Shochiku kyuju nen shi,​237. ​220.​Kido,​Eiga e no michi,​229–30. ​221.​Mori,​“Kurishima​Sumiko​ron,”​45. ​222.​Iwasaki,​Eiga to genjitsu,​66.

notes​to​chapter​1  295

2. Flashes of the sword and the star

​ 1.​Kido,​Nihon eiga den,​42.​Shochiku​developed​its​niche​with​a​genre​of​modern​film​ (gendaigeki)​that​depicted​the​lives​of​the​emerging​class​of​white-​collar​workers,​ including​an​unprecedented​number​of​working​women,​in​“symptomatic​sites​ of​everyday​modernity—urban​streets​and​department​stores,​cafés,​bars,​dance​ halls,​and​movie​theaters,​schools​and​hospitals,​offices​and​(occasionally)​factories,​Western-​style​apartments​and​traditional​Japanese​houses​and​shacks​set​in​ the​semi-​industrial​wasteland​of​suburban​Tokyo,​or​in​the​more​marginal,​low-​ cosmopolitan​milieu​of​Yokohama​harbor—and​used​them​in​ways​that​led​contemporary​critics​to​discern​in​them​‘a​stunning​new​realist​aesthetic’”​(Hansen,​ “Vernacular​Modernism,”​302). ​ 2.​“Kido​Shiro​kikigaki,”​10. ​ 3.​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Shochiku kyuju nen shi,​239. ​ 4.​Gerow,​ A​ Page​ of​ Madness,​ 7–8.​ The​ year​ 1925​ also​ witnessed​ the​ enactment​ of​katsudo shashin“firumu” kenetsu kisoku,​the​censorship​by​the​Home​Ministry,​ which​controlled​police​departments​nationwide,​of​all​films​released​in​Japan.​It​ was​the​beginning​of​unified​censorship​of​films’​contents​across​Japan.​“Standardization”​of​films’​contents​thus​began​from​the​state’s​viewpoint​(Kato,​Sodoin taisei to eiga,​24). ​ 5.​Gordon,​Labor and Imperial Democracy in Prewar Japan,​237–69. ​ 6.​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Nihon eiga hattatsu shi II,​12. ​ 7.​Nornes,​Japanese Documentary Film,​xxii. ​ 8.​Yoshimoto,​Kurosawa,​222. ​ 9.​According​to​the​film​historian​Tsutsui​Kiyotada,​however,​Japan​revived​from​the​ Great​Depression​relatively​sooner​than​other​countries.​Even​though​the​Japanese​economy​hit​bottom​in​1930–31,​it​started​to​improve​as​early​as​1933,​and​by​ 1935​it​was​fully​recovered​(Jidaigeki eiga no shiso,​28). ​ 10.​Mori,​“Bando​Tsumasaburo​ron,”​45. ​ 11.​Takizawa,​“Jidaigeki​towa​nanika,”​130.​Gendaigeki​produced​at​Nikkatsu​often​ displayed​innovative​styles​in​lighting,​even​though​they​were​not​as​popular​as​ Shochiku’s.​Those​included​Murata​Minoru’s​films.​Murata​was​impressed​by​the​ use​ of​ numerous​ pieces​ of​ lighting​ equipment​ when​ he​ visited​ film​ studios​ in​ Europe​in​1926.​Murata’s​1926​film​Ring of the Sun​(Nichirin),​made​at​Nikkatsu’s​ Kyoto​studio,​with​its​“particular​use​of​lights​from​the​bottom​that​give​new​forms​ to​objects​and​new​lives​to​shadows,”​was​called​a​“symphony​of​lights​and​shadows,​gradation​of​light​and​dark,​waltz​of​white​and​black”​and​regarded​as​“modern”​and​“cinematic”​cinema,​“the​art​that​was​created​by​cameras”​(Masumoto,​ “Kinema no tenchi​no​haikei,”​239;​Hanabusa​Nijiji,​“Nichirin​sansho​to​Tokihiko​ byoki​no​koto,”​40–41;​Kaneda,​“Geki​jidai​teki​eiga​Nichirin​o​miru,”​46–47). ​ 12.​Tomita,​“Makino​eiga​jidaigeki,”​139. ​ 13.​Itakura,​“‘Kyugeki’​kara​‘jidaigeki’​e,”​96.​See​94–102. ​ 14.​Bordwell,​Poetics of Cinema,​356–57;​italics​in​the​original. ​ 15.​Takeda​Toshihiko,​Shinkokugeki Sawada Shojiro,​3. ​ 16.​Fujii,​Tozai chanbara seisui ki,​20–21. ​ 17.​Keating,​Hollywood Lighting from the Silent Era to Film Noir,​60.

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​ 18.​Ibid.,​64. ​ 19.​“Lighting​to​Photoplay​Is​Like​Music​to​Drama​Declares​Cecil​B.​DeMille,”​Motography​29​(January​1916):​249,​quoted​in​Keating,​Hollywood Lighting from the Silent Era to Film Noir,​63. ​ 20.​Keating,​Hollywood Lighting from the Silent Era to Film Noir,​64. ​ 21.​Ibid.,​66. ​ 22.​A​35​mm​print​of​Tsukigata Hanpeita​(fragments;​1925)​is​preserved​at​the​National​ Film​Center,​the​National​Museum​of​Modern​Arts,​Tokyo. ​ 23.​Tsukigata Hanpeita​(1925),​screenplay​in​Sorimachi​04-​0160,​National​Film​Center,​Tokyo. ​ 24.​Ibid.,​41–42. ​ 25.​Mizusawa,​“Taihaiseru​Nikkatsu​Kyoto​ha,”​3. ​ 26.​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Nihon eiga hattatsu shi II,​13. ​ 27.​Uratani,​“Chanbara​suta​retsuden,”​24;​italics​in​the​original. ​ 28.​Morita​Fujio,​“Nihon​eiga​no​jidaigeki​saho​dai​7​kai,”​79–80. ​ 29.​Fujii,​Tozai chanbara seisui ki,​45–46. ​ 30.​Corresponding​to​the​emergence​of​jidaigeki,​those​who​directed​kyugeki​started​ to​change​their​lighting​schemes.​Makino​Shozo​fully​employed​effects​of​lighting​in​the​1928​film​Jitsuroku Chushingura.​Before​the​climactic​assault​of​Kira,​the​ enemy,​Oishi,​the​hero,​plays​with​many​girls​in​Gion​in​order​to​deceive​the​eyes​ of​the​world.​The​scene​is​photographed​in​bright​high​key​while​the​following​ scene​of​the​attack​at​night​in​the​extant​print​is​in​low​key.​Several​spotlights​are​ used​as​sidelights​to​enhance​the​spectacle​of​the​scene,​especially​when​the​group​ of​samurai​goes​down​to​an​underground​escape​route​that​Kira​has​taken. ​ 31.​By​the​1940s,​the​Japanese​sword​came​to​signify​the​embodiment​of​the​Japanese​ spirit.​The​American​cultural​anthropologist​Ruth​Benedict​juxtaposes​the​Japanese​sword​and​the​Japanese​soul​in​her​classic​work,​The Chrysanthemum and the Sword: Patterns of Japanese Culture​(1946).​Benedict​writes,​“Though​every​soul​ originally​shines​with​virtue​like​a​new​sword,​nevertheless,​if​it​is​not​kept​polished,​it​gets​tarnished.​This​‘rust​of​my​body,’​as​they​[Japanese​people]​phrase​it,​ is​as​bad​as​it​is​on​a​sword.​A​man​must​give​his​character​the​same​care​that​he​ would​give​a​sword.​But​his​bright​and​gleaming​soul​is​still​there​under​the​rust​ and​all​that​is​necessary​is​to​polish​it​up​again”​(198). ​ 32.​Yoshimoto,​Kurosawa,​219. ​ 33.​Itakura,​“‘Kyugeki’​kara​‘jidaigeki’​e,”​105. ​ 34.​Kobayashi​Isamu,​Eiga no toei,​228. ​ 35.​Itakura,​“‘Kyugeki’​kara​‘jidaigeki’​e,”​108.​See​102–12. ​ 36.​The​films​that​Ito​wrote​and​directed​at​Teikine​are​no​longer​extant,​but​Ito’s​ screenplays​exist.​One​of​them​is​called​Night Lamps​(Joyato),​which​was​not​ever​ made​into​a​film.​It​is​assumed​that​Ito​planned​to​use​Lasky-​style​effects​lighting​ in​this​film.​Night Lamps​is​a​story​about​a​faithful​daughter​who​suffers​from​torture​by​her​cruel​stepmother​but​keeps​a​promise​with​her​blood​mother​to​put​ a​light​on​a​night​lamp​at​the​top​of​the​mountain​of​her​village.​The​lamp​shows​ the​direction​to​the​village​for​her​father,​a​traveling​merchant,​who​always​comes​ back​at​night.​In​the​original​story,​Ito​writes,​“The​stepmother’s​lover​forces​the​ father​to​drink​poison​in​order​to​steal​his​money.​Away​from​home,​the​father​

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quickly​becomes​sick.​Without​knowing​what​has​happened​to​her​father,​Osayo​ [the​daughter]​puts​the​light​up​every​night.​The​dying​father​envisions​a​shining​ night​lamp​and​Osayo.​‘Ah,​I​see​the​night​lamp​of​Osayo.​I​see​heaven​beyond​ that.​Ah,​there​is​my​wife’”​(quoted​in​Isoda,​Netsugan nesshu no hito,​91–92). ​ 37.​Ito,​Jidaigeki eiga no shi to shinjitsu,​323–24;​“Ito​Daisuke​no​kuto​shi,”​49–51. ​ 38.​“Yoki​jidai​towa​ienai​keredo​ureshiki​jidai​no​katsudo​ya,”​61. ​ 39.​Ito,​Jidaigeki eiga no shi to shinjitsu,​37. ​ 40.​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Nihon eiga hattatsu shi II,​49. ​ 41.​Kinema Junpo,​January​21,​1928,​quoted​in​Saiki,​“Chuji tabinikki​kaisetsu,”​85. ​ 42.​Isoda,​Netsugan nesshu no hito,​171. ​ 43.​Ito,​Jidaigeki eiga no shi to shinjitsu,​57–58. ​ 44.​This​ technique​ of​ super-​fast​ or​ accelerating​ montage​ of​ numerous​ shots​ that​ represents​a​character’s​point​of​view​was​termed​flash.​Flash​is​different​from​ flashback,​the​term​imported​to​Japan​after​World​War​II.​Flash​was​first​introduced​in​Japan​by​Alexander​Volcoff’s​Edmund Kean: Prince among Lovers​(Kean)​ in​1924​(Itakura,​“‘Ito​wajutsu’​towa​nanika,”​n.p.). ​ 45.​Isoda,​Netsugan nesshu no hito,​168. ​ 46.​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​10,”​47. ​ 47.​Shinkokugeki,​Shinkokugeki goju nen,​22–43;​Manabe,​Shinkokugeki,​7–12. ​ 48.​Itakura,​“‘Kyugeki’​kara​‘jidaigeki’​e,”​107. ​ 49.​Kobayashi​Isamu,​Eiga no toei,​204. ​ 50.​Sato​Shigeomi,​Bantsuma no sekai,​94;​Akishino,​Bando Tsumasaburo,​246. ​ 51.​In​1929,​Shochiku​invited​Ito​Daisuke​to​its​Shimokamo​studio​and​let​him​direct​ The Sword That Slashes Human and Horse​(Zanjin zanba ken)​with​“twenty​times​ as​large​a​budget​as​usual”​(“Kido​Shiro​kikigaki,”​14). ​ 52.​One​brief​exception​is​a​scene​at​a​jail.​Strong​light​from​the​left​side​creates​a​huge​ shadow​of​an​imprisoned​samurai​(Bando)​on​the​wall,​who​steals​a​carving​knife​ and​breaks​out​of​the​jail. ​ 53.​Inuzuka,​Eiga wa kagero no gotoku,​71–72. ​ 54.​Tanaka​ Junichiro,​ “Orochi,”​ Kinema Junpo,​ February​ 1,​ 1952,​ quoted​ in​ Hirai,​ “Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​12,”​71. ​ 55.​Hayashi​Chojiro,​“Zoku​sairento​kara​toki​e​sono​2,”​79. ​ 56.​Tanaka​ Junichiro,​ Nihon eiga hattatsu shi II,​ 71–72,​ translated​ and​ quoted​ in​ Komatsu​Hiroshi,​“The​Foundation​of​Modernism,”​364. ​ 57.​Dazai,​“Kinugasa​eiga​e​no​kotoba,”​66. ​ 58.​Dazai,​“Cho-​san​kawaiya,​hoka​zakken​ni​san,”​48;​Chikamatsu,​“Hayashi​Chojiro​ no​eiga​ni​tsuite,”​52. ​ 59.​Asakawa,​“Chojiro​Zatsudai,”​44. ​ 60.​Hasegawa​Kazuo,​Butai ginmaku rokuju nen,​61. ​ 61.​Shirai​Shintaro,​“Shinko​kabuki​eiga​18​ban,​sono​hoka,”​32. ​ 62.​Tachibana,​“Eiga​no​mikata​to​ajiwaikata,”​70. ​ 63.​Hayashi​Chojiro,​“Hayashi​Chojiro​shumi​no​Mandan,”​33. ​ 64.​Kokusai Eiga Shinbun​29​(July​10,​1929):​52. ​ 65.​Ueda,​“Imi​no​aru​yona​nai​yona​hanashi,”​92–93. ​ 66.​“Kamata​junen​no​kaiko,”​70.

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​ 67.​Ibuki,​Makino shusshin no chanbara suta,​186. ​ 68.​Hasegawa​ Kazuo,​ Butai ginmaku rokuju nen,​ 94–95;​ Hayashi​ Chojiro,​ “Isogashisugiru,”​118.​Fans​confirmed​Hayashi’s​claim.​K.​K​Sei,​Goto​Chiyoko,​and​ Hayashi​Michiko​depicted​the​excitement​at​the​Tokyo​station​around​10​a.m.​on​ January​16​when​Hayashi​stepped​out​of​the​train​from​Kyoto​(K.​K​Sei,​“Chojiro​ shi​o​mukaete,”​73;​Goto,​“Omoumamani,”​74;​Hayashi​Chojiro,​“Gubun​hitotsu,”​ 78). ​ 69.​Tokyo Asahi Shinbun,​January​20,​1928,​6. ​ 70.​Asakawa,​“Chojiro​zatsudai,”​45. ​ 71.​Hasegawa​Kazuo,​Watashi no niju nen,​89. ​ 72.​“Zen​Shochiku​haiyu​ninki​tohyo,”​n.p. ​ 73.​Tejima,​“Kyoshi​no​me​ni​utsutta​eiga​to​jogakusei,”​112. ​ 74.​In​ 1931,​ three​ gendaigeki​ stars,​ Suzuki​ Denmei,​ Okada​ Tokihiko,​ and​ Takada​ Minoru,​withdrew​from​the​Kamata​studio.​The​Kamata​studio​needed​a​male​star​ (“Hasegawa​Kazuo​kikigaki,”​7). ​ 75.​“Kido​Shiro​kikigaki,”​10.​The​film​was​actually​Golden Monster.​Hayashi​wore​a​ costume​for​the​film​and​paraded​through​the​streets​of​Ginza​to​promote​the​film​ (Hasegawa,​Butai ginmaku rokuju nen,​96). ​ 76.​Stamp,​Movie-Struck Girls,​22. ​ 77.​Shibai to Kinema,​March​1927,​13,​translated​and​quoted​in​Komatsu​Hiroshi,​“The​ Foundation​of​Modernism,”​365. ​ 78.​Stamp,​Movie-Struck Girls,​6. ​ 79.​Doane,​The Desire to Desire,​24. ​ 80.​Hayashi​Chojiro,​“Oya​no​nai​ko,”​51. ​ 81.​Burch,​To the Distant Observer. ​ 82.​Ayako​Kano,​“Visuality​and​Gender​in​Modern​Japanese​Theater,”​44. ​ 83.​Ibid.​The​film​historian​Komatsu​Hiroshi​suggests​female​followers​already​existed​ for​such​an​onnagata​actor​as​Tachibana​Teijiro,​a​shinpa​star​who​appeared​in​numerous​films​produced​at​Nikkatsu​Mukojima​studio​in​the​latter​half​of​the​1910s.​ The​audience​of​Tachibana​films​must​have​achieved​“a​new​subjective​position”​ in​Kano’s​sense,​but​this​“position,”​which​had​more​similarity​to​a​theater​audience,​should​be​distinguished​from​that​of​the​Hayashi​fans,​who​simultaneously​ maintained​and​abandoned​the​distance​between​the​performer​and​the​viewer.​ While​both​Hayashi​and​Tachibana​had​onnagata​backgrounds,​there​were​significant​differences​in​their​onscreen​images.​Tachibana​exclusively​played​female​ roles​while​Hayashi​played​both—but​mainly​male​roles.​Tachibana​specialized​in​ the​shinpa​genre,​which​imitated​Western​stage​sets​and​plays,​such​as​Kachusha,​ adapted​from​the​novel​Resurrection​(Voskraeseniye)​by​Tolstoy,​and​Salome,​based​ on​Oscar​Wilde’s​play.​Hayashi​appeared​mostly​in​jidaigeki.​While​Tachibana​was​ placed​in​long​shots​and​long​takes​in​flat​lights,​the​lighting​scheme​on​Hayashi​ was​more​complicated.​Tachibana​was​never​glamorized​but​his​slender​body​was​ emphasized,​the​ideal​beauty​of​a​Japanese​woman.​Tachibana​switched​his​image​ from​a​pure​and​innocent​maiden​to​a​diabolical​and​sensual​femme​fatale.​In​this​ sense,​ Tachibana​ was​ very​ different​ from​ Hollywood​ stars​ of​ the​ same​ period.​ Lillian​Gish​might​have​had​a​slender​body,​but​she​was​not​allowed​to​play​a​sen-

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sual​femme​fatale.​Hayashi​was​able​to​represent​both​innocent​and​sensual​with​ the​support​of​specific​lighting​and​camera​positions​(Komatsu,​“Shinpa​eiga​no​ keitai​gaku,”​43–83). ​ 84.​Murphy,​“Fan​zo​no​seisei,”​348. ​ 85.​Ibid. ​ 86.​Ibid. ​ 87.​Hansen,​Babel and Babylon,​7. ​ 88.​Ibid. ​ 89.​Ibid.,​294. ​ 90.​Ibid.,​282. ​ 91.​Ibid.,​282–83. ​ 92.​Ibid.,​254. ​ 93.​Ibid.,​279–80. ​ 94.​Ibid.,​277. ​ 95.​Kobayashi​Fujie,​no​title,​Shimokamo​2.2​(February​1928):​90. ​ 96.​Morin,​The Stars,​116. ​ 97.​Kitano,​ “Eiga​ suta​ seizo​ ho,”​ 93;​ Inuzuka,​ Eiga wa kagero no gotoku,​ 119;​ Hasegawa​Kazuo,​Butai ginmaku rokuju nen,​76;​Hasegawa​Kazuo,​Watashi no niju nen,​69. ​ 98.​Shirai​Shintaro,​“Hayashi​Chojiro​o​uridasu​made,”​53–54. ​ 99.​Ibid.,​54. ​100.​Ibid. ​ 101.​Hansen,​Babel and Babylon,​248. ​102.​Kubota,​“Sokan​zappitsu,”​72. ​103.​Shimokamo​2.2​(February​1928):​103;​Shimokamo​2.4​(April​1928):​79;​Shimokamo​ 2.6​( June​1928):​iv. ​104.​Kashiwagi,​Senbongumi shimatsu ki,​303–4. ​105.​Mizumachi,​“Hayashi​Chojiro​ron,”​7. ​106.​Yamahoshi,​“Kyo​no​hito​asu​no​hito,”​128–29. ​107.​F.K.R.,​“Eiga​haiyu​shakaigaku,”​45–46. ​108.​“Kido​Shiro​kikigaki,”​10. ​109.​Suzuki​Tamotsu,​“Hayashi​Chojiro​Yoseru​bun,”​110. ​ 110.​“Nihon-​teki​choji,”​113. ​ 111.​Kimura,​“Pointo​dessan,”​16–17. ​ 112.​Okochi,​“Chijiro​san​to​watashi,”​92–93. ​ 113.​Hasegawa​Kazuo,​Butai ginmaku rokuju nen,​189–90. ​114.​Hazumi,​“Jobuboshi,”​49. ​ 115.​“Ken​no​miwaku,”​n.p. ​ 116.​Shimokamo,​special​issue​(September​1928):​n.p. ​ 117.​Shimokamo​1.2​(December​1927):​70. ​ 118.​Okamura,​“Obo Kichizo,”​87. ​ 119.​Murakami,​“Sora​wa​haretari,”​58–59. ​120.​Hayashi​Chojiro,​“Watashi​no​kabuki​eiga,”​38–39. ​ 121.​“Warera​ga​suta​tachi​no​hatsuyume,”​66. ​122.​Katayama,​“Rubicchi​de​O-Natsu Seijuro​o​totte​moraitai​Hayashi​Chojiro,”​31. ​123.​Thompson,​Herr Lubitsch Goes to Hollywood,​28.

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​124.​Ibid.,​51. ​125.​Grodal,​“Film​Lighting​and​Mood,”​156. ​126.​Thompson,​ Herr Lubitsch Goes to Hollywood,​ 39.​ See​ also​ Stull,​ “The​ Elements​ of​Lighting,”​324–25.​Stull​assertively​claims,​“The​best​results,​of​course,​are​obtained​through​the​combination​of​well-​balanced​front-​light​and​back-​light.” ​127.​Hesse,​“Shadows,”​34,​also​quoted​in​Keating,​Hollywood Lighting from the Silent Era to Film Noir,​128. ​128.​Keating,​Hollywood Lighting from the Silent Era to Film Noir,​50. ​129.​Hasumi​Chiyoo,​“O-Natsu Seijuro​kenkyu​no​biyo,”​26. ​130.​Shimokamo​10.5​(May​1936):​3,​80. ​ 131.​“O-Natsu Seijuro​no​sutaffu​ni​kiku,”​17. ​132.​Whissel,​Picturing American Modernity,​127. ​ 133.​Kamata​studio​owned​thirty​top​lights,​sixty​globe​lamps,​forty​Ewing​lamps,​and​ forty​spotlights​(“Showa​6​nen​3​gatsu​chosa:​Nihon​satsueijo​roku,”​220–30). ​134.​Kamata​studio​owned​one​hundred​top​lights,​130​globe​lamps,​twenty​3​kW​sun​ spotlights,​five​10​kW​sun​spotlights,​ten​tulip​lights,​and​a​couple​of​Ewing​and​ spotlights.​The​studio​had​more​than​265​lamps​in​total,​but​did​not​clarify​how​ many​electric​lamps​it​owned.​Besides,​even​though​Kamata​had​a​greater​number​ of​lamps,​the​number​of​people​who​worked​there​(503)​was​almost​twice​as​large​ as​that​at​Shimokamo​(293).​In​addition,​Shimokamo​studio’s​direct​current​capacity​was​100​kW​and​alternative​current​was​570​kW,​while​Kamata​was​250​kW​ and​400​kW.​Considering​the​sizes​of​the​studios,​Shimokamo​studio’s​emphasis​ on​the​use​of​electric​lamps​was​notable​(“Showa​8​nen​3​gatsu​genzai,”​appendix​ 34–46). ​ 135.​Miura​Rei,​“Kiseki​III,”​40.​In​the​emulsion​of​panchromatic​film,​the​sensitivity​is​ not​only​in​the​blue​end​of​the​spectrum​but​extends​far​into​the​yellow​and​red,​ while​orthochromatic​can​only​sense​orange​(“The​Evolution​of​Motion​Picture​ Lighting,”​95). ​136.​Initially​what​Shochiku​used​were​the​lamps​not​meant​to​be​for​filmmaking​per​se​ but​for​factory​use​(Miura​Mitsuo,​“Geijutsu​to​shiteno​eiga​satsuei​no​hattatsu​ [seihen,​chu],”​74). ​137.​Miura​ Mitsuo,​ “Horiuddo​ kara”​ [From​ Hollywood],​ Eiga Jidai,​ October​ 1928,​ quoted​in​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​16,”​59–61. ​138.​“Zadankai​eiga​shomei​shi,”​17. ​139.​Nagayama,​Shochiku hyakunenshi honshi,​585. ​140.​“Shomei​to​funso​no​ohanashi,”​96–97. ​141.​Wataragi,​“Gojuman​shokko​no​raito,”​20. ​142.​Miura​ Rei,​ “Kiseki​ III,”​ 42;​ Kawaguchi,​ “Mukashi​ no​ satsueijo​ ato​ o​ tazunete​ (6),”​49. ​143.​Yamada​Akinobu,​Nihon eiga gijutsu shi,​46. ​144.​Bordwell,​Staiger,​and​Thompson,​The Classical Hollywood Cinema,​294–97. ​145.​Milner,​“Progress​and​Lighting​Equipment,”​8. ​146.​Hayashi​Chojiro,​“Zoku​sairento​kara​toki​e,”​16. ​147.​Bordwell,​Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema,​22. ​148.​Ibid.,​21. ​149.​Suzuki​Juzaburo,​“Fuun joshi,”​89.

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​150.​Keating,​Hollywood Lighting from the Silent Era to Film Noir,​50. ​ 151.​Hata,​Hana no shunju,​140–41. ​152.​McDonald,​Japanese Classical Theater in Films,​43,​330. ​ 153.​Hayashi​Naritoshi,​Chichi Hasegawa Kazuo no oinaru isan,​217;​Gerow,​A​Page​of​ Madness,​17. ​154.​Sugiyama​Kohei,​“Hitokoto,”​73;​Hasegawa​Kazuo,​Butai ginmaku rokuju nen,​90. ​ 155.​Kinema Junpo,​February​11,​1931,​41;​Ishizuki,​“Eigakan​no​nakano​‘jenda,’”​922–25. ​156.​Hayashi​Chojiro,​“Kongetsu​no​wadai,”​41. ​ 157.​Fuyushima,​“Satsunan sodoin​seisaku​ki,”​44. ​ 158.​Hayashi​Chojiro,​“Kongetsu​no​wadai​sono​2,”​53. ​159.​Sato​Tadao,​Suta no bigaku,​64. ​160.​Sato​Tadao,​Kimi wa jidaigeki o mitaka,​112–13. ​ 161.​The​extant​print​of​An Actor’s Revenge,​the​1952​compilation​of​the​trilogy​(1935– 36),​only​contains​two​sword-​fighting​sequences,​one​by​Yukinojo​and​the​other​ by​Yamitaro​the​thief​(also​played​by​Hayashi).​The​latter​has​the​same​editing​ structure:​establishing​long​shot,​close-​ups​of​the​enemy,​extreme​long​shot​of​ the​battle,​extended​close-​up​of​Hayashi,​close-​ups​of​the​enemy,​long​shot​of​the​ battle,​and​the​closing​extended​close-​up​of​Hayashi.​In​this​case,​the​extreme​long​ shots​of​the​sword​fighting​are​in​extreme​low-​key​and​the​characters​fight​in​a​ long​distance.​Their​movements​are​not​clearly​visible.​On​the​contrary,​the​close-​ ups​of​Hayashi​follow​the​same​positioning​(turning​to​the​left),​lighting​scheme​ (lit​from​left​and​top),​narrowing​eyes,​and​the​extension. ​162.​Mihara,​“Yukinojo henge​o​kataru,”​67. ​163.​Hayashi​ Chojiro,​ “Happi​ endo,”​ 67–68;​ Sakai​ Tamako,​ “Hitodenashi​ no​ kotodomo,”​67–68;​Hayashi​Chojiro,​“Zoku​sairento​kara​toki​e​sono​4,”​71–72. ​164.​Sachiko,​“Iroiro​no​koto​demo,”​74. ​165.​“Jidaigeki​yomoyama​zadankai,”​66.​The​film​critic​Tsumura​Hideo​of​the​Tokyo Asahi Shinbun​newspaper,​who​was​known​as​Mr.​Q,​praised​the​set​and​lighting​ of​the​scene:​“The​excellent​preparation​and​depiction​of​fire,​and​black​smoke​in​ particular,​are​not​very​unusual​in​Kinugasa’s​work,​but​still​they​must​be​highly​ valued​when​most​other​jidaigeki​films​exhaust​our​interests​with​their​poor​sets​ and​careless​lighting”​(quoted​in​Hasumi​Chiyoo,​“Yukinojo henge dai 2 hen​kenkyu​ no​biyo,”​26). ​166.​Sobchack,​Carnal Thoughts,​56. ​167.​Hasumi​Chiyoo,​“Aihansuru​futatsu​no​eiga,”​16.​Another​critic,​Uemori​Shinichiro,​also​mentions​the​same​composition​of​the​same​scene​(“Okawa​no​uta,”​ 23). ​168.​Studlar,​This Mad Masquerade,​101. ​169.​Hansen,​Babel and Babylon,​277,​282. ​170.​Studlar,​“The​Perils​of​Pleasure?,”​288–89. ​ 171.​Staiger,​“The​Eyes​Are​Really​the​Focus,”​20;​Harrison,​“Eyes​and​Lips,”​348–49. ​172.​Yamaji​et​al.,​“Chojiro​o​meguru​zadankai,”​56;​Hasegawa​Kazuo,​Butai ginmaku rokuju nen,​91. ​173.​“Kikigaki​Hasegawa​Kazuo,”​3,​7. ​174.​“Onajimi​gurafikku,”​30. ​175.​Ohashi,​“Shimokamo​no​purofiru,”​49.

302  notes​to​chapter​2

​176.​Kobayashi​Isamu,​“Chojiro​to​bibo,”​42–43. ​177.​Kiso,​“Chojiro​monogatari,”​71. ​178.​Bancho​ronin,​“Hayashi​Chojiro​gyojo​ki,”​9;​Kobayashi​Isamu,​“Chojiro​to​bibo,”​ 42. ​179.​Kubota,​“Shimokamo​zatsuwa,”​144. ​180.​Akishino​Yoko,​“Watashi​no​mita​Hasegawa​Kazuo,”​20. ​ 181.​Shimokamo​2.9​(September​1928):​n.p. ​182.​Nakamura,​“Hayashi​Chojiro​o​kataru,”​49. ​183.​Higashiyama,​“Pointo​ni​kiku,”​43–44. ​184.​Hayashi​Chojiro,​Chojiro soshi,​100–101. ​185.​Matsui​Junko,​“Maegamisugata​no​Hayashi​Chojiro​san,”​85. ​186.​Hasegawa​Shuko,​“Cho-​sama​no​insho,”​67. ​187.​Nanbu,​“Joseishugi,”​70–71. ​188.​Fukiya,​“Camera,”​106. ​189.​Ibid. ​190.​Hayashi​Sachiko,​“Cho-​sama​o​meguru​hitobito,”​64. ​ 191.​Hiroishi,​“Raitoman,”​68. ​192.​Hata,​Hana no shunju,​159. ​193.​LaMarre,​Shadows on the Screen,​9. ​194.​Williams,​“Film​Bodies,”​704. ​195.​Matsui​Chieko,​“Binan​Chojiro-​san​o​omou,”​95. ​196.​Hayashi​Chojiro,​“Hayashi​Chojiro,”​31;​Hayashi​Chojiro,​Chijiro soshi,​87. ​197.​Zhang,​An Amorous History of the Silver Screen,​32.​See​also​Kracauer,​Theory of Film,​71–72;​Shaviro,​The Cinematic Body,​256–57. ​198.​Epstein,​“The​Senses​I​(b),”​243. ​199.​Cited​in​Abel,​“Photogénie​and​Company,”​110. ​200.​Shaviro,​The Cinematic Body,​18. ​201.​Bean,​“Technologies​of​Early​Stardom​and​the​Extraordinary​Body,”​435–36. ​202.​Delluc,​“Beauty​in​the​Cinema,”​138–39. ​203.​Hammond​and​Ford,​“French​End​Games,”​330. ​204.​Delluc,​“Beauty​in​the​Cinema,”​138–39. ​205.​Ibid. ​206.​Mizuo,​“Ojo Kichizo,”​42–43. ​207.​Quoted​in​Hata,​Hana no shunju,​126. ​208.​Gerow,​A​Page​of​Madness,​10. ​209.​Fuji,​Mimura,​and​Tanima,​“Yabure amigasa​gappyo​roku,”​56. ​210.​Quoted​in​Sato​Tadao,​Suta no bigaku,​63–64. ​ 211.​Epstein,​“Magnification,”​239–40. 3. street Films

​ 1.​Wada-​Marciano,​Nippon Modern,​2,​4.​Mainly​focusing​on​the​thematic​motifs​and​ the​narratives​of​Shochiku​films,​Wada-​Marciano​carefully​lays​out​how​Kamata-​ style​films​expressed​“a​vision​of​modern​Japanese​life”​by​emulating​“Hollywood​ filmmaking​modes”​in​opposition​to​Nikkatsu’s​Kabuki​or​shinpa-​style​“uncinematic”​films​(116,​130).​Yet,​as​I​have​argued,​Kamata-​style​films​were​not​fully​“in​ opposition​to”​Kabuki​or​shinpa-​style​films,​in​terms​of​how​they​used​lighting.

notes​to​chapter​3  303

​ 2.​Gerow,​“Benshi​ni​tsuite,”​136. ​ 3.​Kinugasa,​“Jujiro​zakkan,”​54. ​ 4.​Chihaya​ Akiko,​ Diary,​ Sorimachi​ Collection​ 05-​0109,​ National​ Film​ Center,​ Tokyo.​Kinugasa​eventually​married​Chihaya. ​ 5.​Ibid. ​ 6.​Kinugasa,​“‘Pankuro​firumu’​genzo​no​jissai,”​6. ​ 7.​Gerow,​A​Page​of​Madness,​20–21. ​ 8.​“Kinugasa​Teinosuke,”​Otake​Toru​et​al.,​Eizo kenkyu bessatsu,​Kinu-​11–12. ​ 9.​For​Kinugasa’s​early​career​in​film,​see​Gerow,​A​Page​of​Madness,​17–19. ​ 10.​Tanaka​Jun’ichiro,​“Hyogen​shugi​no​eiga”​[An​expressionist​film],​Hochi shinbun,​ June​23,​1926,​4,​translated​and​quoted​in​Gerow,​A​Page​of​Madness,​105. ​ 11.​Ishimaki,​“Satsuei​giko​no​geijutsu​teki​kachi,”​31. ​ 12.​Gerow,​A​Page​of​Madness,​54. ​ 13.​Shibata,​Sasaki,​and​Kawaguchi,​“Mukashi​no​satsueijo​ato​o​tazunete​(29),”​76;​ Shibata,​Sasaki,​and​Kawaguchi,​“Mukashi​no​satsueijo​ato​o​tazunete​(32),”​80. ​ 14.​[Yamamoto]​ Rokuyo-​sei,​ “Nihon​ eigakai​ no​ chikagoro”​ [Recent​ events​ in​ the​ Japanese​film​world],​Nihon Eiga​22​(June​1926):​n.p.,​quoted​in​Gerow,​A​Page​of​ Madness,​25;​Kameyama,​“Shimokamo​ni​okeru​Kinugasa​no​ashiato,”​57. ​ 15.​Akishino​Kentaro,​Bando Tsumasaburo,​188–89. ​ 16.​Yukie,​“Gusha​no​negoto,”​69. ​ 17.​Nanako,​“Ukabi​izuru​mamani,”​68. ​ 18.​Mizumachi,​“Tsumasaburo​to​Shiba​Seika​ni,”​36. ​ 19.​Hayashi​Chojiro,​“Gakuya​nite,”​101. ​ 20.​Kinugasa,​“Jujiro​no​koro,”​176–77. ​ 21.​The​ art​ director​ of​ the​ film,​ Taira​ Bonji,​ sarcastically​ called​ the​ set​ “moro-​ha”​ (ambiguity-​ism),​ referring​ to​ its​ eclectic​ quality—a​ mix​ of​ “expressionism,​ cubism,​constructivism,​Mavo,​and​futurism”​(Happi​Hitto,​“Jujiro​no​setto,”​47).​ Taira​is​in​fact​a​pseudonym​of​Tomonari​Yozo,​who​directed​three​films,​including​ two​Hayashi​star​vehicles,​at​Shimokamo​in​1928​after​Crossways.​It​is​noteworthy​ that​Chuji’s Travel Journal​was​also​regarded​by​at​least​one​cinematographer​as​ “utilizing​German​techniques”​(Miki,​“Cameraman​ga​eikyo​o​uketa​eiga,”​102). ​ 22.​Shibata,​“Jujiro​o​mite,”​27–28. ​ 23.​Ibid. ​ 24.​Takeda​ Chuya,​ “Jujiro,”​ 42.​ William​ O.​ Gardner​ overtly​ argues​ that​ Kinugasa​ “establishes​a​geographical​link”​between​Yoshiwara​in​Crossways​and​Asakusa,​ “the​ foremost​ popular​ entertainment​ district​ of​ Tokyo”​ (“New​ Perceptions,”​ 71–72). ​ 25.​“Jujiro​gappyokai​kiroku,”​86. ​ 26.​Yamamoto,​Nihon eiga ni okeru gaikoku eiga no eikyo,​140. ​ 27.​Harootunian,​Overcome by Modernity,​xvi–xvii. ​ 28.​Kaeriyama,​“Nihon​eiga​no​kaigai​shinshutsu​ni​tsuite,”​13;​Otake​Jiro,​“Jujiro​no​ baai,”​23;​Kokusai Eiga Shinbun​29​(July​10,​1929):​6;​Kokusai Eiga Shinbun​30​(August​10,​1929):​6. ​ 29.​Shirai​Shintaro,​“Nihon​no​firumu​o​gaikoku​e​yushutsu​shitai,”​76. ​ 30.​Yanome,​“Kinugasa​Teinosuke​shi​no​Jujiro​ga​furansu​eigakai​ni​ataetaru​insho,”​ 35.

304  notes​to​chapter​3

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​

31.​Ibid. 32.​Iwasaki,​“Jujiro,”​74. 33.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​114;​Bernardi,​Writing in Light,​133. 34.​Otake​Jiro,​“Jujiro​no​baai,”​26. 35.​Kiyotomo,​“Jujiro​manso,”​30–31. 36.​Muromachi,​“Furukushite​atarshiki​tsuneni​tayumanu​taido,”​4. 37.​Mukai​Shunko,​“Katsudo​shashin​kai​no​shin​keiko:​kigeki​no​zensei​jidai​kitaru”​ [A​new​tendency​in​motion​pictures:​The​golden​period​of​comedy​has​come],​ Katsudo Gaho​(March​1917),​translated​and​quoted​in​Bernardi,​Writing in Light,​ 192. ​ 38.​Balázs,​Theory of the Film,​178. ​ 39.​Ibid. ​ 40.​Iwasaki,​“Hyogenha​eiga​no​shorai​(1),”​26;​Iwasaki,​“Saigo no hito​(2),”​27. ​ 41.​Iwasaki,​“Hyogenha​eiga​no​shorai​(2),”​29;​Iwasaki,​“Eiga​to​hyogenshugi​to,”​13. ​ 42.​Takeda​Chuya,​“Jujiro,”​43. ​ 43.​“Jujiro​gappyokai​kiroku,”​35.​See​also​“Kinugasa​Teinosuke​to​kare​no​shinsaku​ Jujiro​o​meguru​zadankai​hikkiroku,”​14–20. ​ 44.​Okudaira,​“Kinugasa​Teinosuke​to​Nihon​eiga​shi,”​33. ​ 45.​Kubota,​“Omoide​no​meihen​kaiko​13,”​22–23. ​ 46.​Ibid. ​ 47.​Kinugasa,​“Jujiro​no​koro,”​77. ​ 48.​Kinugasa,​ “Eiga​ 40​ nen​ kaiko​ (10),”​ 177.​ See​ also​ Kiyotomo,​ “Jujiro​ manso,”​ 30–31. ​ 49.​Sugiyama​Kohei,​“Jujiro​satsuei​zakki,”​11. ​ 50.​Eiga Jidai,​May​1928,​quoted​in​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​15,”​43. ​ 51.​The​production​of​Crossways​started​from​this​opening​scene​on​a​glass​stage​of​ Shimokamo​the​night​of​March​7,​1928.​Chihaya,​Diary,​Sorimachi​Collection​05-​ 0109,​National​Film​Center,​Tokyo. ​ 52.​Jujiro​kaisetsu​daihon​[Crossways​screenplay​with​commentary],​Sorimachi​Collection​04-​0267,​9,​National​Film​Center,​Tokyo. ​ 53.​Gardner,​“New​Perceptions,”​72.​The​motif​of​blindness​could​also​be​a​reference​ to​Tsukue​Ryunosuke,​a​nihilist​antihero​of​the​jidaigeki​novel​Daibosatsu Pass​ (Daibosatsutoge)​by​Nakazato​Kaizan,​which​was​also​made​into​shinkokugeki.​ In​the​novel,​Tsukue​loses​his​eyesight​from​a​ball​of​gunpowder​that​is​thrown​at​ him​by​his​rival.​Unlike​the​brother​in​Crossways,​Tsukue​is​depicted​as​immoral​ in​nature.​He​kills​people​with​his​sword​for​no​reason,​while​the​brother​cannot​ even​use​his​sword. ​ 54.​Gerow,​A​Page​of​Madness,​92–93. ​ 55.​Ibid.,​93. ​ 56.​Ibid.,​98. ​ 57.​Ibid.,​98–99. ​ 58.​Crary,​Techniques of the Observer,​19;​Tsuboi,​Kankaku no kindai,​21. ​ 59.​Matsuyama,​Rampo to Tokyo,​54. ​ 60.​See​Yanagita,​Meiji Taishoshi, sesohen (jo). ​ 61.​Harootunian,​Overcome by Modernity,​xxiii,​14,​21. ​ 62.​Frühstück,​“Managing​the​Truth​of​Sex​in​Imperial​Japan,”​333–34.

notes​to​chapter​3  305

​ 63.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​28,​148. ​ 64.​Fujiki,​“Benshi​as​Stars,”​68–84. ​ 65.​Kitada,​“Imi” e no aragai,​237–75.​See​also​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​ 213–14. ​ 66.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​215. ​ 67.​Ibid.,​150–52. ​ 68.​Tsuboi,​Kankaku no kindai,​388–89. ​ 69.​Edogawa,​“Moju,”​401. ​ 70.​Ibid.,​401–2. ​ 71.​Igarashi,​“Edogawa​Rampo​and​the​Excess​of​Vision,”​304. ​ 72.​Fukuro,​“Issunboshi,”​104. ​ 73.​Sugiyama​Kohei,​“Jujiro​satsuei​zakki,”​11. ​ 74.​Bordwell​calls​the​tendency​of​jidaigeki​films​of​the​1920s,​including​the​use​of​ flash,​the​“flamboyant​method,”​which​“enhances​suspense​and​excitement​with​ quick​montage”​(“Furanbowaiyan​kara​sochosei​e,”​146–47). ​ 75.​Jujiro​kaisetsu​daihon​[Crossways​screenplay​with​commentary],​Sorimachi​Collection​04-​0267,​19–20,​National​Film​Center,​Tokyo. ​ 76.​“Jujiro​gappyokai​kiroku,”​40. ​ 77.​Hatano,​“Futatsu​no​jujiro,”​23. ​ 78.​“Jujiro​gappyokai​kiroku,”​37,​42;​emphasis​in​the​original. ​ 79.​Silberman,​German Cinema,​28. ​ 80.​Kaes,​“Sites​of​Desire,”​26. ​ 81.​Ando,​“‘Kurasa’​ni​tsuite,”​19–20. ​ 82.​Hasumi​Shigehiko,​“Sunny​Skies,”​120,​124. ​ 83.​Ibid.,​127–28. ​ 84.​Bordwell,​Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema,​82. ​ 85.​Ibid. ​ 86.​Ozu,​Hazumi,​et​al.,​“Ozu​Yasujiro​ zadankai,”​ 173.​In​the​same​year,​discussing​ King​Vidor’s​Our Daily Bread​(1934),​the​photographer​and​critic​Tanaka​Toshio​ highly​ valued​ the​ film’s​ avoidance​ of​ reflectors​ and​ bright​ lighting​ in​ order​ to​ maintain​dark​images​for​an​“ideological”​purpose​to​document​the​green​movement​in​the​United​States.​Ozu​apparently​agreed​with​Tanaka​and​said,​“Probably​the​camera​lenses​became​dirty​during​the​shooting”​(“Mugi no aki​gappyo”​ [Discussion​on​Our Daily Bread],​Eiga no Tomo,​April​1935,​quoted​in​Tanaka​Masasumi,​Ozu Yasujiro zen hatsugen 1933–1945,​41–42).​Similarly,​when​the​film​director​Uchida​Tomu​praised​the​“low-​key​tones”​of​Stagecoach​(John​Ford,​1939),​ Ozu​agreed​with​him​and​highly​valued​the​“intensive”​lighting​of​a​scene​at​a​bar​ (“Showa​jugo​nen​no​eiga​wa​do​de​attaka”​[How​were​the​films​of​1940],​Shin Eiga,​February​1941,​quoted​in​Tanaka​Masasumi,​Ozu Yasujiro zen hatsugen 1933– 1945,​166). ​ 87.​“Point​Upper​Box,”​63. ​ 88.​Bordwell,​Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema,​207. ​ 89.​The​ white​ gloves​ of​ police​ officers​ are​ conspicuously​ emphasized​ in​ Ozu’s​ other​films​of​the​period​as​well.​In​Woman of Tokyo​(Tokyo no onna,​1933),​an​appearance​of​a​police​officer​at​an​office​where​the​protagonist​Chikako​(Okada​ Yoshiko)​works​is​preceded​by​a​hard-​lit​close-​up​of​a​pair​of​white​gloves​placed​

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on​a​desk.​The​police​officer​who​is​inquiring​into​Chikako’s​behavior​after​five​ o’clock​in​the​evening​observes​her​at​work​with​her​supervisor.​Chikako​is​captured​in​their​gazes—in​their​point-​of-​view​shots—but​she​does​not​notice​them.​ Chikako​is​a​typist​during​the​day​but​works​at​a​café​and​most​likely​prostitutes​ in​the​evening​in​order​to​earn​money​for​her​brother​Ryoichi’s​tuition.​Another​ policeman,​whose​sister,​Harue​(Tanaka​Kinuyo),​is​dating​Ryoichi,​also​appears​ after​a​shot​of​his​white​gloves​and​a​saber​hanging​on​a​wall.​In​a​gangster​genre​ film​Dragnet Girl​(Hijosen no onna,​1933),​when​Joji​(Oka​Joji),​a​good-​hearted​ gangster,​and​Tokiko​(Tanaka​Kinuyo),​his​lover,​surrender​to​the​police,​a​police​ officer’s​hand​with​a​white​glove​suddenly​appears​on​the​screen​from​the​left.​A​ spotlight​ on​the​ protagonists’​ bodies​ enhances​ the​whiteness​ of​the​ glove​ that​ grabs​Joji’s​hand,​places​handcuffs​on​his​hand,​and​searches​his​pocket​to​find​ a​pistol.​Then,​in​extreme​long​shots,​police​officers,​who​have​succeeded​in​the​ hunt,​walk​away​from​the​nighttime​streets​with​their​hands​crossed​at​their​backs​ as​if​they​were​intentionally​exhibiting​their​white​gloves​that​reflect​the​diegetic​ streetlamps​and​nondiegetic​spotlights​to​the​viewers. ​ 90.​Harootunian,​Overcome by Modernity,​13. ​ 91.​Ibid.,​6.​The​Shochiku​Kamata​studio​was​the​only​production​facility​in​Tokyo​ from​1923​to​1934,​the​period​of​explosive​urban​development​and​cultural​transformation​after​the​Great​Kanto​Earthquake​of​1923​completely​destroyed​all​of​ the​film​studios​in​the​Tokyo​area​except​for​Shochiku​Kamata.​For​instance,​Nikkatsu​ relocated​ its​ studio​ to​ Kyoto​ after​ the​ earthquake​ and​ did​ not​ return​ to​ Tokyo​until​1934​(Wada-​Marciano,​Nippon Modern,​5). ​ 92.​Mizuta,​“Luminous​Environment,”​342. ​ 93.​Hashizume,​Modanizumu no Nippon,​56–57. ​ 94.​Kaes,​ “The​ Expressionist​ Vision​ in​ Theater​ and​ Cinema,”​ 89–90.​ Chika​ Kinoshita​calls​the​period​around​1929​to​1931​“an​ephemeral​carnivalesque​moment​in​ which​everything—alliances​across​party​lines,​genuinely​revolutionary​and​popular​arts,​and​perhaps​a​revolution—seemed​possible”​(Kinoshita,​“The​Edge​of​ Montage,”​n.p.;​emphasis​in​the​original). ​ 95.​Yoshida​Kiju,​Ozu’s Anti-Cinema,​21. ​ 96.​Gardner,​“New​Perceptions,”​71. ​ 97.​Akiyama,​“1930​Nen​Satsueijo​tenbo​4​gatsu​no​maki,”​44;​Ogimachi,​“1930​nen​ Shimokamo​eiga​tenbo,”​49. ​ 98.​Igarashi,​“Edogawa​Rampo​and​the​Excess​of​Vision,”​299. ​ 99.​Inoue​Kazuo,​Ozu Yasujiro zenshu (jo),​191. ​100.​Frühstück,​“Managing​the​Truth​of​Sex​in​Imperial​Japan,”​334. ​ 101.​There​is​no​mention​of​Hashizume’s​handprint​in​the​screenplay.​The​screenplay​ simply​notes,​“Shuji​kicks​his​[the​janitor’s]​shoulder​and​quickly​vanishes​to​the​ corridor”​(Inoue​Kazuo,​Ozu Yasujiro zenshu (jo),​192). ​102.​Bordwell,​Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema,​207. ​103.​Guerin,​A Culture of Light,​xxix. ​104.​Igarashi,​“Edogawa​Rampo​and​the​Excess​of​Vision,”​315–16. ​105.​Ibid. ​106.​Kim,​ Nihon no shimon seido,​ 61–64,​ 70–74;​ Nagai,​ Bikosha tachi no machikado,​ 109;​Kawana,​“Mad​Scientists​and​Their​Prey,”​94.

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​107.​Minato​Chihiro,​Kangaeru hifu​[The​skin​that​thinks]​(Tokyo:​Seido​sha,​1993),​ 30–48,​ translated​ and​ quoted​ in​ Igarashi,​ “Edogawa​ Rampo​ and​ the​ Excess​ of​ Vision,”​314. ​108.​Sato,​“Shimon,”​25. ​109.​Braidotti,​“Organs​without​Bodies,”​154. ​ 110.​See​Bordwell,​Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema,​156. ​ 111.​Michael​Raine​suggests​that​this​wet-​paint​gag​is​a​takeoff​from​Harold​Lloyd’s​ Speedy​(1928)​(“Ozu​before​‘Ozu’”). ​ 112.​Gunning,​The Films of Fritz Lang,​2. ​ 113.​Burch,​To the Distant Observer,​155;​emphasis​in​the​original. ​114.​Bordwell,​Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema,​207. ​ 115.​Guerin,​A Culture of Light,​xiv–xv. ​ 116.​The​shooting​of​That Night’s Wife​began​with​this​scene​of​a​phone​booth​on​location.​The​phone​booth​was​actually​in​use​near​the​Yurakucho​station​in​the​Ginza​ area​(Atsuta​and​Hasumi,​Ozu Yasujiro monogatari,​54). ​ 117.​Tokyo Twilight​ (Tokyo boshoku,​ 1957),​ the​ last​ black-​and-​white​ film​ directed​ by​ Ozu,​ is​ visual​ evidence​ of​ Ozu’s​ consciousness​ toward​ whiteness,​ gloves,​ and​ surveillance.​In​this​postwar​revisit​of​his​street​films​of​the​1930s,​a​detective​in​ civilian​clothes​(Miyaguchi​Seiji)​patrols​the​nighttime​street​and​questions​Akiko​ (Arima​Ineko),​the​pregnant​heroine,​who​wanders​the​city​of​Tokyo​and​waits​ for​her​unfaithful​boyfriend​around​midnight​at​the​darkly​lit​Café​Étoile.​Even​ though​the​detective​does​not​wear​a​uniform​or​white​gloves,​he​places​both​of​ his​hands​in​his​coat​pockets​and​wears​a​white​mask,​which​covers​almost​half​of​ his​face​and​emphasizes​his​eyes​of​surveillance.​Spotlighting​coming​from​below​ enhances​the​whiteness​of​the​mask,​especially​in​medium​shots​of​the​detective.​ Then,​at​a​police​station​where​Akiko’s​sister​(Hara​Setsuko)​comes​to​pick​her​ up​wearing​a​mask​as​white​as​the​detective’s,​there​appears​a​poster​on​the​wall​ that​warns​how​dangerous​a​railroad​crossing​is.​In​the​poster,​a​cartoon​character​ makes​a​“stop”​gesture​with​a​huge​white​glove.​Here​again,​the​police​officers​are​ connected​to​the​shining​white​glove.​In​fact,​the​lighting​scheme​of​the​scenes​at​ night​in​Tokyo Twilight​conspicuously​emphasize​the​contrast​between​bright​and​ dark​spaces,​including​electric​lamps​and​thick​shadows​of​figures​on​walls. ​ 118.​Guerin,​A Culture of Light,​xxx. ​ 119.​Ibid.,​155. ​120.​Kawana,​“Mad​Scientists​and​Their​Prey,”​92–93. ​ 121.​Bordwell,​ Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema,​ 49.​ Tokyo​ Electric​ Company​ (Tokyo​ Dento​Gaisha)​was​founded​in​1883,​and​electric​lighting​ was​first​made​available​commercially​in​1887​when​it​was​installed​at​the​Rokumeikan,​the​building​ that​provided​housing​for​foreign​guests​of​the​Japanese​government​and​became​ the​controversial​symbol​of​Japan’s​Westernization​in​the​late​nineteenth​century​ (Meiji bungaku to ranpu,​9–10). ​122.​In​other​silent​films​directed​by​Ozu,​including​Tokyo Chorus​(Tokyo no korasu,​ 1931)​and​An Inn in Tokyo​(Tokyo no yado,​1935),​electric​lamps​are​also​conspicuously​connected​to​modern​medicine.​In​Tokyo Chorus​and​An Inn in Tokyo,​the​ protagonists’​children​are​hospitalized​at​night,​and​electric​lamps​that​light​up​ the​corridors​of​the​hospitals​are​clearly​visible.​In​Tokyo Chorus,​the​protagonist​

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Okajima​(Okada​Tokihiko)​and​his​son​(Sugawara​Hideo),​who​wait​for​the​doctor’s​words​on​Okajima’s​sick​daughter,​worryingly​look​up​together​at​one​of​the​ lamps,​which​is​then​displayed​in​a​close-​up​as​their​point-​of-​view​shot.​A​moth​ is​attracted​to​the​bright​light.​When​Okajima​and​his​son​leave​the​hospital,​Okajima’s​wife​(Yakumo​Emiko)​sees​them​off​from​a​window.​She​is​backlit​from​ the​side​by​the​electric​lamps​in​the​room.​Obviously,​contrasty​lighting​at​the​ night​scene​enhances​the​tense​atmosphere,​but​at​the​same​time,​electric​lamps​in​ such​a​scene​implicitly​draw​viewers’​attention​to​modern​technology.​Such​modern​entities​as​electricity​and​medicine​bring​hope​but​simultaneously​control​the​ lives​of​people,​mostly​financially.​In​An Inn in Tokyo,​the​low-​angle​camera​slowly​ moves​along​a​corridor​as​if​to​emphasize​that​the​entire​space​of​the​hospital​is​ brightly​lit​by​numerous​electric​lamps.​Right​before​the​hospital​scene,​the​young​ mother​(Okada​Yoshiko)​of​the​sick​daughter​confesses​to​Kihachi​why​she​had​to​ become​a​geisha​when​her​daughter​became​sick.​Despite​sitting​under​the​bright​ high-​key​electric​lamp,​she​says,​“The​world​turns​dark​all​of​a​sudden.” ​123.​Guerin,​A Culture of Light,​42. ​124.​Weisenfeld,​“Japanese​Modernism​and​Consumerism,”​75. ​125.​Asahi​Shinbunsha,​Tokyo no uta,​183.​See​also​Tipton,​“The​Café,”​125. ​126.​Tawarada,​“Eiga​gekijo​to​shomei​gainen,”​8. ​127.​Cited​in​Hashizume,​Modanizumu no Nippon,​49. ​128.​While​ the​ earliest​ panchromatic​ film​ had​ been​ relatively​ contrasty,​ the​ Mazda​ lamp​is​known​for​its​softness.​Considering​the​overall​hard​photography​of​That Night’s Wife,​except​the​ending,​arc​light​was​mostly​used​in​the​photographing​of​ the​night​scenes​despite​the​fact​that​numerous​electrical​lights​are​displayed​in​ the​film.​Since​Eastman​had​yet​to​introduce​Super​Sensitive​Panchromatic,​the​ first​stock​created​specifically​for​Mazda​light,​low​contrast,​and​softer​highlight​ rendering,​the​panchromatic​film​that​That Night’s Wife​used​was​still​contrasty.​ See​Bordwell,​Staiger,​and​Thompson,​The Classical Hollywood Cinema,​296,​343. ​129.​Kinema Junpo,​July​21,​1930,​65;​Kurtz,​Expressionismus und Film,​60,​translated​and​ quoted​in​Kracauer,​From Caligari to Hitler,​75. ​130.​Kinema Junpo,​July​21,​1930,​65. ​ 131.​Elsaesser,​Weimar Cinema and After,​44,​251. ​132.​Riegl,​“Late​Roman​or​Oriental?,”​181;​emphasis​in​the​original. ​ 133.​Benjamin,​“The​Work​of​Art​in​the​Age​of​Mechanical​Reproduction,”​222.​See​also​ Lant,​“Haptical​Cinema,”​72;​Bruno,​Atlas of Emotion,​247,​250–51. ​134.​Even​before​the​sensational​ release​of​Caligari,​some​elite​ film​critics​ in​Japan​ highly​valued​German​cinema.​As​early​as​April​1914,​the​leading​film​critic​Kaeriyama​Norimasa​wrote,​“Artificial​lighting​has​been​applied​in​various​ways​along​ with​the​tremendous​development​of​other​scientific​technologies.”​Kaeriyama​ concluded​the​article​by​insisting,​“Both​Germany​and​Japan​are​in​the​midst​of​ progress.​Germany​has​made​every​effort​to​be​recognized​as​a​developed​country​while​Japan​has​had​less​successful​development​in​the​world.​Even​though​ the​situations​are​different​between​us​and​Europe,​we​could​still​learn​a​lot​from​ Germany​in​terms​of​national​development”​(“Doitsu​firumu​no​genzai​oyobi​shorai,”​4–5).​Kaeriyama​also​wrote​in​December​1917,​“From​a​point​of​view​of​the​ specialist​in​photography,​American-​made​films​seem​somehow​unsettled.​On​the​

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contrary,​German​and​Scandinavian​films​are​more​valuable​with​their​substantial​use​of​gradations.​.​.​.​Details,​gradations,​and​contrasts​in​them​are​excellent”​ (quoted​in​Mizusawa,​“Yoi​shashin​towa​nanika,”​33). ​ 135.​Asajima,​ “Hyogen​ ha​ no​ eiga,”​ 76–81;​ Ushigome,​ “Doitsu​ hyogen​ ha​ no​ eiga,”​ 82–85. ​136.​Kurtz,​“Hyogen​shugi​to​eiga​(2),”​33.​The​original​can​be​found​in​Kurtz,​Expressionismus und Film,​60.​It​is​not​true​that​German​expressionist​cinema​as​a​ whole​was​sensitive​to​the​relationship​between​the​tactile​and​cinematic​lighting.​As​Thompson​claims,​expressionist​filmmakers​preferred​to​use​“flat​frontal​ lighting”​in​order​to​make​everything​“maximally​visible”​and​have​“the​actor’s​ three-​dimensionality​and​separation​from​the​set​minimized”​(Herr Lubitsch Goes to Hollywood,​52). ​137.​Iwasaki,​“Saigo no hito​(1),”​6–7. ​138.​Iwasaki,​“Saigo no hito​(2),”​26–27. ​139.​Ibid. ​140.​Iwasaki,​“Hyogenha​eiga​no​shorai​(1),”​26. ​141.​Moritz,​“The​Absolute​Film,”​n.p. ​142.​Iwasaki​introduced​Berlin​to​Japanese​audiences​as​soon​as​it​came​out​in​Germany​even​before​he​had​seen​the​film​(Iwasaki,​“Berurin daitokai shinfoni 1,”​17–18;​ Iwasaki,​“Berurin daitokai shinfoni​2,”​8–12). ​143.​Iwasaki,​ “Hyogenha​ eiga​ no​ shorai​ (1),”​ 26.​ Iwasaki​ and​ others​ used​ the​ term​ “absolute​films”​also​in​reference​to​Kandinski’s​“absolute​paintings.” ​144.​Marks,​Touch,​8. ​145.​Ibid.,​2;​Marks,​The Skin of the Film,​162. ​146.​Marks,​The Skin of the Film,​xi. ​147.​Marks,​Touch,​5,​18. ​148.​Iwasaki,​Gendai no eiga,​114–15. ​149.​The​motif​of​hands​has​recently​attracted​scholarly​attention​as​an​intersection​ of​technologies​of​criminal​investigation,​medicine,​statistics,​modern​anxiety​and​ sense​of​alienation,​and​early​and​silent​cinema.​In​particular,​it​has​been​argued​ that​Weimar​cinema​was​obsessed​with​hands.​Fritz​Lang​was​one​of​those​obsessed​with​figures.​In​addition​to​the​magnified​hand​in​the​credit​sequence​of​M,​ Lang​constantly​displayed​hands​in​close-​ups.​Tom​Gunning​even​invented​a​term,​ a​Langian​close-​up​of​a​hand,​to​describe​Lang’s​obsession.​In​close-​ups,​hands​are​ fragmented​from​the​body​and​often​exposed​under​strong​spotlights.​They​look​ luminous​under​such​hard​lights.​Gunning​argues​that​Lang’s​films​“form​a​complex​and​profound​meditation​on​the​cinema​as​a​means​of​representing​modern​ experience”​(The Films of Fritz Lang,​x–xi).​The​obsession​with​hands​in​Weimar​ cinema​could​be​related​to​the​fear​of​fragmentation​of​subjective​bodies,​especially​in​the​context​of​the​memories​of​World​War​I.​The​motif​of​the​mutilated​ hand​ was​ widespread​ in​ popular​ wartime​ discourses.​ The​ motif​ of​ the​ severed​ hand​was​often​used​in​war​propaganda.​One​of​the​most​striking​images​of​wartime​atrocities​is​the​depiction​of​a​baby,​little​girl,​or​young​woman​whose​hand​ (or​hands)​had​been​chopped​off​by​enemies.​Painted​in​1915,​Ernst​Ludwig​Kirchner’s​Self-Portrait as a Soldier,​which​depicts​the​artist​with​his​right​hand​missing,​ documents​the​artist’s​fear​that​the​war​would​destroy​his​creative​powers.​The​

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famous​surgeon​Ferdinand​Sauerbruch,​director​of​field​hospitals​in​the​Vosges​ during​World​War​I,​who​performed​numerous​arm​and​hand​amputations,​published​The Voluntarily Movable Artificial Hand: A Manual for Surgeons and Technicians​in​1916. ​150.​LaMarre,​Shadows on the Screen,​80–84. ​ 151.​Iwasaki,​“Hyogenha​eiga​no​shorai​(1),”​26. ​152.​Guerin,​A Culture of Light,​xxx. ​ 153.​Elsaesser,​Weimar Cinema and After,​44,​251.​Other​cinematographers​and​directors​of​the​time,​including​Aoshima​Junichiro,​Midorikawa​Michio,​and​Murata​ Minoru,​ highly​ praised​ the​ work​ of​ Karl​ Freund​ too.​ Praising​ Variety​ (Varieté,​ Ewald​ Andre​ Dupont,​ 1925)​ Aoshima​ said,​ “I​ want​ to​ study​ with​ Freund​ for​ four,​five​years,​especially​about​how​to​use​beams​of​light.”​Midorikawa​replied,​ “His​ [Freund’s]​ work​ in​ Variety​ teaches​ us​ the​ right​ direction​ as​ cinematographers.”​Murata​added,​“I​prefer​his​[Freund’s]​matted​cinematography​to​stylized​ high-​key​lighting​in​American​films.​.​.​.​Cheers​to​Karl​Freund”​(“Varieté​no​gappyo,”​12). ​154.​Kanematsu​and​Watanabe,​“Meiji​no​katsudo​daisuki​shonen,”​16–17;​Atsuta​and​ Hasumi,​Ozu Yasujiro monogatari,​83,​85. ​ 155.​Freund,​“Eiga​satsuei​no​kakumei,”​179. ​156.​Tanaka​Masasumi,​Ozu Yasujiro Shuyu,​95. ​ 157.​Tanaka​Masasumi,​Ozu Yasujiro no ho e,​97. ​ 158.​Arnheim,​“Lighting​(1934),”​61;​Tanaka​Masasumi,​Ozu Yasujiro zenhatusgen 1933– 1945,​137. ​159.​Bordwell,​Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema,​82. ​160.​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​17,”​51. ​ 161.​Ibid. ​162.​Kishi,​“34​nendo​Nihon​eiga​kessan,”​272. ​163.​Iwasaki,​Nihon gendaishi taikei,​65–66. ​164.​Ushihara,​“Kamata​modanizumu​no​gunzo,”​138–39. ​165.​Kimura​Sotoji,​“Keiko​eiga​to​zenei​eiga,”​274–75. ​166.​Kimura​and​Sato,​“‘Keiko​eiga’​kara​manei​e,”​246. ​167.​Kaes,​“Cinema​and​Modernity,”​31. ​168.​Silberman,​German Cinema,​33. ​169.​Guerin,​A Culture of Light,​xiii–xiv,​43. ​170.​Ibid.,​xiv,​xxix. ​ 171.​Hake,​German National Cinema,​33. 4. the Aesthetics of shadow

​ 1.​Masumoto,​Shochiku eiga no eiko to hokai,​76–77;​Kashiwagi,​Senbongumi shimatsu ki,​328–29. ​ 2.​Hasegawa​Kazuo,​Butai ginmaku rokuju nen,​138;​Kashiwagi,​Senbongumi shimatsu ki,​332;​S.O.S.,​“Topikku​kaibo,”​48. ​ 3.​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Nihon eiga hattatsu shi II,​224–61;​Iwasaki​et​al.,​Eiga hyakka jiten,​312. ​ 4.​Kato,​Sodoin taisei to eiga,​31–32. ​ 5.​Mizumachi,​“Hayashi​Chojiro​ron,”​6.

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​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​

6.​Kinema Junpo,​October​21,​1937,​29. 7.​Ibid. 8.​Mizumachi,​“Hayashi​Chojiro​ron,”​6. 9.​“Nihon​satsueijo​roku,”​211–20. 10.​Kashiwagi,​Senbongumi shimatsu ki,​318. 11.​In​ 1940,​ three​ of​ the​ five​ most​ successful​ Toho​ films​ at​ the​ box​ office​ starred​ Hasegawa​(Furukawa​Takahisa,​Senjika no Nihon eiga,​123). ​ 12.​Hayashi​Chojiro,​“Goaisatsu,”​n.p. ​ 13.​“Tsuchiya Akira​seisaku​zadankai,”​26. ​ 14.​Sakyo,​“Nozomu,”​90. ​ 15.​Furukawa​Takahisa,​Senjika no Nihon eiga,​73. ​ 16.​Iijima,​“Tojuro no koi​saikento,”​28–29. ​ 17.​Furukawa​Takahisa,​Senjika no Nihon eiga,​73. ​ 18.​Murakami​Shiro,​“Tojuro no koi​ni​yosu,”​23. ​ 19.​Koji​et​al.,​“Point​Upper​Box,”​27. ​ 20.​Kuribayashi,​“Pointo​ni​ippitsu​keijo,”​29;​Sakyo,​“Pointo​ni​ippitsu​keijo,”​32. ​ 21.​Wakana,​“Tawagoto,”​46. ​ 22.​“Tojuro no koi”​(Tojuro’s Love),​Eiga to Gijutsu,​May​1938,​quoted​in​Hirai,​“Soko​ Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​58,”​69. ​ 23.​Yamaguchi,​Kameraman no eiga shi,​94. ​ 24.​Shimazaki,​“Tojuro no koi,”​380. ​ 25.​Such​a​realistic​lighting​scheme​is​enhanced​by​an​inserted​flashback.​Even​though​ the​flashback​is​of​a​scene​during​a​flower​festival​under​the​bright​daylight,​Tojuro​ and​O-​Kaji​are​placed​in​contrasty​Rembrandt​lighting.​The​chiaroscuro​is​slightly​ softer​with​the​possible​use​of​a​diffuser,​and​the​rims​of​their​hair​and​kimonos​ glamorously​shine​because​of​the​backlight.​Yet,​in​a​close-​up,​in​which​Tojuro​ stares​at​O-​Kaji​from​behind,​the​right​sides​of​their​faces​are​in​dark​shadow. ​ 26.​Miura​Mitsuo,​“Geki​eiga​no​satsuei,​Dai​4​sho,”​238. ​ 27.​Stull,​“Cinematography​Simplified,”​477. ​ 28.​Miura​Mitsuo,​“Geki​eiga​no​satsuei,​Dai​4​sho,”​244–45. ​ 29.​Stull,​“Cinematography​Simplified,”​482. ​ 30.​Miura​Mitsuo,​“Geki​eiga​no​satsuei,​Dai​4​sho,”​241–42. ​ 31.​Ibid. ​ 32.​Shimazaki,​“Tojuro no koi,”​380.​In​1941,​Kaeriyama​Norimasa,​a​pure​film​advocate​ in​the​1910s​and​1920s,​revisited​the​value​of​Rembrandt​lighting,​“which​was​used​ in​silent​American​films​quite​often​.​.​.​as​one​of​the​basic​methods​for​cameramen​to​structure​compositions”​in​order​to​vividly​“depict​people,​buildings,​landscape,​and​so​on,​clear​enough​to​impress​the​viewer’s​brain.”​Kaeriyama​regarded​ Rembrandt​lighting​as​the​“most​appropriate​tones​in​black-​and-​white​cinema”​in​ terms​of​scientific​realism.​What​Kaeriyama​opposed​was​“soft​focus​images​that​ used​silk​screen​or​crystal​lenses,”​which​were​“hugely​unorthodox”​to​the​“mission​of​cinematic​images”​(“Eiga​gijutsu​no​jissen,”​231). ​ 33.​Shimazaki,​“Tojuro no koi,”​379. ​ 34.​Gaudio,​“Eiga​no​haiko​ni​okeru​atarashi​kenkai​to​sono​gijutsu.” ​ 35.​Gaudio,​“A​New​Viewpoint​on​the​Lighting​of​Motion​Pictures,”​165–67.

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​ 36.​Quoted​in​Stull,​“Camera​Work​Fails​True​Mission​When​It​Sinks​Realism​for​ Beauty,”​56. ​ 37.​Milner,​“Victor​Milner​Makes​Reply​to​Ernst​Lubitsch​as​to​Realism,”​94–95. ​ 38.​Shimazaki,​“Rubicchi​to​miruna​no​ronso,”​12. ​ 39.​Kashima,​“Yamada​Isuzu​ni​saikin​no​kanso​o​kiku,”​22–23. ​ 40.​Iida​ Shinbi​ et​ al.,​ “Tsuruhachi Tsurujiro​ gappyo”​ [Collective​ critique​ of​ Tsuruhachi Tsurujiro],​Kinema Junpo,​July​15,​1953,​28–31,​quoted​in​Russell,​The Cinema of Naruse Mikio,​140. ​ 41.​Yamane,​“Shisen​to​kukan​no​geki,”​44. ​ 42.​Asu,​“Fan​no​mita​tensha​tenmatsu,”​26–27. ​ 43.​“Mabuta no haha​gurimpusu,”​24–25. ​ 44.​Hasegawa​Kazuo,​“Tsuruhachi Tsurujiro​ni​tsuite,”​20–21. ​ 45.​Pointo Fan​1.8​(August​1938):​n.p. ​ 46.​“Kogyo​ seiseki​ kessan”​ [Record​ at​ box​ office],​ Eiga Junpo,​ February​ 1,​ 1942,​ quoted​in​Kato,​Sodoin taisei to eiga,​120–21. ​ 47.​“Tobi​no​kogyosen​o​kataru,”​76. ​ 48.​Kato,​Sodoin taisei to eiga,​122. ​ 49.​Makino,​Eiga tosei chi no maki,​99. ​ 50.​Shimura,​“Hasegawa​Kazuo​to​Yamada​Isuzu,”​175. ​ 51.​Ibid. ​ 52.​Hanayagi​Shotaro​et​al.,​“Gappyo​zadankai​Onnakeizu​o​kataru,”​46–47. ​ 53.​Kinoshita,​“Merodorama​no​saiki,”​219. ​ 54.​Ota​Saburo,​“Kuro​no​gaika,”​102–3. ​ 55.​Kawasaki,​“Toho​eiga​satsuei​gijutsu​no​kaiko,”​64. ​ 56.​Shimazaki,​“Satsuei,”​27. ​ 57.​Ibid. ​ 58.​Shimazaki,​“Eiga​gijutsu​geppyo,”​82.​Another​critic,​Hazumi​Tsuneo,​praised​“the​ beauty​of​subtle​contrasts”​of​the​film​and​claimed,​“What​is​inscribed​in​my​brain​ are​the​shadows​of​people​and​horses​moving​around​on​the​dark​screen”​(“Kawanakajima kassen,”​57). ​ 59.​Kawanakajima kassen​[The​Battle​of​Kawanakajima]​screenplay,​1,​6,​Sorimachi​ Collection​04-​0117,​National​Film​Center,​Tokyo. ​ 60.​Miura​Mitsuo,​“Kawanakajima kassen​satsuei​kiroku​danpen,”​44. ​ 61.​Ibid. ​ 62.​Miura​Mitsuo,​“Kawanakajima kassen​satsuei​kiroku,”​45. ​ 63.​Kubo,​“Eiga​bijutsu​kai​no​kaiko,”​71.​Miura​used​not​only​Japanese​film​stock​ but​also​Agfa​super​panchromatic​negative,​which​was​originally​introduced​in​ 1936​and​was​rather​outdated​compared​to​Eastman’s​Plus​x​and​Super​xx.​According​to​Miura,​he​used​“Agfa​super-​panchromatic​film​stock—gray​base;​Astro​ pantucker​ 35​ mm​ lens;​ latten​ no.​ 72x​ filter;​ f-​stop​ 4.5;​ shutter​ open​ ratio​ 140;​ and​fifteen-​minute​development”​(Nishikawa,​“Eiga​gijutsu​no​saishuppatsu,”​42;​ Miura​Mitsuo,​“Kawanakajima kassen​satsuei​kiroku,”​45).​The​critic​Azuma​Takeo​ points​out​the​use​of​Agfa​film​to​explain​this​film’s​achievement​of​“beautiful​cinematography​in​dark​night​scenes”​(Eiga Junpo​35​[January​1,​1942]:​82). ​ 64.​Davis,​Picturing Japaneseness,​101–2.

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​ 65.​Ibid.,​102,​94.​The Battle of Kawanakajima​was​publicized​as​shin rekishi eiga​(new​ history​cinema).​The​journal​Eiga​defined​new​history​cinema​as​being​“faithful​ in​recording​the​historical​period”​and​having​“new​spirit​and​content”​(Eiga​1.12​ [December​1941],​n.p.).​Morita​Nobuyoshi,​a​Toho​producer,​called​The Battle of Kawanakajima​a​“national​cinema”​(kokumin eiga)​and​claimed​that​his​intention​ on​this​project​was​“to​correctly​depict​the​traditional​Japanese​spirit”​(“Kokumin​ eiga​Kawanakajima kassen,”​32). ​ 66.​“Kawanakajima kassen​to​Genroku Chushingura​no​seisaku​o​taisho​suru,”​84. ​ 67.​Miura​Mitsuo,​“Kawanakajima kassen​satsuei​kiroku,”​45. ​ 68.​Ibid. ​ 69.​Ibid. ​ 70.​Hiroki,​“Hyogen​ni​sanyo​suru​firuta,”​54–55. ​ 71.​Miura​Mitsuo,​“Kawanakajima kassen​satsuei​kiroku,”​45. ​ 72.​Ibid. ​ 73.​Ibid.,​47. ​ 74.​Quoted​in​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​58,”​76. ​ 75.​Ibid. ​ 76.​Ota​Saburo,​“Kuro​no​gaika,”​102–3. ​ 77.​Kawanakajima kassen​[The​battle​of​Kawanakajima]​screenplay,​9,​Sorimachi​Collection​04-​0117,​National​Film​Center,​Tokyo. ​ 78.​Ibid.,​19. ​ 79.​Ogura​Kinji,​“Nihon​Eiga​Satsueisha​Kyokai​sho,”​59. ​ 80.​Miura​Mitsuo,​“Jusho​sunawachi​gekirei​ni​kotaete,”​63. ​ 81.​Hata,​Hana no shunju,​305–6. ​ 82.​Takahashi,​“Kenkatobi​satsuei​kengaku​ki,”​20. ​ 83.​Davis,​Picturing Japaneseness,​64;​italics​added. ​ 84.​Russell,​The Cinema of Naruse Mikio,​131–32.​The​Film​Law​of​1939​was​a​result​ of​years​of​effort​toward​state​control​of​the​cinema,​which​took​into​consideration​ the​medium’s​influence​over​the​people​in​Japan​and​its​colonies​as​well​as​the​ cinema’s​potentiality​for​international​distribution.​Nationalization​of​censorship​ by​the​Home​Ministry​in​1925​in​effect​assumed​that​local​differences​no​longer​ mattered​in​the​regulation​of​motion​pictures.​In​February​1933,​the​Plan​to​Establish​the​National​Film​Policy​passed​the​House​of​the​Representatives,​in​which​ the​Diet​of​Japan​officially​admitted​the​social​influence​of​cinema​and​initiated​ the​governmental​protection​and​control​of​motion​pictures​as​an​industry​for​the​ “improvement”​of​its​products;​in​March​1934,​the​Committee​for​Controlling​ Cinema​was​established;​in​December​1935​the​Film​Association​of​Greater​Japan​ Foundation​was​established​in​the​Home​Ministry​and​became​the​space​where​ government​officials​and​the​film​industry​exchanged​opinions;​and​in​April​1937,​ the​Home​Ministry​revised​the​rules​of​film​censorship​and​introduced​the​term​ bunka eiga​(cultural​film)​(Gerow,​“Narrating​the​Nation-​ality​of​a​Cinema,”​206;​ Kato,​Sodoin taisei to eiga,​28–29;​Furukawa​Takahisa,​Senjika no Nihon eiga,​32–33). ​ 85.​The​Film​Law​proscribed​the​following:​“That​which​may​profane​the​dignity​of​ the​Imperial​House​or​injure​the​dignity​of​the​Empire;​That​which​may​inculcate​ ideas​which​offend​national​laws;​That​which​may​obstruct​general​politics,​military​affairs,​foreign​policies,​economics​and​other​public​interests;​That​which​may​

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corrupt​morals​or​undermine​public​moral​principles;​That​which​may​strikingly​ injure​the​purity​of​the​Japanese​language;​Remarkably​awkward​technical​production;​That​which​may​hinder​the​development​of​the​national​culture”​(quoted​ in​Shimizu​Akira,​“War​and​Cinema​in​Japan,”​32–33;​Shimizu’s​translation). ​ 86.​Gerow,​“Narrating​the​Nation-​ality​of​a​Cinema,”​207. ​ 87.​Sato​Takumi,​“The​System​of​Total​War​and​the​Discursive​Space​of​the​Thought​ War,”​304. ​ 88.​Davis,​Picturing Japaneseness,​68. ​ 89.​Toho​ produced​ a​ number​ of​ films,​ including​ Burning Sky​ (Moyuru ozora,​ Abe​ Yutaka,​1940)​with​Hasegawa​and​Bouquet of the South Sea​(Nankai no hanataba,​ Abe​Yutaka,​1942)​with​the​army​and​navy’s​cooperation​(Kato,​Sodoin taisei to eiga,​119). ​ 90.​“Eiga​ gyosei”​ [Politics​ of​ cinema],​ Eiga Junpo,​ May​ 11,​ 1942,​ quoted​ in​ Kato,​ Sodoin taisei to eiga,​122. ​ 91.​Fujii,​“Nihon​eiga​no​1930-​nendai,”​27–29. ​ 92.​Ibid.,​29. ​ 93.​Nornes,​Japanese Documentary Film,​93. ​ 94.​Shimura,​“Hasegawa​Kazuo​to​Yamada​Isuzu,”​169. ​ 95.​Ibid.,​165–66.​Chika​Kinoshita​also​points​out​the​possibility​of​multiple​readings​ of​Female Genealogy​by​diverse​audiences,​including​censorship​officers,​film​critics,​filmmakers,​actors,​and​general​audiences.​Kinoshita​claims​that​Makino​was​ “not​antiwar”​but​was​“aware​of​the​conflict​between​the​dominant​sense​of​values​ and​repressed​emotions”​(“Merodorama​no​saiki,”​216). ​ 96.​Tamura,​“Kyakuhon​no​jizen​kenetsu​sono​ta,”​27. ​ 97.​Tsumura,​“Nihon​eiga​wa​shinpo​shitaka,”​38–39. ​ 98.​Q.​ [Tsumura​ Hideo],​ “Shin​ eiga​ hyo:​ Shina no yoru”​ [New​ film​ review:​ China Night],​Tokyo Asahi Shinbun,​June​9,​1940,​evening​edition,​quoted​in​Furukawa​ Takahisa,​Senjikano Nihon eiga,​128. ​ 99.​“Kenetsu​ no​ madokara​ (kan)”​ [From​ a​ window​ of​ censorship:​ Final],​ Shin Eiga,​August​1941,​64,​quoted​in​Furukawa​Takahisa,​Senjika no Nihon eiga,​128. ​100.​Nornes,​Japanese Documentary Film,​110. ​ 101.​Furukawa​Takahisa,​Senjika no Nihon eiga,​83. ​102.​Serpent Princess (Part 1)​ (Hebihimesama,​ Kinugasa,​ 1940),​ with​ Hasegawa​ and​ Yamada,​was​the​second,​and​Serpent Princess (Part 2)​(Zoku hebihimesama)​was​ the​fifth​in​the​same​year​(Furukawa​Takahisa,​Senjika no Nihon eiga,​123). ​103.​The​ten​best​box​office​revenues​(April–December​1942):​(1)​The War at Sea from Hawaii to Malaya​(Hawai Mare oki kaisen);​(2)​The Record of Battles in Malaya​ (Mare senki);​(3)​The Man Who Was Waiting​(Matteita otoko)​with​Hasegawa​and​ Yamada;​(4)​Kuramatengu;​(5)​You Are the Target​(Anata wa nerawareteiru);​(6)​ The City of Memory​(Omokage no machi)​with​Hasegawa;​(7)​Female Genealogy Part 2​(Zoku onna keizu),​with​Hasegawa​and​Yamada;​(8)​Mother of Japan​(Nippon no haha,​Shochiku);​(9)​The Triumphant Song of the Wings​(Tsubasa no gaika);​ and​(10)​The Success Story of Isokawa Heisuke​(Isokawa Heisuke komyo banashi). ​ ​ ​ The​ten​best​box​office​revenues​(1943):​(1)​Kantaro of Ina​(Ina no Kantaro),​ with​Hasegawa;​(2)​The Rickshaw Man​(Muhomatsu no issho);​(3)​Sanshiro Sugata​ (Sugata Sanshiro);​(4)​The City of Battles​(Tatakai no machi,​Shochiku);​(5)​Great

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Music March​(Ongaku daishingun),​with​Hasegawa;​(6)​The Shadow That Stands on Mt. Fuji​(Fuji ni tatsu kage);​(7)​The Slave Ship​(Doreisen);​(8)​The Night before the War​(Kaisen no zenya,​Shochiku);​(9)​Master Choji’s Sculpture​(Meijin Choji bori),​ with​Hasegawa;​and​(10)​Heiroku’s Dream Story​(Heiroku yume monogatari)​(Furukawa​Takahisa,​Senjika no Nihon eiga,​173). ​104.​Nihon Eiga​ 7​ (1944),​ quoted​ in​ Kato,​ Sodoin taisei to eiga,​ 160;​ “Kogyo​ seiseki​ kessan”​[Record​of​box​office],​Eiga Junpo,​February​1,​1943,​quoted​in​Kato,​Sodoin taisei to eiga,​120–21;​Furukawa,​Senjika no Nihon eiga,​173. ​105.​Kuge,​“Rinsen​taisei​ni​chokumen​suru​Shochiku​konki​no​kessan,”​21–22. ​106.​“Jiho”​[Timely​report],​Kinema Junpo,​August​21,​1940,​quoted​in​Kato,​Sodoin taisei to eiga,​79. ​107.​Fujiki,​“Creating​the​Audience,”​n.p. ​108.​Kyokuto kokusai gunji saiban sokkiroku Dai 4 kan,​ 655.​ Gerow​ argues,​ “Cultural​ elites​remained​ambivalent​toward​film’s​capacity​to​express​‘nation-​ality’”​and​ “cinema​was​too​alien​a​medium​to​be​entrusted​with​constructing​the​nation”​ (“Narrating​the​Nation-​ality​of​a​Cinema,”​208–9). ​109.​“15​nendo​Nihon​eiga​(geki)​no​satsuei​gijutsu​danmen,”​89. ​ 110.​Gerow,​“Narrating​the​Nation-​ality​of​a​Cinema,”​211. ​ 111.​Ibid.,​217. ​ 112.​Davis,​Picturing Japaneseness,​2. ​ 113.​Ibid.,​45. ​114.​See​Furukawa,​Senjika no Nihon eiga;​and​Baskett,​The Attractive Empire. ​ 115.​Gerow,​“Narrating​the​Nation-​ality​of​a​Cinema,”​201,​207. ​ 116.​Ibid.,​206–7. ​ 117.​“Shochiku​burokku​(4​sha)​tai​Toho​no​koso​o​ikani​miraruruka?,”​52. ​ 118.​Eiga to Gijutsu​3.1​(January​1936):​45. ​ 119.​Eiga to Gijutsu​1.5​(May​1935):​271. ​120.​“1935​nendo​yushu​eiga​to​sono​gijutsu.” ​ 121.​Davis,​Picturing Japaneseness,​6. ​122.​Ibid.,​4,​46. ​123.​Yoshino,​“‘Inei​raisan’​ni​yosete​II,”​15. ​124.​Shimazaki,​ “Satsuei​ gijutsu​ no​ keiko,”​ 45;​ Miyajima,​ “Weruzu​ to​ tornado​ no​ kashikari​kanjo,”​29.​Michael​Raine​introduced​the​concept​of​transcultural​mimesis​to​capture​Japanese​filmmakers’​desires​and​practices​of​re-creating​Hollywood​ film​in​Japan,​in​addition​to​parodying​the​absurdities​of​American​cinema​(“Ozu​ before​‘Ozu’”). ​125.​Kawasaki,​“Kameraman​wa​kataru,”​38–39.​In​reality,​Garmes​began​experimenting​with​the​use​of​Mazda​incandescent​lamps​for​lighting​films​during​the​mid-​ 1920s​as​part​of​the​trend​toward​softening​shadows​and​lowering​contrasts​(Ogle,​ “Deep-​Focus​Cinematography,”​23).​When​the​nsc​decided​on​The Battle of Kawanakajima​as​the​best​cinematography​for​a​dramatic​film​of​that​year,​Miura​ Mitsuo,​the​cinematographer​of​the​film,​was​regarded​as​a​disciple​of​Sternberg.​ The​critic​Nanbu​Keinosuke​quite​favorably​pointed​out​during​a​1942​discussion​ on​The Battle of Kawanakajima,​“Mr.​Miura​used​to​be​studying​with​Sternberg​at​ Paramount”​(“Kawanakajima kassen​kento,”​79). ​126.​Hoshi,​“Jidaigeki​ni​okeru​fotogurafi​ni​tsuite,”​31.

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​127.​Miki,​“Eiga​wa​ikanishite​umare​ikanishite​hattatsu​shitaka,”​20. ​128.​Miki,​“Nihon​eiga​no​kuraki​bamen​no​satsuei,”​46–47;​h2o,​“Dai​2​ki​o​mukaeta​ ‘shirizu​Nihon​no​satsuei​kantoku,’”​3.​See​also​Nagatomi,​“Eiga​satsuei​no​shin​ shomei​ho,”​102–4. ​129.​Huse​and​Chambers,​“Eastman​Supersensitive​Panchromatic​Type​Two​Motion​ Picture​Film,”​108. ​130.​Miki,​“Nihon​eiga​no​kuraki​bamen​no​satsuei,”​48.​The​sharp,​contrasty​qualities​of​orthochromatic​film,​a​type​sensitive​to​green,​blue-​violet,​and​ultraviolet​ light,​worked​well​with​the​carbon​arc​lamp,​which​produced​a​very​blue​light​and​ was​the​primary​light​source​in​the​1920s,​in​addition​to​the​sunlight.​The​carbon​ arc​lamp​emitted​light​from​a​very​small​area,​which​could​bring​out​textures​and​ cast​very​sharp​shadows,​adding​strongly​to​the​sense​of​crispness​and​contrast​ already​defined​by​the​film​and​lens​types—critically​sharp-​cutting​anastigmatic​ ones​such​as​Carl​Zeiss’s​Tessar​(Ogle,​“Deep-​Focus​Cinematography,”​22). ​ 131.​Miki,​ “Nihon​ eiga​ no​ kuraki​ bamen​ no​ satsuei,”​ 48–49.​ The​ cinematographer​ Kawasaki​ Kikuzo​ similarly​ wrote​ in​ his​ 1942​ essay,​ “Even​ nowadays,​ in​ Japan​ there​are​too​many​‘low-​key​tones’​that​are​simply​dark​without​any​details​in​the​ dark.​.​.​.​We​often​say​bright​photography​and​dark​photography,​but​we​do​not​ use​the​terms​in​the​correct​manner.​We​tend​to​call​photographs​with​no​contrast​ and​no​detail​in​bright​parts​‘bright’​and​those​without​any​detail​in​shadows​‘dark.’​ Visually,​I​cannot​tolerate​the​latter”​(“Satsuei​gijutsu​no​hinkon,”​38). ​132.​Hall,​“Improvements​in​Motion​Picture​Film,”​95. ​ 133.​Yamaguchi​Takeshi,​Kameraman no eiga shi,​95. ​134.​D.O.C.,​“Horiuddo​kamera​gitan,”​49. ​ 135.​Gerow,​“Tatakau​kankyaku,”​136. ​136.​D.O.C.,​“Horiuddo​kamera​gitan,”​49–51. ​137.​Howe,​“Lighting,”​59. ​138.​Soyama,​“Warera​no​tachiba​to​Angusuto,”​113.​In​1937,​Tanaka​Toshio​wrote​that​ Hollywood​films​looked​beautiful​“thanks​to​the​motion​picture​industry’s​enormous​financial​power,​with​which​they​could​use​artificial​lights​that​even​look​as​ strong​as​the​sunlight”​(“Kameraman​no​bunrui,”​10).​Marukawa​Takeo,​who​belonged​to​the​lighting​department​of​Toho​Kyoto​studio,​wrote​in​October​1941,​ “The​low-​key​tone​is​often​referred​to​as​the​lighting​of​jidaigeki​and​is​misconceived.​It​is​true​that​the​amount​of​lighting​in​the​period​of​the​setting​of​jidaigeki​ must​have​been​very​low,​but​it​is​doubtful​that​we​can​decrease​the​number​of​ lamps​in​order​to​follow​the​physical​reality​and​proudly​call​it​the​realization​of​ low-​key​tone.​Things​should​have​their​own​appropriate​tones.​In​misused​low-​key​ lighting,​such​innate​tones​tend​to​be​neglected​and​simply​fall​into​darkness.​.​.​.​ In​lighting​for​jidaigeki,​light​or​dark​only​has​a​secondary​importance​but​the​classical​tones​of​things​must​be​prioritized​in​order​to​express​their​historicity​and​ charm”​(“Jidaigeki​satsuei​no​tame​no​raitingu,”​36). ​139.​“Kojima no haru​zadankai,”​24. ​140.​Midorikawa,​“Kameraman​no​seikatsu​to​kyoyo,”​65.​Midorikawa​was​an​innovative​cinematographer​in​terms​of​the​use​of​lighting.​In​1929,​after​recovering​ from​hospitalization,​Midorikawa​initiated​production​of​a​documentary​film​of​ a​tuberculosis​operation.​The​challenge​was​how​to​depict​details​of​an​operation​

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full​of​blood.​Orthochromatic​film​was​inappropriate​because​it​was​not​sensitive​ to​red​and​turned​the​color​of​blood​into​pitch​black.​Arch​lamp,​which​was​suitable​for​orthochromatic​film,​could​not​conceivably​to​be​used​during​the​operation​because​it​produced​burnt​tungsten,​which​easily​fell​to​the​ground.​Midorikawa​used​panchromatic​film​and​incandescent​lamps,​with​support​from​Mazda​ lamps.​The​success​of​The Balanced Pressure Surgery​(Heiatsu kaikyo jutsu,​1929)​ led​Nikkatsu​and​the​studio​head​Ikenaga​Hirohisa​to​switch​to​panchromatic​ film​and​incandescent​light​(Yamaguchi,​Kameraman no eiga shi,​85–90).​Midorikawa​also​adopted​low-​key​lighting​early​even​when​film​companies​did​not​prefer​films​with​low-​key​tones​because​of​the​exhibition​practices​at​that​time.​Midorikawa​claimed​that​Yokota​Einosuke,​the​president​of​Nikkatsu,​criticized​his​ cinematographic​work​for​The Season of Love​(Koi shiru koro,​1933)​and​said​to​him,​ “We​cannot​stand​such​a​dark​film.​It​is​not​commercially​acceptable”​ (Yamaguchi​Takeshi,​Kameraman no eiga shi,​96).​Tanaka​Toshio​defended​Midorikawa​ and​“how​he​treated​the​warm​dark​tones”​in​this​film​by​insisting,​“Generally​ speaking,​the​photography​in​this​film​shows​the​high​quality​in​recent​Japanese​ cinema”​even​though​he​criticized​the​“poor”​use​of​spotlights​in​it​(“Eiga​niokeru​ kamera​gijutsu​hihan,”​578–79). ​141.​Following​Cinematographic Annual​ volumes​I​and​II,​the​asc​handbooks​published​in​1930​and​1931,​other​titles​dealing​with​the​details​of​cinematographic​ techniques​and​technologies​of​Cinematography Reader,​including​“The​System​ of​Motion​Picture​Cameras​and​Its​Development,”​“Lenses​for​Motion​Picture​ Photography,”​and​“The​Characteristics​of​Motion​Picture​Films​and​Filters.” ​142.​Midorikawa,​“Kameraman​no​seikatsu​to​kyoyo,”​70–71. ​143.​Miyajima,​Tenno to yobareta otoko,​77. ​144.​Fuwa,​“Bunka​eiga​no​mokuhyo,”​15. ​145.​Nornes,​Japanese Documentary Film,​56;​italics​in​the​original.​See​also​Harootunian,​“Introduction,”​16–17.​Iwasaki​Akira,​who​led​the​proletarian​film​movement​ in​the​early​1930s​in​Prokino​(Nippon​puroretaria​eiga​domei;​Proletarian​Film​ League​of​Japan),​was​against​the​Film​Law​and​asserted​that​such​a​use​of​the​ word​culture​and​legitimatization​with​the​law​was​nothing​other​than​an​“aestheticization”​of​capitalism​for​the​sake​of​“national​policy”​and​not​much​different​ than​the​capitalist​films​of​Shochiku​(Iwasaki,​Eiga ron,​170–71.​See​also​Kazama,​ Kinema ni ikiru,​56,​83–105). ​146.​Midorikawa,​“Kameraman​no​seikatsu​to​kyoyo,”​55. ​147.​Ibid.,​57. ​148.​Yamamoto​Naoki,​“Fukei​no​(sai)hakken,”​87. ​149.​Gavin,​“Nihon​Fukeiron​(Japanese​Landscape).” ​150.​Midorikawa,​“Kameraman​no​seikatsu​to​kyoyo,”​65. ​ 151.​Tanizaki,​In Praise of Shadows,​17. ​152.​Midorikawa,​“Kameraman​no​seikatsu​to​kyoyo,”​65;​Tanizaki,​In Praise of Shadows,​32. ​ 153.​Midorikawa,​“Kameraman​no​seikatsu​to​kyoyo,”​66;​Tanizaki,​In Praise of Shadows,​33. ​154.​Harootunian,​Overcome by Modernity,​xix. ​ 155.​Ibid.

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​156.​Ibid.,​xxvi. ​ 157.​Ibid. ​ 158.​Ibid.,​x;​italics​in​the​original. ​159.​Quoted​in​Ushihara,​“Enrai​no​tomo​Sutanbagu,”​166. ​160.​Mizuta,​“Luminous​Environment,”​342. ​ 161.​Tanizaki,​In Praise of Shadows,​54. ​162.​Mizuta,​“Luminous​Environment,”​343. ​163.​Lippit,​Atomic Lights (Shadow Optics),​21,​108. ​164.​Mizuta,​“Luminous​Environment,”​345. ​165.​Ariyoshi,​“Jidaigeki​no​akarusa​to​kurasa,”​97. ​166.​Tanizaki,​In Praise of Shadows,​9. ​167.​Midorikawa​ practiced​ the​ aesthetics​ of​ shadow​ in​ Soil​ (Tsuchi,​ Uchida​ Tomu,​ 1939),​the​film​about​poor​farmers​based​on​Nagatsuka​Takashi’s​realist​novel.​Tsuchi​was​produced​over​a​year​and​photographed​the​actual​lives​of​the​farmers​on​ location.​The​result​was​called​“the​sparkling​achievement​of​Japanese​cinematographic​techniques​in​the​entire​history​of​cinema”​(Eiga to Gijutsu​10.5​[December​1939]:​272).​In​his​conversation​with​Shimazaki​Kiyohiko,​Midorikawa​emphasized​his​“attitude​of​being​naked​and​frank​with​his​camera”​and​his​decision​ of​“consciously​cutting​off​pictorial​scenes.”​Midorikawa​argued,​“I​followed​Nagatsuka​Takashi,​who​wrote​the​original​story.​.​.​.​Nagatsuka​insisted​on​truthfully​ depicting​the​movements​of​nature​and,​as​a​result,​the​hearts​of​human​beings.​ His​work​challenged​the​tendency​of​metaphorical​uses​of​nature.​In​the​production​of​Soil,​I​wanted​to​pursue​this​naturalist​view​as​much​as​I​could​with​my​ camera”​(Shimazaki,​“Midorikawa​Michio​shi​ni​Tsuchi​no​satsuei​o​kiku,”​270).​ What​Midorikawa​tried​to​enhance​was​the​darkness​of​the​soil​as​the​Japanese​ sublime,​which​would​make​a​strong​contrast​to​the​pictorialism​of​Hollywood​ cinema.​He​did​not​resort​to​any​pictorial​effects​of​“backlighting,​diffusion,​and​ sweet​soft​tones”​(Shimazaki,​“Midorikawa​Michio​shi​ni​Tsuchi​no​satsuei​o​kiku,”​ 271).​He​even​sacrificed​“photographic​details”​and​“captured​the​pitch​black​[of​ the​soil]​in​contrast​to​the​white​snow​by​stopping​down​the​lens​as​much​as​possible”​(Shimazaki,​“Midorikawa​Michio​shi​ni​Tsuchi​no​satsuei​o​kiku​[zoku],”​ 338). ​168.​Uno,​ “Oshu​ eiga​ to​ gacho,”​ 64.​ In​ 1929,​ the​ critic​ Nagahama​ Keizo​ compared​ American​and​German​films​in​terms​of​brightness:​“While​American​techniques​ are​coquettish​and​bright,​German​films​own​techniques​that​could​express​strong​ motifs​ in​ a​ very​ dark​ appearance”​ (Nagahama,​ “Katsudo​ shashin​ no​ kiso​ teki​ gijutsu,”​316–17). ​169.​The New Earth​was​meant​to​celebrate​the​Anti-​Comintern​Pact​between​Japan​ and​ Germany,​ which​ would​ be​ established​ on​ November​ 25,​ 1936.​ The​ film​ faithfully​reflected​Nazi​cultural​policy​and​Japanese​colonialism.​The​protagonist,​Yamato​Teruo​(Kosugi​Isamu),​which​means​“a​shining​Japanese​man,”​has​ studied​in​Europe​and​begun​to​despise​his​nationality.​Yet​he​starts​to​remember​ his​cultural​background,​national​identity,​and​the​“blood​of​ancestors​in​him,”​in​ his​own​words,​by​revisiting​Japanese​customs​and​culture,​including​a​talk​with​a​ Buddhist​monk​at​a​temple.​He​decides​to​marry​a​Japanese​woman​(played​by​the​ sixteen-​year-​old​Hara​Setsuko)​and​migrate​to​Manchuria,​the​Japanese​Empire’s​

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uncultivated​new​earth.​The New Earth​was​called​a​“film​for​export”​and​“the​first​ international​cultural​film​in​Japan”​with​a​political​goal,​in​particular,​of​introducing​Japanese​people​and​culture​to​German​audiences​(Kinema Junpo,​1​January​ 1937,​238). ​170.​Angst,​“Nippon​no​kameraman​e,”​36. ​ 171.​Angst,​“Yagai​satsuei​ni​tsuite,”​34–35.​Angst​repeated​his​point​in​another​article​ published​in​July​1937​(“Kameraman​ni​hitsuyo​na​chishiki​to​gijutsu,”​35–36). ​172.​Angst,​“Kameraman​ni​hitsuyo​na​chishiki​to​gijutsu,”​22.​Angst​had​a​chance​to​ recognize​the​demerits​of​European​filmmaking​and​reflect​on​his​experience​in​ Japan,​ including​ his​ viewing​ of​ more​ than​ fifty​ Japanese​ films,​ influencing​ his​ future​work.​In​particular,​based​on​the​standpoint​of​the​economy​of​lighting,​ Angst​ highly​ valued​ Japanese​ cinematography​ that​ used​ small​ sets​ in​ studios.​ Angst​pointed​out,​“[In​Europe]​huge​architectures,​which​can​even​swallow​up​ the​entire​studio​in​Japan,​are​often​presented​in​front​of​a​camera.​A​small​set​can​ be​lighted​with​much​more​affection.​I​think​a​Japanese​room​can​be​extremely​ picturesque​whether​it​is​lit​by​the​sunlight​or​by​electric​lamps.​.​.​.​I​want​to​ stress​that​the​Japanese​cinematographers​must​not​be​ashamed​of​their​photographic​techniques.​On​the​contrary,​they​have​more​things​that​we​need​to​learn”​ (Angst,​“Kameraman​ni​hitsuyo​na​chishiki​to​gijutsu,”​22–23,​25).​Angst​played​ a​significant​role​in​the​Third​Reich​filmmaking.​Restructuring​of​the​film​industry​was​under​way​in​Nazi​Germany​under​the​control​of​the​Reich​Ministry​for​ People’s​Enlightenment​and​Propaganda,​headed​by​Joseph​Goebbels.​The​Ministry​adopted​a​“rationalization”​policy​especially​after​1942​when​the​film​industry​became​fully​nationalized​(Petley,​“Film​Policy​in​the​Third​Reich,”​176).​To​ simultaneously​serve​the​functions​of​entertainment​and​propaganda​and​to​satisfy​different​interests​and​tastes​within​a​specific​budget,​the​Ministry​took​the​ double​strategy​of​producing​only​a​few​big-​budget​propaganda​films​and​a​large​ number​of​conventional​genre​films​(see​Hake,​German National Cinema,​65–67,​ 85).​Apparently,​the​economy​of​production,​sets,​and​lighting,​in​particular,​that​ Angst​re-​realized​in​Japan​helped​to​produce​such​conventional​genre​films.​David​ Stewart​Hull​claims​on​the​film​Rembrandt​(1942),​directed​by​a​major​Nazi​director,​Hans​Steinhoff,​“The​beauty​of​the​film​is​due​to​Richard​Angst’s​stunning​ camerawork,​which​makes​the​best​of​Walter​Roehrig’s​handsome​sets.​No​expense​was​spared​on​the​production,​which​moved​from​the​Ufa​to​Amsterdam​ and​the​Hague.​.​.​.​Rather​than​attempting​to​show​the​subjects​of​Rembrandt’s​ work​with​live​actors​in​the​Hollywood​manner,​Angst​and​Roehrig​more​often​ concentrated​on​the​recreation​of​period​detail.​There​is​an​outstanding​sequence​ of​burghers​bowling,​using​lighted​candles​as​pins,​to​cite​but​one​example”​(Hull,​ Film in the Third Reich,​220–21). ​173.​Suga,​“Fanku​hakase​no​satsuei​haiken,”​37. ​174.​Zhang,​An Amorous History of the Silver Screen,​10–11.​See​also​Hansen,​“Benjamin​ and​Cinema,”​306–43​(Zhang​quotes​from​p.​312). ​175.​I​am​referring​to​Susan​Sontag’s​idea​of​“fascinating​fascism”​here.​See​Sontag,​ “Fascinating​Fascism,”​73–105. ​176.​Fujii​Jinshi​points​out​that​the​critical​discourse​on​cinema​in​Japan​in​the​1930s​ centered​on​realism​because​of​the​cinema’s​acquisition​of​sound​(“Nihon​eiga​no​

320  notes​to​chapter​4

1930-​nendai,”​24–26).​Realism​in​lighting​might​have​partially​stemmed​from​such​ a​discourse​on​realism​in​talking​pictures. ​177.​Hanamura,​“Tsuminaki machi,”​128. ​178.​Hanamura,​“Hahashiro,”​130. ​179.​Tamai,​“Bunka​eiga​gijutsu​hihyo,”​78–79. ​180.​Ibid. ​ 181.​Keating,​Hollywood Lighting from the Silent Era to Film Noir,​229. ​182.​Milner,​“Creating​Moods​with​Light,”​7. ​183.​Arnold,​“Why​Is​a​Cameraman?,”​462. ​184.​Tanaka​Toshio,​“Sokoku​no​utsukushisa,”​58–59;​emphasis​in​the​original. ​185.​Kawasaki,​“Suikoden,”​77. ​186.​Stal,​“Hariuddo​shuyo​satsueijo​ni​okeru​raito​reberu​no​chosa,”​52–55. ​187.​The​ number​ of​ documentary​ films​ was​ increasing​ in​ the​ same​ period.​ In​ 1939,​ the​Ministry​of​Education​recognized​985​documentaries;​the​following​year​the​ figure​jumped​to​4,460​(Nornes,​Japanese Documentary Film,​63). ​188.​Hanabusa​Michio,​“Jidaigeki​e​no​sasayakana​teigen,”​73. ​189.​Kishi,​“Haha o kowazu ya,”​106. ​190.​Ibid.​ Ozu​ used​ contrasty​ lighting​ throughout​ the​ maternal​ melodrama​ Mother Should Be Loved,​which​obviously​refers​to​the​Hollywood​maternal​melodrama​ Over the Hill to the Poorhouse​(Harry​F.​Millarde,​1920).​Characters​are​lit​from​ the​side​or​behind​in​most​interior​scenes​while​a​portrait​of​the​dead​father​and​a​ poster​of​the​cross​are​conspicuously​lit​by​spotlights. ​ 191.​Kishi,​“34​nendo​Nihon​eiga​kessan,”​272. ​192.​Kishi,​Nihon eiga yoshiki ko,​95. ​193.​Hazumi,​Eiga no dento,​250. ​194.​Shimazaki,​“Eiga​no​gacho​ni​tsuite,”​71. ​195.​Shimazaki,​“Nihon​eiga​no​satsuei​gijutsu​(zoku),”​8–9. ​196.​Nakano,​“Gijutsusha​no​shimei,”​80. ​197.​Fuwa,​“Nihon​eiga​gijutsu​no​susumubeki​michi,”​232. ​198.​Iijima,​“Eiga​no​gijutsu​to​seishin,”​16. ​199.​Osaka,​“Gijutsu​kenkyu,”​44–45. ​200.​Shimazaki,​“Eiga​no​gijutsu​to​seishin,”​30. ​201.​Shimazaki,​“Nihon​eiga​no​satsuei​gijutsu​(zoku),”​8–9. ​202.​Miki​and​Shimazaki,​“Satsueisha​to​sakka​seishin​no​mondai​ni​tsuite,”​13. ​203.​Shimazaki,​“Isayama​Saburo,”​129. ​204.​See​ Murakami​ Tadahisa,​ “Hoga​ katagata,”​ 10;​ Iwatsuki,​ “Shintai​ no​ ‘mur​yoku-​ sa’​to​‘koe’​to​shiteno​kenryoku,”​108. ​205.​Furukawa​Takahisa,​Senjika no Nihon eiga,​73. ​206.​Nornes,​Japanese Documentary Film,​95. ​207.​Keating,​Hollywood Lighting from the Silent Era to Film Noir,​238. ​208.​Aramaki,​“Gonin no sekkohei​ni​tsuite,”​11–12. ​209.​Murakami​Tadahisa,​“Hoga​katagata,”​10. ​210.​Isayama​and​Shimazaki,​“Gonin no sekkohei​no​satsuei​gijutsu​o​kataru,”​12. ​ 211.​Ibid.,​12. ​212.​Ibid.,​11. ​213.​Ibid.

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​214.​Ibid. ​215.​Murakami​Tadahisa,​“Hoga​katagata,”​10. ​216.​Ibid. ​217.​“Angusuto​gishi​to​kataru,”​376. ​218.​Ibid. ​219.​Sawamura​ Tsutomu,​ “Gonin no sekkohei,”​ Eiga Hyoron​ 20.2​ (February​ 1938),​ quoted​in​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​47,”​75–76. ​220.​LaMarre,​Shadows on the Screen,​10. ​221.​Whissel,​Picturing American Modernity,​128. ​222.​Nye,​ American Technological Sublime,​ 43,​ 60.​ See​ also​ Whissel,​ Picturing American Modernity,​129–30. ​223.​Guerin,​A Culture of Light,​18. ​224.​“Gijutsu​kaisetsu​Ekibasha,”​284,​285. ​225.​Mimura,​“Ekibasha​no​kanso,”​290. ​226.​Ibid. ​227.​Castle,​“Ekibasha​satsuei​kengaku​ki,”​288–89. ​228.​Ibid. ​229.​Cecil​ B.​ DeMille’s​ Union Pacific​ (1939)​ was​ praised​ for​ a​ similar​ reason.​ The​ film​critic​Nishimura​Masami​claimed,​“It​is​truly​favorable​that​films​have​been​ produced​outside​of​studios​in​these​last​couple​of​years.​.​.​.​Most​American​films,​ without​a​doubt,​were​falling​down​into​the​terrible​technology-​is-​the-​star-​ism,​ in​which​ample​light​was​simply​provided​from​the​ceiling​of​every​stage”​(Nishimura​Masami,​“Daiheigen,”​76). ​230.​Eiga to Gijutsu​12.4​(December​1940):​192. ​231.​Ibid. ​232.​The​ director​ Yoshimura​ Kozaburo​ was​ ambivalent​ about​ bright​ lighting​ on​ Japanese​faces,​though.​He​wrote​in​1941,​“In​close-​ups​of​the​faces​of​Japanese​ people,​a​huge​amount​of​light​is​necessary​in​order​to​display​the​details​of​their​ black​hair.​As​a​result,​too​much​light​is​cast​on​faces,​which​does​not​make​a​nice​ contrast​with​the​background.​Lighting​of​jidaigeki​is​particularly​difficult​in​this​ sense.​There​are​many​black​colors​inside​old​Japanese​houses.​Plus,​old​Japanese​ hairstyles​emphasize​black​hair.​Therefore,​their​faces​look​extremely​white​[in​ strong​lighting].​It​is​difficult​to​reduce​the​amount​of​light​only​on​their​faces”​ (“Eigateki​sanpo,”​70). ​233.​“Camera,​rokuon,​sochi:​Zadankai,”​38. ​234.​Tanaka​Toshio,​“Eigateki​na​bi,​shu,​kegare,”​45. ​235.​Tanaka​Toshio,​“Fotogurafi​no​seikaku​to​ishi,”​16. ​236.​Tanaka​ Toshio,​ “Sokoku​ no​ utsukushisa,”​ 59;​ Tanaka​ Toshio,​ “Eigateki​ na​ bi,​ shu,​kegare,”​45. ​237.​Tsumura,​“Shochiku​eiga​ron,”​10–11. ​238.​Kido,​“Kenzen​naru​renai​wa​egaite​ka,”​31. ​239.​Taketomi,​“Ofuna​eiga​ryu​no​akarusa​no​shakumei,”​60–61. ​240.​Furukawa​ Takahisa,​ Senjika no Nihon eiga,​ 123;​ Kido,​ “Fujin​ kyaku​ o​ wasureruna,”​30. ​241.​Sasaki​Taro,​“Katsudo​shashin​satsuei​ho,”​92,​93. ​242.​Mimura,​“Gureggu​tornado,”​13.

322  notes​to​chapter​4

​243.​Keating,​Hollywood Lighting from the Silent Era to Film Noir,​237. ​244.​Kudo,​Hariuddo kara Hiroshima e,​88. ​245.​Kinema Shuho​107​(April​29,​1932):​19. ​246.​Mimura,​“Cho​kanko​sei​pankuro​no​shutsugen,”​64. ​247.​Mimura,​“Cameraman​toshite​no​tachiba​kara,”​26. ​248.​Kinema Junpo,​April​21,​1932,​6. ​249.​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​20,”​52–53.​pcL​was​officially​established​on​ June​1,​1932,​several​days​after​the​release​of​Namiko. ​250.​Mori,​“Omoikitta​gendaimono​ni​kyakushoku,”​23. ​251.​“Namiko​o​meguru​zadankai,”​20. ​252.​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Nihon eiga hattatsu shi II,​265–67. ​253.​Kinema Shuho​115​(June​24,​1932):​11. ​254.​Kinema Shuho​113​(June​10,​1932):​8. ​255.​“Nihon​saidai​no​toki​satsueijo​Shashin​Kagaku​Kenkyujo​(pcL),”​14–15. ​256.​Miyajima,​Tenno to yobareta otoko,​26. ​257.​Eiga to Gijustu,​January​1935,​quoted​in​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​31,”​54. ​258.​Kudo,​Hariuddo kara Hiroshima e,​126–27. ​259.​Miyajima,​Tenno to yobareta otoko,​46. ​260.​Mimura​and​Kawamoto,​“Satsuei​hodan,”​15. ​261.​Shinohara,​“Horoki,”​190. ​262.​Otsuka,​“Horoki,”​247. ​263.​Fujiki,​“Multiplying​Personas,”​316. ​264.​In​ comparison,​ in​ the​ remake​ of​ Journal of Wandering​ (Horoki,​ Naruse​ Mikio,​ 1962),​Takamine​Hideko,​a​Toho​star​of​the​time,​requested​that​Yasumoto​Jun,​ cinematographer​of​the​film,​not​photograph​her​face​beautifully,​according​to​ Sato​Tadao​(“Horoki,”​n.p.).​The​shot​of​Fumiko​(Takamine)​tearfully​giving​up​ Date,​the​womanizer,​is​of​her​back,​kneeling​down​on​the​floor,​almost​in​a​silhouette,​lit​by​the​single​light​bulb​on​the​ceiling.​We​do​not​see​her​face.​Fumiko​ does​not​swallow​poison​in​this​version,​and​the​lowest​point​of​her​life​is​depicted​as​her​arrest​with​a​prostitute​at​a​cheap​hotel.​Fumiko​had​been​writing​by​ a​single​candlelight.​With​the​single​diegetic​lighting​source​from​the​lower​side,​ dark​shadows​are​cast​on​her​face. ​265.​Quoted​in​Kanai,​“Bungaku​to​jenda​zenki​dai​7​kai,”​n.p. ​266.​Hasegawa​Kazuo,​Watashi no niju nen,​179–80. ​267.​Ibid. ​268.​Chojiro Fan​1.4​(April​1938):​34. ​269.​Ogle,​“Deep-​Focus​Cinematography,”​24. ​270.​Salt,​Film Style and Technology,​222–23,​265. ​271.​Ogle,​“Deep-​Focus​Cinematography,”​24–25. ​272.​Harpole,​ “Ideological​ and​ Technological​ Determinism​ in​ Deep-​Space​ Cinema​ Images,”​15,​17. ​273.​Ibid.,​ 19.​ It​ should​ be​ noted​ that​ there​ are​ contested​ views​ on​ the​ relationship​between​technology​and​style.​Ogle,​with​his​rather​technological​determinist​ viewpoint,​insists​that​even​when​Eastman​introduced​Plus-​x ​and​then​Super​xx​ Panchromatic​Negative​in​October​1938​with​noticeably​higher​contrast​with​finer​ grain,​which​became​“the​Hollywood​standard​for​some​years,”​many​cinematog-

notes​to​chapter​4  323

raphers,​having​grown​accustomed​to​working​with​soft​tonality​films,​experienced​ “real​difficulty​in​lighting​sets​properly​for​the​new​film”​(“Deep-​Focus​Cinematography,”​24).​Mike​Cormack​disagrees​with​Ogle​because​“there​is​no​necessary​link​between​improved​lighting,​faster​stock​and​high-​key​effects.”​Cormack​ writes,​“Eastman’s​Plus​x​in​1938​.​.​.​greatly​improved​definition​and​became​the​ Hollywood​standard​for​some​years”​(Ideology and Cinematography in Hollywood, 1930–39,​83). ​274.​Tsuchiya​ Kiyoyuki,​ “Uguisu”​ [Bush Warbler],​ Eiga to Gijutsu,​ December​ 1938,​ quoted​in​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​37,”​71.​Kijima​Yukio​also​wrote,​“Mimura​Akira​achieved​beautiful​tones​in​Humanity and Paper Balloon,​but​his​work​ in​this​film​[Writing Class]​is​too​careless​and​lacking​charm”​(“Tsuzurikata kyoshitsu,”​144). ​275.​Lang,​“The​Purpose​and​Practice​of​Diffusion,”​193. ​276.​Tsuchiya,​ “Uguisu”​ [Bush Warbler],​ quoted​ in​ Hirai,​ “Soko​ Nihon​ eiga​ satsuei​ shi​37,”​71. ​277.​“15​nendo​Nihon​eiga​(geki)​no​satsuei​gijutsu​danmen,”​86. ​278.​Okada,​“Nihon​no​naitoreto​firumu​seizo​shoki​no​jijo​(ge),”​12–15. ​279.​Tamura​et​al.,​“Eiga​gijutsu,”​31–32. ​280.​Sugiyama​ Kohei,​ Eiga to Gijutsu,​ January​ 1942,​ quoted​ in​ Hirai,​ “Soko​ Nihon​ eiga​satsuei​shi​56,”​73. ​281.​Nishikawa,​“Eiga​gijutsu​no​saishuppatsu,”​42–43. ​282.​Ibid. ​283.​Hirai,​Jitsuroku Nihon eiga no tanjo,​269. ​284.​Ibid. ​285.​Nishikawa,​“Uma​no​genzo,”​253. ​286.​Ibid.,​255. ​287.​Ibid. ​288.​Ibid. ​289.​Tamura,​“Nihon​eiga​no​gijutsu,”​18. ​290.​Ogura​Kinji,​“Uma​no​satsuei​ni​tsuite,”​58. ​291.​Tachibana,​“Uma​no​satsuei​o​Mimura​Akira​ni​kiku,”​101. ​292.​Mimura,​“Satsuei​gishi​no​yokyosuru​mono,”​104. ​293.​Mimura,​“Saikin​no​amerika​eiga​o​mite,”​20. ​294.​Ibid. ​295.​Sobchack,​“The Grapes of Wrath​(1940),”​609–10. ​296.​Ibid.,​609–10,​612. ​297.​Yamane,​“Yamane​Sadao​no​otanoshimi​zeminar,”​n.p. ​298.​Sobchack,​“The Grapes of Wrath​(1940),”​602. ​299.​Ibid.,​605. ​300.​Ibid.,​609. ​301.​Keating,​Hollywood Lighting from the Silent Era to Film Noir,​237. ​302.​Ibid.,​240. ​303.​Shimazaki,​“Nihon​eiga​no​satsuei​gijutsu​(zoku),”​8–9. ​304.​Shimazaki,​“Eiga​no​gijutsu​to​seishin,”​30. ​305.​Toland,​“Realism​for​‘Citizen​Kane,’”​54. ​306.​Ibid.

324  notes​to​chapter​4

​307.​Ibid. ​308.​Ibid. ​309.​Ibid.,​55. ​310.​Ibid.​See​also​Toland,​“Using​Arcs​for​Lighting​Monochrome,”​558–59,​588. ​ 311.​Ogle,​“Deep-​Focus​Cinematography,”​25–26. ​312.​Victor​Milner,​“Super​xx​for​‘Production’​Camerawork,”​American Cinematographer,​November​1941,​269,​quoted​in​Ogle,​“Deep-​Focus​Cinematography,”​25. ​ 313.​Ogle,​“Deep-​Focus​Cinematography,”​25–26. ​314.​Keating,​Hollywood Lighting from the Silent Era to Film Noir,​237. ​ 315.​Ibid. ​316.​Milner,​“Supa​xx​no​atarashi​yoho,”​61–63. ​317.​Kawamoto,​“Rudorufu​mate​no​kakushinteki​shuho,”​50–51. ​318.​Mimura​and​Kawamoto,​“Satsuei​hodan,”​14–15. ​319.​Ibid.,​15. ​320.​Mimura,​“Atarashiki​camera​waku,”​27. ​321.​Sugiyama​Heiichi,​Eiga hyoron shu,​123. ​322.​Ibid.,​124. ​323.​Ibid.,​125. ​324.​Aikawa​ Kusuhiko,​ “Kantokusha​ Yamanaka​ Sadao​ shi”​ [Director​ Mr.​ Yamanaka​ Sadao],​Kinema Junpo,​May​11,​1932,​quoted​in​Chiba,​Kantoku Yamanaka Sadao,​ 33–34. ​325.​Tsumura​Hideo,​“Ninjo kamifusen,”​Eiga to hihyo​(1939),​quoted​in​Chiba,​Kantoku Yamanaka Sadao,​480. ​326.​Yamaguchi​Torao,​“Senkusha​Nishikawa​Tsuruzo​to​eiga​shomei,”​12. ​327.​Isayama,​“‘Cameraman’​shiko​kiroku,”​339. ​328.​“Satsuei​kantoku​seido​no​kakuritsu​o,”​90. ​329.​Mimura,​“Hawai Mare oki kaisen​no​satsuei​nisshi​yori,”​62. ​330.​Nornes,​Japanese Documentary Film,​108. ​ 331.​Mimura,​“Hawai Mare oki kaisen​no​satsuei​nisshi​yori,”​62. ​332.​Ibid.,​64. ​333.​Ibid.;​Tanaka​Toshio,​“Hawai Mare oki kaisen​to​satsuei​kantoku​to,”​54. ​334.​Publicity​ materials​ of​ The War at Sea from Hawaii to Malaya,​ quoted​ in​ the​ booklet​for​the​Hawai Mare oki kaisen​DvD​(Tokyo:​Toho,​2007). ​335.​Shimazaki,​“Satsuei​kantoku​ni​tsuite,”​75. ​336.​Ibid. ​337.​Ibid.,​75–76. ​338.​Shimazaki,​“Satsuei​kantoku​sei​no​hitsuyo​joken,”​104–5. Conclusion

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​

1.​Harrington,​“The​Techniques​of​Kazuo​Miyagawa,”​40. 2.​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​58. 3.​Watanabe,​“Kurosawa​Akira,​Miyagawa​Kazuo,​soshite​Yojimbo,”​81. 4.​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​178. 5.​“Miyagawa​Kazuo,”​Otake​Toru​et​al.,​Eizo kenkyu bessatsu,​Miya-​13. 6.​Harrington,​“The​Techniques​of​Kazuo​Miyagawa,”​41. 7.​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​182.

notes​to​concLusion  325

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​

8.​Ota​Yoneo,​“Kyoto​jidaigeki​eiga​gijutsu​no​keisho,”​103. 9.​Miyagawa,​Watshi no eiga jinsei 60nen,​195. 10.​Ota​Yoneo,​“Monokuromu​no​jidai,”​18. 11.​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​341. 12.​Ibid.,​334. 13.​Miyagawa’s​personal​note,​Miyagawa​Kazuo​Archive,​3​Mast​Kyoto. 14.​Miyagawa​started​his​career​at​Nikkatsu’s​Daishogun​studio​in​Kyoto​on​May​15,​ 1926​(Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​63,​312).​It​was​Nikkatsu’s​studio​policy​at​that​time​ that​ neophyte​ cinematographers​ start​ their​ apprenticeships​ in​ darkrooms.​ He​ continued​working​at​Nikkatsu​after​the​company​moved​its​Kyoto​studio​to​Uzumasa​in​1928​and​after​Nikkatsu​was​combined​with​Shinko​and​Daito​into​one​ company,​Daiei,​in​1942.​“Miyagawa​Kazuo,”​Otake​Toru​et​al.,​Eizo kenkyu bessatsu,​Miya-​5–6,​Miya-​16. ​ 15.​Oguri,​“Renzu​no​mushi,”​67. ​ 16.​Miyagawa,​Watshi no eiga jinsei 60nen,​38–39.​Harrington​reported​in​1960​that​Miyagawa​was​“an​avid​reader​of​American Cinematographer”​(“The​Techniques​of​ Kazuo​Miyagawa,”​52). ​ 17.​O-Chiyo gasa​[O-Chiyo’s Umbrella]​screenplay,​preserved​at​Miyagawa​Kazuo​Archive,​3​Mast​Kyoto,​1–1,​1–7. ​ 18.​Uekusa,​Hikari to kage no eigashi,​67;​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​201. ​ 19.​Miyagawa,​“Watashi​no​cameraman​jinsei,”​3. ​ 20.​Oguri,​“Renzu​no​mushi,”​67. ​ 21.​Shishi no za​[Place for Leo]​production​plan,​Ito Daisuke Bunko​[Ito​Daisuke​Collection],​Box​29,​the​Museum​of​Kyoto. ​ 22.​Sukurin Suteji​174​(September​6,​1949):​n.p. ​ 23.​A​newspaper​clipping.​No​record​for​citation.​Ito Daisuke Bunko,​Box​20,​the​Museum​of​Kyoto. ​ 24.​“Hayakawa​Sesshu​jijo​shoden​(ge),”​22. ​ 25.​The​period​of​postwar​occupation​of​Japan​began​with​the​Japanese​surrender​to​ the​Allies​in​August​1945​and​continued​until​signing​of​the​San​Francisco​Peace​ Treaty​in​April​1952.​Australia,​the​U.S.S.R.,​China,​and​the​United​States​officially​ administered​the​occupation,​but​for​all​intents​and​purposes​it​was​a​U.S.-​run​ operation. ​ 26.​Hirano,​Mr. Smith Goes to Tokyo,​4–6. ​ 27.​“Amerika​orai,”​20–21. ​ 28.​Dower,​Embracing Defeat,​69,​81. ​ 29.​“Hariuddo​konjaku,”​23. ​ 30.​Makino​Masahiro​et​al.,​“Nippon​no​ongaku​eiga​o​kataru,”​206. ​ 31.​Sasaki​ Atsushi​ and​ Tanji,​ Utaeba tengoku Nippon kayo eiga derakkusu,​ 40–41,​ 43–44. ​ 32.​Miyagawa,​“Shikisai​eiga​no​satsuei​ni​hitokoto,”​44. ​ 33.​“Miyagawa​Kazuo,”​Otake​Toru​et​al.,​Eizo kenkyu bessatsu,​Miya-​16. ​ 34.​Miyagawa,​“Watashi​no​cameraman​jinsei,”​12. ​ 35.​Ota​Yoneo,​“Monokuromu​no​jidai,”​20. ​ 36.​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​335–37. ​ 37.​Ibid.

326  notes​to​concLusion

​ 38.​Ibid.,​38. ​ 39.​Miyagawa,​Watshi no eiga jinsei 60nen,​195–96. ​ 40.​Ibid. ​ 41.​Yoshimoto,​“Ozu.” ​ 42.​Ibid. ​ 43.​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​91;​Ota​Yoneo,​“Monokuromu​no​jidai,”​21. ​ 44.​Miyagawa,​Watshi no eiga jinsei 60nen,​60;​Oguri,​“Renzu​no​mushi,”​72. ​ 45.​Quoted​in​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​103. ​ 46.​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​43. ​ 47.​Rashomon​ screenplay,​ n.p.,​ preserved​ at​ Miyagawa​ Kazuo​ Archive,​ 3​ Mast​ Kyoto. ​ 48.​Miyagawa,​“Watashi​no​cameraman​jinsei,”​8. ​ 49.​Miyagawa​ was​ amazed​ that​ Eisenstein​ had​ already​ done​ this​ in​ Viva Mexico!,​ the​film​that​he​watched​much​later​(Miyagawa,​Watshi no eiga jinsei 60nen,​61;​ Oguri,​“Renzu​no​mushi,”​72). ​ 50.​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​92. ​ 51.​Ota​Yoneo,​“Monokuromu​no​jidai,”​21. ​ 52.​Miura​Mitsuo,​“Kawanakajima kassen​satsuei​kiroku​danpen,”​44. ​ 53.​Ibid.,​45. ​ 54.​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​58–59. ​ 55.​Ota​Yoneo,​“Monokuromu​no​jidai,”​23;​Miyagawa,​Watshi no eiga jinsei 60nen,​82. ​ 56.​Oguri,​“Renzu​no​mushi,”​76. ​ 57.​Ota​Yoneo,​“Monokuromu​no​jidai,”​23. ​ 58.​Ibid.,​20. ​ 59.​“Ototo,”​57. ​ 60.​Ugetsu monogatari​ (Ugetsu)​ screenplay,​ n.p.,​ preserved​ at​ Miyagawa​ Kazuo​ Archive,​3​Mast​Kyoto. ​ 61.​Miyagawa,​“Watashi​no​cameraman​jinsei,”​10. ​ 62.​Oguri,​“Renzu​no​mushi,”​77–78. ​ 63.​Harrington,​“The​Techniques​of​Kazuo​Miyagawa,”​40–41. ​ 64.​Ibid.,​41. ​ 65.​Kagi​ [Odd Obsession]​ screenplay,​ a-​1,​ preserved​ at​ Miyagawa​ Kazuo​ Archive,​ 3​ Mast​Kyoto. ​ 66.​Ibid.,​a-2. ​ 67.​Ibid.,​c-1. ​ 68.​Ibid.,​b-7. ​ 69.​Ibid.,​c-3. ​ 70.​Ibid.,​c-​2–c-3. ​ 71.​Ibid.,​e-​13. ​ 72.​Miyagawa,​“Shikisai​eiga​no​satsuei​ni​hitokoto,”​44. ​ 73.​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​273. ​ 74.​Miyagawa​ used​ a​ 75​ mm​ lens​ as​ the​ standard​ for​ Spider Tattoo​ (363​ shots​ of​ 422​total​shots).​He​used​a​50​mm​lens​for​the​“small​number​of”​exterior​scenes​ in​order​to​“have​a​more​spacious​feeling​and​atmospheric​tones​in​contrast​to​the​ continuously​intense​interior​scenes”​(“Miyagawa​Repoto:​Irezumi”​[Miyagawa​ report:​Spider Tattoo],​preserved​at​Miyagawa​Kazuo​Archive,​3​Mast​Kyoto).

notes​to​concLusion  327

​ 75.​“Miyagawa​Kazuo,”​Otake​Toru​et​al.,​Eizo kenkyu bessatsu,​Miya-​18–19. ​ 76.​Irezumi​ [Spider Tattoo]​ screenplay,​ a-​10–a-​11,​ for​ instance,​ preserved​ at​ Miyagawa​Kazuo​Archive,​3​Mast​Kyoto. ​ 77.​“Miyagawa​Repoto:​Irezumi”​[Miyagawa​report:​Spider Tattoo],​preserved​at​Miyagawa​Kazuo​Archive,​3​Mast​Kyoto. ​ 78.​Naremore,​More Than Night,​186–90. ​ 79.​The​first​color​film​in​Japan​was​made​at​Shochiku,​Carmen Goes Home​(Karumen kokyo ni kaeru,​Kinoshita​Keisuke),​in​1951. ​ 80.​Tanizaki,​“O-​Tsuya​goroshi,”​506. ​ 81.​Irezumi​screenplay,​early​version,​e-​14,​preserved​at​Miyagawa​Kazuo​Archive,​3​ Mast​Kyoto. ​ 82.​Ibid.,​c-​23–c-​24. ​ 83.​Ibid.,​c-​23–c-​24. ​ 84.​Ibid.,​c-​25–c-​26. ​ 85.​“Miyagawa​Kazuo,”​Otake​Toru​et​al.,​Eizo kenkyu bessatsu,​Miya-​17. ​ 86.​Mimura,​“Beikoku​niokeru​shikisai​eiga,”​61. ​ 87.​Ota​Yoneo,​“Monokuromu​no​jidai,”​21. ​ 88.​Oguri,​“Renzu​no​mushi,”​78. ​ 89.​Yoshino,​“‘Inei​raisan’​ni​yosete​II,”​15. ​ 90.​Ibid.

328  notes​to​concLusion

BIBlIogRAPHy

special Collections

Henry​Kotani​Collection,​Henry​Kotani​Production,​Tokyo. Ito​Daisuke​Bunko,​Museum​of​Kyoto. Miyagawa​Kazuo​Archive,​3​Mast​Kyoto. Paramount​Collection,​Margaret​Herrick​Library​of​the​Academy​of​Motion​Pictures,​ Los​Angeles. Sorimachi​Collection​(Kinugasa​Teinosuke​Collection),​National​Film​Center,​National​Museum​of​Modern​Art,​Tokyo. Books and Articles

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Index

Absolute​cinema,​128,​162–63,​169 Abstraction,​244–45 Acting​style,​22;​transition​in,​110 Actor’s Revenge, An​(Yukinojo henge),​105–10,​ 176,​302n161 Advertising,​87–88,​122 Aesthetics:​Benjamin​and,​213–14;​Japanese,​2,​12–14,​119,​200,​207,​219,​228,​256,​ 261,​263–65,​267–68,​280;​modern,​68;​of​ shadow,​1–14,​175–76,​192,​195,​200–254,​ 256,​260–61,​263,​279–81 Affect,​88,​91,​110 Agency,​14,​89 Agfa​film,​212,​313n63 Aikawa,​Kusuhiko,​249 Aizen katsura.​See​Tree of Love, The Akeley​camera,​16 Akeyuku mura.​See​Village at Dawn, A Algiers,​206 Allied​occupation,​259–60,​270 American Cinematographer,​183–84,​206,​ 215–16,​239,​248,​255 Americanism,​228 Americanization,​23,​32,​230 American​Society​for​Cinematographers​(asc),​179,​209,​216,​235,​239,​255,​ 290n96,​318n141 American​way​of​life,​260 Ando,​Sadao,​141–42 Angst,​Richard,​212–13,​221,​226 Aoshima,​Junichiro,​17,​215,​288n50,​311n153 Appropriation,​288n57

Aramaki,​Yoshiro,​220 Architecture:​and​cinema,​209,​211,​231,​ 320n172;​of​Japan,​1,​12,​42,​193,​207,​209,​ 211,​214,​228;​of​Kyoto,​257,​260,​270,​273 Arima,​Ineko,​308n117 Ariyoshi,​Ataru,​211 Army,​220 Arnold,​John,​215–16 Art​cinema,​255 Art​of​light​movement​(shomei geijutsu undo),​159 Aruga,​Teru,​203 Asakawa,​Kiyoshi,​86 Asakusa,​6,​20,​64,​92,​150,​304n24 Asano,​Shiro,​6 Atarashiki tsuchi.​See​New Earth Atsuta,​Yuharu,​57,​164–65,​251 Audience,​7,​25,​39,​42,​45,​48,​54–55,​64,​ 89,​91,​93,​122,​139,​197,​200,​204,​213,​246,​ 258–59;​female​audience,​9–10,​84–118,​ 121,​124,​177,​211,​229.​See also​Spectatorship Auteur,​13,​77,​141 Authenticity,​108,​160,​163,​165,​197,​202,​210 Azuma,​Takao,​313n63 Bailey,​John,​255 Balanced Pressure Surgery, The​(Heiatsu kaikyo jutsu),​317–18n140 Balázs,​Béla,​128 Banba no Chutaro: Mabuta no haha.​See​ Chutaro of Banba: Mother of Memory

Bando,​Junosuke,​125,​131,​133 Bando,​Tsumasaburo,​82–83,​93–94,​124 Barnes,​George,​231,​238 Battle of Kawanakajima, The​(Kawanakajima kassen),​2–3,​186,​190–95,​198,​200,​ 203,​228,​267,​316n125 Baxter,​Peter,​289n80 Baxter​and​Wray​camera,​6 Bean,​Jennifer​M.,​116 Belasco,​David,​27,​70–72,​79 Bell​and​Howell​camera,​16 Bending,​204,​211,​219,​227–28,​254 Benedict,​Ruth,​297n31 Benjamin,​Walter,​116,​161,​213–14 Benshi,​47–48,​61,​64–65,​134–35 Bentenkozo.​See​Kid Benten Berlin,​139 Berlin: Symphony of a Great City​(Berlin: Die Sinfonie der Grosstadt),​162,​164,​310n142 Bernardi,​Joanne,​283n6 Best Years of Our Lives, The,​230 Bicycle Thieves​(Ladri di biciclette),​264 Biography,​25,​224,​255–57 “Blind​Beast”​(“Moju”),​135 Blindness,​132–34,​135–37,​140 Blocking,​187,​277 Blonde Venus,​3,​204–5 Blue Storm​(Seiran),​48 Body,​19,​93,​115,​135–36,​137,​214,​306n89,​ 310n149;​Hayashi​Chojiro​and,​105–7,​ 110,​112–14;​Onoe​Matsunosuke​and,​69;​ remapping​of,​134,​147–56;​Sessue​Hayakawa​and,​31–32,​116;​Valentino​and,​90,​ 111 Bolero,​185 Bordwell,​David,​6,​27,​47,​69,​101,​142,​145,​ 148,​151,​156,​165 “Bright​and​cheerful​Shochiku​cinema”​ (akaruku tanoshi Shochiku eiga),​2,​11,​ 25,​67,​82,​95,​101,​119–21,​125,​141–42,​165,​ 167–68,​170,​175,​184,​189,​199–200,​202–3,​ 228–29,​280.​See also​Kamata-​cho;​Shochiku Broken Blossoms,​291n123 Buckland,​Wilfred,​27 Bullets​(Hodan),​215 Bunka​eiga​(cultural​film),​208,​215.​See also​ Cultural​spirit

366  inDex

Burch,​Nöel,​5,​10,​24–25,​88,​151 Buto​(dance-​like​stylized​movements),​69 Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, The​(Das Kabinett des Dr. Caligari),​161 Camera,​1,​6,​16,​32–33,​132,​164,​251–52,​258,​ 264 Capitalism,​8–27,​56–57,​64,​66,​68,​77,​80,​ 87–91,​110,​115,​119–21,​124,​134,​141,​147,​ 168,​171,​202,​280,​318n145 Carbon​arc​lamp,​34,​42–43,​80,​98,​100–101,​ 136,​238,​309n128,​317n130,​317n140 Carl​Zeiss​Biotar​lens,​230 Carl​Zeiss​Tessar​lens,​317n130 Carmen Goes Home​(Karumen kokyo ni kaeru),​328n79 “Caterpillar”​(“Imomushi”),​135 Cazdyn,​Eric,​21 Censorship,​19,​87,​133,​147,​176,​197–99,​203,​ 296n4,​314n84 Cezanne,​Paul,​264 Chanbara​(sword-​fighting​period​drama),​ 67,​73,​82.​See also​Jidaigeki Chaplin,​Charlie,​141,​165 Chapman,​George,​16 Cheat, The,​29,​36–37,​50,​72,​291n116 Chiaki,​Minoru,​265 Chiba​Bank,​59 Chigo no kenpo.​See​Kid’s Sword Fight Chihaya,​Akiko,​85,​95,​121,​125,​131 Chikamatsu,​Kyojiro,​84 Chikyodai.​See​Foster Brothers China,​6,​12,​21,​44,​147,​198,​219–20,​225 China Night​(Shina no yoru),​198–99 Chuji’s Travel Journal​(Chuji tabinikki),​ 78–80,​84,​304n21 Chushingura,​49,​73,​292n126,​293n151,​ 293n152,​293n153 Chutaro of Banba: Mother of Memory​ (Banba no Chutaro: Mabuta no haha),​ 75–77 Cinema​of​attractions,​90 Cinematography Reader​(Eiga satsueigaku dokuhon),​17,​179,​205,​207–8,​229,​318n141 Citizen Kane,​246–48 Civil​Information​and​Education​Section​ (cie),​259 “Clarity​first,​story​second”​(ichi nuke, ni

suji),​2,​4,​47–51,​69,​73,​79,​121,​142,​205,​ 279,​283n6 Class,​34,​70,​125 Close-​up,​18,​22,​36,​44,​49,​61–62,​64–65,​ 73,​75,​78–80,​82,​94–95,​97–98,​102–8,​ 115–18,​125,​131,​137–39,​144,​148,​150,​155,​ 168,​175–79,​184–85,​187–89,​194,​221,​ 225–26,​229–30,​234,​239,​244–45,​248,​ 270–72,​278–79,​306n89,​310n149,​312n25,​ 322n232 Colbert,​Claudette,​260 Colonialism,​13,​220,​319n169 Color,​3,​60,​100,​160,​162,​257,​263,​268–69,​ 275–79 Color​film,​277–79,​281,​328n79 Comedy,​18,​215–16,​235 Commodity,​21,​24,​56,​65,​87,​90–91,​93,​ 110–11,​115,​119,​125,​131,​134,​146,​171,​210,​ 259 Composition,​17,​182–83,​187,​190,​195,​219– 24,​227,​239,​242,​245–46,​248–50,​267,​ 270,​277,​292n124,​293n144 Compson,​Betty,​51 Consumerism,​10,​21,​24,​88,​90,​111,​115,​120,​ 131,​134,​137,​145–47,​158,​237 Cormack,​Mike,​323n273 Costume,​88 Crosscutting,​22,​44,​53,​69,​136–37,​270.​See also​Parallel​editing Crossways​(Jujiro),​10–11,​120–41,​147,​165 Cuckoo​(Hototogisu),​43–44,​62,​64,​234–35 Cultural​spirit​(bunka seishin),​8,​200,​210.​ See also​Bunka​eiga Daibosatsu Pass​(Daibosatsutoge),​305n53 Daiei​(Dai​Nippon​Eiga​Seisaku​Kabushiki​Gaisha),​73,​218,​259,​261,​264,​277,​ 326n14 Daigaku wa detakeredo.​See​I Graduated, But . . . Daiichi​Eiga,​59 Daishogun​studio​(Nikkatsu),​57–59,​74,​ 78,​326n14 Daito​Eiga,​259,​326n14 Dark Street, A​(Yami no michi),​61 Davis,​Darrell​William,​191–92,​196,​202–4 Day​for​night,​191,​195,​262 Dazai,​Yukimichi,​84

Deep​focus,​14,​79,​247,​264–65,​268,​270,​ 276,​280.​See also​Depth​of​field Deep​space.​See​Depth​of​field Delluc,​Louis,​116–17 DeMille,​Cecil​B.,​16,​27–29,​71–72,​289n80,​ 322n229 Democracy,​259–60 Denkikan,​20,​86 Denko to sono tsuma.​See​Electrician and His Wife, The Depth​of​field,​45,​54,​187,​224,​238,​247–50,​ 264,​267,​270,​277,​292n124 de​Sica,​Vittorio,​264 Development​of​film,​17,​42,​159,​203,​212,​ 229,​235,​240,​253,​268,​313n63 Diary of the Northern Sea​(Hokuyo nikki),​215 Die Niebelungen,​79 Dietrich,​Marlene,​3,​207,​221,​258,​283n8 Diffusion​disc​(diffuser),​236,​238–39,​242 Digital,​1,​281 Directionality​of​light,​178–79,​193,​195,​213,​ 221,​275–76 Director​of​photography,​251–54 Disabled Child​(Katawabina),​114 Discursive​history​of​cinema,​11–12 Dishonored,​207,​258 Dissolve,​131,​162 Distribution,​44,​57,​59,​64,​119–20,​196–97,​ 258 Doane,​Mary​Ann,​88 Docks of New York,​9,​51,​53 Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,​205,​239 Documentary,​12–13,​191–92,​195,​201,​214– 22,​228,​230–31,​243,​250,​253,​263–64,​267,​ 269,​279,​317n140,​321n187 Documentary​spirit​(jissha-teki seishin),​ 217–22,​231,​240,​242–43,​245,​248,​252,​ 254,​261–62,​264–65,​269,​280 Domestic​space,​156,​159 Double Indemnity,​270 Doubling,​6–7 Double​exposure,​136 Dragnet Girl​(Hijosen no onna),​142,​306n89 Dulac,​Germaine,​169 Dupont​film,​206,​212 Early​cinema,​135 Eastmancolor,​277

inDex  367

Eastman​Kodak,​16,​205–6,​212,​230,​239,​277 Eastman​Plus-​x ​Panchromatic​Negative​ film,​247,​313n63,​323n273 Eastman​Super​Sensitive​Panchromatic​ Type​Two​Motion​Picture​Negative​film,​ 205–6,​230,​238 Eastman​Super​xx​Panchromatic​Negative​ film,​247–48,​313n63,​323n273 Edamasa,​Yoshiro,​6,​50,​285n22 Editing,​17,​20,​49,​65,​69,​80,​105–6,​122,​131,​ 162,​179,​187;​continuity,​22,​44 Edmund Kean: Prince among Lovers​(Kean),​ 118,​298n44 Edogawa,​Rampo,​135–36 Edo kaizoku den: Kageboshi.​See​Record of an Edo Thief: The Shadow Monk Edo​period​(1603–1867),​45,​64,​70,​185 Education,​cinema​and,​208 Einstein,​Albert,​223 Eisenstein,​Sergei,​327n49 Eisner,​Lotte,​284n14 Electrician and His Wife, The​(Denko to sono tsuma),​19 Elsaesser,​Thomas,​159–60,​162–64 Emperor​system,​68,​197 Emulsion,​101,​238,​247–48,​265–66,​301n135 Epstein,​Jean,​116,​118 Euclid,​223 Exhibition,​20–21,​23,​57,​64–65,​119,​122–23,​ 196–97.​See also​Exhibitor Exhibitor,​24,​64–65,​67,​77,​280.​See also​ Exhibition Exoticism,​3,​259–61,​268,​277–80 Export,​16;​of​Japanese​cinema,​21–22,​55,​ 126–27,​258–59,​261,​277,​280,​319n169 Expressivity,​9,​13,​24,​44,​48,​62,​64–65,​71,​ 101,​119–20,​131,​139 Eye,​70,​95,​98,​102–5,​108–12,​115,​120,​128,​ 132–37,​139,​159,​185,​195,​236,​263,​270.​See also​Close-​up;​Facial​expression;​Vision Eyemo​camera,​16 Facial​expression,​39,​44,​105,​139 Fairbanks,​Douglas,​Sr.,​16,​69,​75 Famous​Players-​Lasky​Corporation,​28 Fanck,​Arnold,​212 Fan​culture,​85–118,​120,​176–77 Fan​magazine,​85–86

368  inDex

Farewell of Nanko​(Nanko ketsubetsu),​50 Farrar,​Geraldine,​29–30 Fascism,​212,​214,​320n175 Father​(Otosan),​18,​55 Female Genealogy​(Onnakeizu,​1934),​189 Female Genealogy​(Onnakeizu,​1942),​186– 89,​198,​200,​315n95 Feminization,​of​Hayashi​Chojiro,​93,​114 Femme​fatale,​270,​299n83 Feudalism,​17,​81 Film​Association​of​Greater​Japan​(Dai​ Nihon​Eiga​Kyokai),​205–6,​312n84 Film​Law​(1939),​196–200,​208,​314n84,​ 318n145 Film​noir,​270 Film​stock,​191,​196,​218,​239–40,​242,​247,​ 265,​267,​313n63 Filter,​192,​242,​253,​268,​292n126,​313n63 Fingerprint,​135,​149 “Fingerprints”​(“Shimon”),​150 First Step Ashore​(Joriku daiippo),​9,​51,​ 53–54 First​World​War.​See​World​War​I Five Scouts​(Gonin no sekkohei),​219–22,​ 224,​229 Flamboyant​method,​306n74 Flash,​298n44,​306n74 Flashback,​31,​36,​102,​137,​187,​270,​312n25 Floating Bridge of a Dream, A​(Yume no ukihashi),​47 Fluorescent​lamp,​269–70,​272–73 “Flowering​Tokyo”​(“Hana​no​Tokyo”),​157 Ford,​John,​141,​223,​242 Fordism,​65 Formalism,​265 For Mother​(Hahashiro),​215 Foster Brothers​(Chikyodai),​43 France,​90,​116–18,​126,​211,​258 French​impressionist​film,​118,​122,​280 French​Indochina,​253 French​New​Wave,​255 Freund,​Karl,​164,​311n153 F-​stop,​48–49,​230,​265–69,​276–77,​ 293n148,​313n63 Fuji,​Mineo,​118 Fuji​film,​239–40,​265,​267 Fujii,​Jinshi,​197 Fujiki,​Hideaki,​50,​60–62,​200,​237

Fujimori,​Seikichi,​170 Fujiwara,​Kozaburo,​122 Fukiya,​Katsumi,​114–15 Fukushima,​Shinnosuke,​203 Furukawa,​Roppa,​19,​60,​117 Fury,​216 Fushimi,​Naoe,​79,​110 Futari Shizuka,​62 Fuunjoshi.​See​History of the Fuun Castle Fuwa,​Suketoshi,​208,​218 Fuyushima,​Taizo,​95,​104,​112 Gacho​(tones​of​lighting),​164,​179,​194,​ 218–19,​229 Gaffer,​209,​251,​253 Gakusei romansu: Wakaki hi.​See​Student Romance: Days of Youth Galileo,​223 Gance,​Abel,​118 Gangster​film,​306n89 Gardner,​William​O.,​132,​304n24 Garmes,​Lee,​204–5,​221,​258,​316n125 Gate of Hell​(Jigokumon),​277–78 Gaudio,​Gaetano,​182–83 Gaynor,​Janet,​97 Gaze,​31,​90,​102,​112–13,​115,​152–54,​166,​ 169,​270,​272–73,​275,​279,​306n89 Gekka no kyojin.​See​Mad Sword under the Moon Gendaigeki​(contemporary​drama),​61,​ 67–69,​72,​87,​101,​122,​141,​165–66,​175,​ 296n1,​296n11,​299n74 Gender,​118,​125;​hierarchy​of,​90;​lighting​ and,​97 General Mobilization in Satsunan​(Satsunan sodoin),​104–5 Genre,​9,​65,​67–68,​70,​73,​77,​82,​84–85,​ 129,​139,​147,​159,​212,​215–17,​219–20,​222,​ 225,​227,​247,​249,​258,​320n172 Geography,​208–9 George​Eastman​House,​30 German​expressionism,​10,​79,​122–23,​127– 28,​160–62,​244,​310n136 Germany,​79,​120,​128,​142,​146,​149–52,​155,​ 160–62,​164–66,​186,​211–13,​257–58,​261,​ 280,​284n14,​289n82,​309n134,​319n168,​ 319n169 Gerow,​Aaron,​11–13,​20–21,​23–24,​64,​67,​

118,​122–23,​132,​133–35,​201–2,​284n15,​ 316n108 Gin-​nokoshi​(leaving​silver),​268.​See also​ Development​of​film Ginza,​146,​157,​210,​299n75,​308n116 Glamorization,​10,​13,​102–15,​131,​142,​175– 77,​181,​184–89,​192,​194–95,​216,​221,​225,​ 229,​246–47,​312n25 Glennon,​Bert,​205,​224 Godard,​Jean-​Luc,​255 Golden Monster​(Konjikiyasha),​43,​87,​ 299n75 Goldwyn,​Samuel,​242 Goebbels,​Joseph,​320n172 Gonin no sekkohei.​See​Five Scouts Gonzalez,​Myrtle,​62 Gonza, the Spearman​(Yari no Gonza),​85 Goro Masamune koshi den.​See​Story of the Filial Child Goro Masamune, The Gosho,​Heinosuke,​100–101 Gradation,​193,​205,​212,​215,​219,​268,​ 293n144,​309n134 Grand Illusion, The​(La Grande Illusion),​183 Grapes of Wrath, The,​242–45 Great​Depression,​147,​242,​296n9 Great​Kanto​Earthquake,​8,​18,​22–23,​48,​ 54,​56,​58,​67–68,​84,​146,​292n126,​307n91 Gregory,​Carl,​231 Griffith,​D.​W.,​22,​231,​291n123 Grodal,​Torben,​33–34 Grune,​Karl,​120,​128,​139 Gubijinso.​See​Poppy Guerin,​Frances,​152,​223 Guide to the Latest Science of Photography VI, A​(Saishin shashin kagaku taikei dai 6 kai),​229–30 Gunning,​Tom,​310n149 Haha.​See​Mother Hahashiro.​See​For Mother Haha o kowazu ya.​See​Mother Should Be Loved, A Hall,​Hal,​206 Hall,​Stuart,​7 Hamamura,​Yoshiyasu,​240 Hanabishi-​kai​(Flower​and​arrow​group),​ 92 Hanabusa,​Taneta,​39

inDex  369

Hanabusa,​Yuriko,​22 Hanamura,​Teijiro,​215 Hand,​125,​131,​136–38,​142–45,​148,​155,​ 162–63,​306n89,​310n149.​See also​Haptic;​ Tactility;​Touch Hansen,​Miriam,​4,​6,​17,​20,​24,​89–90,​92,​ 111,​213–14 Haptic,​135–36,​162–63.​See also​Hand;​Tactility;​Touch Hara,​Setsuko,​308n117,​319n169 Harada,​Korei,​257 Haragei​(refrained​acting​style),​260 Harootunian,​Harry,​6–7,​126,​134,​209–10 Harpole,​Charles​H.,​238 Harrington,​Clifford​V.,​255,​270 Hasegawa,​Kazuo,​8,​12,​105–6,​118,​174–89,​ 193–96,​198–200,​229,​237,​251,​260.​See also​Hayashi,​Chojiro Hasegawa,​Shin,​74–75 Hasegawa,​Shuko,​114 Hasumi,​Chiyoo,​110 Hasumi,​Shigehiko,​141–42 Hatano,​Mitsuo,​138–39 Hawaii,​30–32 Hawai Mare oki kaisen.​See​War at Sea from Hawaii to Malaya, The Hayakawa,​Sessue,​30–32,​101,​116–18,​259,​ 289n87,​291n116 Hayashi,​Chojiro,​8–10,​12,​84–121,​123–24,​ 140,​142,​159,​173–75,​184,​192,​227,​235,​ 237–38.​See also​Hasegawa,​Kazuo Hayashi,​Chozaburo,​88,​92 Hayashi,​Fumiko,​236 Hayashi,​Sachiko,​114–15 Hazumi,​Tsuneo,​93–94,​217,​313n58 Heart of Youth, The,​33–34,​62–63 Hebihimesama.​See​Serpent Princess Heiatsu kaikyo jutsu.​See​Balanced Pressure Surgery, The Hesse,​Herman,​208 Hidden Pearls, The,​30–32,​39,​41 High​angle​shot,​110,​130,​187,​191 Hijosen no onna.​See​Dragnet Girl Hikari ni tatsu onna.​See​Woman Who Stands in Light Hirano,​Yoshimi,​252 Hirohito,​50–51 Hiroishi,​Tsuneo,​114

370  inDex

Hiroshige,​248 History of the Fuun Castle​(Fuunjoshi),​102 Hitodenashi.​See​Human Beast Hodan.​See​Bullets Hoffman,​Carl,​212 Hokuyo nikki.​See​Diary of the Northern Sea Hollywood,​6,​8–9,​12–66,​69,​75–77,​85,​ 87,​91–92,​95,​97–98,​100–104,​110–11,​ 121,​141–42,​147,​150–52,​165–66,​175,​179,​ 181–85,​192–93,​197–99,​201–31,​234–47,​ 249,​251–54,​257–63,​270,​277,​279,​280,​ 283n8,​316n124,​317n138,​319n167,​320n172,​ 321n190 Home​Ministry,​87,​147–48,​198–99,​218,​ 220,​296n4,​312n84 Honolulu,​32 Hori,​Kyusaku,​59 Horoki.​See​Journal of Wandering Horse, The​(Uma),​240–45 Hoshi,​Tetsuroku,​204–5 Hototogisu.​See​Cuckoo Howe,​James​Wong,​206–7,​289n87 Hughes,​Emery,​277 Hull,​David​Stewart,​320n172 Human Beast​(Hitodenashi ),​108 Humanity and Paper Balloon​(Ninjo kamifusen),​246,​248–49,​324n274 Hybridity,​202–3,​229–30,​254 Ibuki,​Eido,​85 Ichikawa,​Kon,​14,​268–69 Identification,​163 Identity:​American,​223;​Japanese,​4–6,​146,​ 202,​208,​259,​281;​politics​of,​5–6;​racial,​ 31–32 Ideological​apparatus,​200 Igarashi,​Yoshikuni,​136,​147,​149 I Graduated, But . . .​(Daigaku wa detakeredo),​163 Iijima,​Haruo,​176 Iijima,​Tadashi,​218 Ikeda,​Gishin,​43 Ikenaga,​Hirohisa,​317n140 Illusion​of​presence,​246–49,​264,​267 Imitation.​See​Mimicry Imperialism,​12,​68,​146,​200,​280 Inagaki,​Hiroshi,​262 Ina no Kantaro.​See​Kantaro of Ina

Incandescent​tungsten​lamp,​98,​100–101,​ 108,​118,​238,​316n125,​317n140 Ince,​Thomas​H.,​289n87 Information​Bureau,​186,​196 Information​Dissemination​Section,​259 Inn in Tokyo, An​(Tokyo no yado),​308n122 Inoue,​Masao,​122 Inoue,​Shigemasa,​58 In Praise of Shadows​(“Inei​raisan”),​1–2,​ 209,​269 International​film​festival,​220,​255,​258,​278 International​market,​21–22,​258,​261,​280 Intertitle,​22,​77,​82,​102,​104,​123,​132,​137 Intolerance,​22 Inuzuka,​Minoru,​91,​94,​96,​98 Invisibility,​13 Irezumi.​See​Spider Tattoo Irie,​Takako,​176,​178 Isayama,​Saburo,​59,​203,​219–22,​251 Ishimaki,​Yoshio,​123 Itakura,​Fumiaki,​64,​77,​82 Italian​neorealism,​264–65 Ito,​Daisuke,​26,​39,​58,​77–80,​82,​259,​298n51 Ito​Eiga​Kenkyujo,​78 Ito,​Takeo,​98,​184–85 Iwabuchi,​Kiichi,​240 Iwanami​Press,​208 Iwasaki,​Akira,​65–66,​127–28,​161–62,​167,​ 310n142,​318n145 I Was Born, But . . .​(Umarete wa mitakeredo),​163 Izawa,​Ichiro,​221 Izumi,​Kyoka,​62 Jacobs,​Lea,​27–30,​42 Japanese​Association​of​Film​Lighting​ (Nihon​Eiga​Shomei​Kyokai),​251 Japanese​Association​of​Film​Technology​ (Nihon​Eiga​Gijutsu​Kyokai),​181,​203,​ 223,​239 Japanese​New​Wave,​257 Japanese​spirit,​13,​127–28,​191,​195,​218,​ 297n31 Japanese​taste,​226 Japan​Film​Distribution​Company​(Nihon​ Eiga​Haikyu​Kabushiki​Gaisha),​59 Japan​Society​in​New​York,​257 Jesse​L.​Lasky​Feature​Play​Company,​27

J-​horror​(Japanese-​made​horror),​281 Jidaigeki​(period​drama),​9–10,​58,​64,​ 67–118,​120–41,​165,​177,​211,​217,​246,​249,​ 251,​256,​258–59,​261–62,​280,​299n83,​ 302n165,​306n74,​317n138,​322n232;​meiro​ (bright​and​cheerful),​262 Jidai​shosetsu​(period​novel),​70 Jigokumon.​See​Gate of Hell Jitsuroku Chushingura,​297n30 Joan the Woman,​29–30 Jobuboshi.​See​Star of Woman and Man Joriku daiippo.​See​First Step Ashore J.O.​Studios,​174,​203,​207,​235 Journal of Wandering​(Horoki,​1935),​236,​248 Journal of Wandering​(1962),​323n264 Jujiro.​See​Crossways Kabuki,​5,​8–9,​16,​20,​24–25,​38–39,​43–45,​ 49,​54,​60,​64,​66,​68–70,​85,​87–88,​ 91–92,​95,​97,​103–4,​106,​110–11,​138,​142,​ 176,​199,​202,​227,​252,​259,​276,​303n1 Kabuki-​za,​39,​45,​112,​292n126 Kaeriyama,​Norimasa,​47–48,​287n31,​ 309n134,​312n32 Kaes,​Anton,​139 Kagi.​See​Odd Obsession Kaikokuki.​See​Record of the Ocean Country Kaita,​Seiichi,​225 Kaito Sajimaro.​See​Sajimaro the Thief Kako,​Zanmu,​15,​43,​291n116 Kamata-​cho​(Kamata​tone),​25–26,​47,​51,​ 53–54,​83,​95,​101,​119–20,​142,​167–68,​ 303n1.​See also​“Bright​and​cheerful​Shochiku​cinema”;​Kamata​studio;​Shochiku Kamata​studio​(Shochiku),​8–9,​15–69,​77,​ 82,​85,​87,​93,​95,​98,​100–101,​119,​124,​ 141,​159,​163,​167,​169,​177,​189,​203,​235,​ 299n74,​301n133,​301n134,​307n91.​See also​ “Bright​and​cheerful​Shochiku​cinema”;​ Kamata-​cho;​Shochiku Kandinski,​310n143 Kano,​Ayako,​88–89 Kano,​Chiyoo,​46 Kantaro of Ina​(Ina no Kantaro),​199 Karasawa,​Hiromitsu,​203 Karumen kokyo ni kaeru.​See​Carmen Goes Home Kasson,​John​F.,​222

inDex  371

Kataoka,​Chiezo,​75,​93,​261–62 Katawabina.​See​Disabled Child Kawada,​Yoshiko,​60 Kawamoto,​Masao,​248 Kawanakajima kassen.​See​Battle of Kawanakajima, The Kawarazaki,​Chojuro,​250 Kawasaki,​Kikuzo,​190,​192–93,​203–4,​216,​ 317n131 Keating,​Patrick,​28,​60,​71–72,​97–98,​102,​ 215,​220,​247–48,​290n96 Keiko​eiga​(tendency​films),​147,​168,​237 Kerry,​Paul,​30 Kichizo the Monk​(Obo Kichizo),​95 Kid Benten​(Bentenkozo),​114 Kido,​Shiro,​25–26,​38–39,​55–58,​60,​65,​67,​ 82,​87,​93,​101,​119–20,​159,​197,​199–200,​ 228–29,​252 Kid’s Sword Fight​(Chigo no kenpo),​91,​112,​ 175 Kikuchi,​Kan,​176 Kikuchi,​Yuho,​62 Kimura,​Fujio,​93 Kimura,​Ihei,​165 Kimura,​Kinka,​18 Kimura,​Sotoji,​169–70,​236 Kinoshita,​Chika,​307n94,​315n95 Kinoshita,​Keisuke,​328n79 Kinugasa,​Teinosuke,​2,​10,​72,​85,​93,​97,​ 103–5,​110,​112,​120–40,​165,​177,​186,​192,​ 240,​277,​302n165 Kirchner,​Ernst​Ludwig,​310n149 Kishi,​Matsuo,​167,​217 Kiso,​Juzaburo,​112 Kitada,​Akihiro,​135 Kiyotomo,​Hideo,​127 Kliegl​spotlight​(klieg​light),​27 Kobayashi,​Fujie,​90 Kobayashi,​Ichizo,​196–97 Kobayashi,​Isamu,​82,​112 Kobe,​91,​108,​112 Kogata​eiga​(home​movies),​203 Kohitsuji.​See​Lamb Koi no misshi.​See​Spy of Love Koi shiru koro.​See​Season of Love, The Koi to bushi.​See​Love and Samurai Kokusui​shugi​(maintenance​of​Japan’s​cultural​identity),​208

372  inDex

Kokutai​(national​polity),​197 Komatsu,​Hiroshi,​299n83 Komyo.​See​Light Kondo,​Katsuhiko,​184 Konishi​Camera​Store,​6 Konjikiyasha.​See​Golden Monster Korea,​21 Kosugi,​Isamu,​220–21,​319n169 Kotani,​Eiichi,​39 Kotani,​Soichi​“Henry,”​8,​15–66,​72,​77,​98,​ 101,​230–31,​252,​279 Kozan no himitsu.​See​Secret of the Mine, The Kracauer,​Siegfried,​61,​115–16,​284n14 Kubo,​Kazuo,​191 Kubokawa,​Ineko,​237 Kubota,​Tatsuo,​92,​112,​129 Kurayami no Ushimatsu.​See​Ushimatsu in the Dark Kurishima,​Sumiko,​19,​34,​44,​60–61,​ 64–66,​93,​95,​234 Kurosawa,​Akira,​13–14,​255–56 Kurutta ichipeiji.​See​Page of Madness, A Kurtz,​Rudolf,​161 Kutsukake Tokijiro,​74–75 Kuwano,​Michiko,​226–27 Kyo,​Machiko,​263,​272,​274 Kyokaku harusamegasa.​See​Yakuza Umbrella in Spring Rain Kyoto,​16,​18,​47–48,​55,​57–59,​67–68,​70,​ 72,​74,​78,​82–84,​91–92,​98,​112,​122,​173– 74,​204,​207,​235,​256–58,​261,​268–70,​ 273,​307n91,​317n138,​326n14 Kyugeki​(period​drama​of​Kabuki​style),​ 22,​46,​48,​69,​73,​78,​82,​297n30 Labor,​18,​21,​56,​68,​119,​133 Lady in the Lake,​270 LaMarre,​Thomas,​11,​13,​115,​222 Lamb​(Kohitsuji),​291n116 Lang,​Charles​B.,​Jr.,​239 Lang,​Fritz,​146,​150,​216,​310n149 La Roue,​118 Last Laugh, The​(Der Letzte Mann),​120,​126,​ 128,​139,​164 Late Mathias Pascal, The​(Feu Mathias Pascal),​118 Lee,​Laila,​61–63 Leica​camera,​164

L’Herbier,​Marcel,​118 Li,​Xianglan.​See​Ri,​Koran Light​(Komyo),​45 Lighting:​artificial,​6,​22,​43,​48,​61,​108,​ 293n144;​backlighting,​29–30,​32–34,​ 36,​39,​43–44,​48–51,​53–54,​60–63,​77,​ 79–80,​83,​97,​102,​105,​108,​177,​181,​185,​ 188,​193,​224,​226,​234,​292n124,​308n122,​ 312n25,​319n167;​effects,​27–29,​33–36,​ 39,​72,​220,​234,​270;​electrical,​2–4,​ 45,​54,​56,​89,​98,​100,​108,​143,​151–52,​ 155–59,​164,​166,​169–71,​174,​182,​210,​ 217,​243,​267,​278,​308n117,​308n122;​ flat,​15,​24,​43–45,​47–53,​62,​64,​82–83,​ 95,​102,​106,​122,​165–67,​181,​189,​206,​ 220,​258,​272,​299n83,​310n136;​high-​ key,​27,​33,​38,​53–54,​60,​82–83,​94,​102,​ 142,​168,​193,​205,​216,​226,​229–30,​232,​ 236,​238–40,​242,​258,​262,​279,​311n153,​ 323n273;​Kabuki-​style,​5,​24–25,​43–45,​ 49,​54;​Lasky,​27,​30–32,​38–39,​42,​44,​ 71–72,​288n50,​297n36;​low-​key,​3–4,​12,​ 27,​29–30,​42,​45,​51,​53,​62,​72–74,​104,​ 106,​142–43,​145,​148,​190,​193,​201–23,​ 226,​229–30,​233,​236,​238,​240–42,​248– 49,​256,​258,​269,​275,​278–80,​306n86,​ 317n131,​317n138,​317n140;​“precision,”​ 182–83;​side,​29,​34,​51,​75,​79,​98,​137,​174,​ 179,​181,​191,​222,​262,​269;​source,​80–81,​ 262;​technician,​251–52;​three-​point,​9,​ 27–28,​51,​61,​80,​95,​97–98,​102–4,​106,​ 114,​175,​184–85,​189,​193,​225–27,​234–37,​ 245–46,​261–62;​top,​30,​36,​38,​48–49,​ 98,​106,​108,​181,​221–22,​231,​234–35,​241 Light of Compassion​(Nasake no hikari),​34,​ 36–38 L’Inhumaine,​118 Lloyd,​Harold,​308n111 Love and Samurai​(Koi to bushi),​124 Love Parade, The,​101,​183 Lubitsch,​Ernst,​97,​101,​141,​165,​183–84,​​ 205 Luminosity,​31–32,​53,​115,​136–37,​140,​160,​ 163 M,​150,​164 Mabuta no haha.​See​Mother of Memory Madame Butterfly,​21

Madamu to nyobo.​See​Neighbor’s Wife and Mine, The Mad Sword under the Moon​(Gekka no kyojin),​112 Maeda,​Seiton,​264 Makeup,​61,​88,​95,​101,​112–14,​126,​177,​198,​ 212,​221,​253,​262,​270 Makino,​Masahiro,​186–87,​199,​261–62,​ 315n95 Makino,​Shozo,​2,​47–49,​68–69,​73,​82–83,​ 122,​124,​205,​283n6,​297n30 Makino​Production,​26,​58,​68,​122–24,​204 Manchuria,​21,​146,​196,​319n169 Man I Killed, The,​205 Manufactured​stimulus,​10 Man Who Was Waiting, The​(Matteita otoko),​199 March, The​(Shingun),​167–68 Margaret​Herrick​Library,​33,​290n95 Mark of Zorro, The,​16,​75–77 Marks,​Laura​U.,​162–63 Marukawa,​Takeo,​317n138 Marx,​Leo,​222 Mass​culture,​8,​24–25,​68,​70,​141,​145,​147 Masumura​Yasuzo,​14,​269,​275–76 Masutani,​Rin,​203,​229,​235 Maté,​Rudolph,​277 Materiality,​11,​61,​64,​132,​152,​156,​161,​163 Matinee​idol,​85 Matsui,​Chieko,​115 Matsui,​Junko,​113 Matsui,​Shoyo,​18,​45,​292n126 Matsuyama,​Iwao,​134 Matteita otoko.​See​Man Who Was Waiting, The Max​Factor,​61 Mayne,​Judith,​7 Mazda​lamp,​48,​100–101,​230,​309n128,​ 316n125,​317n140 Medicine,​155–56,​245,​308n122 Meiji​government,​19,​21,​134,​155 Méliès,​George,​69 Melodrama,​10,​34,​44,​53,​167,​171,​181,​188,​ 216,​220,​239,​250,​293n154,​321n190 Metropolis,​146 MgM,​216 Midorikawa,​Michio,​2,​34–35,​39,​203,​207– 9,​240,​277,​286n18,​294n173,​311n153

inDex  373

Mie,​103,​111,​138 Miki,​Shigeru,​17,​203,​205–6 Militarism,​12,​196,​200–202,​221,​226,​252,​ 259–60,​280 Milner,​Victor,​101,​183–84,​205,​215,​247–48 Mimasu,​Aiko,​187 Mimicry,​115–16,​128,​162,​201,​215,​227,​246,​ 251,​253 Mimura,​Akira​“Harry,”​13,​203,​223–24,​ 230–31,​234–54,​279 Ministry​of​Education,​34,​148,​197,​200,​ 208,​220,​256,​321n187 Ministry​of​Justice,​149 Ministry​of​Law,​215 Ministry​of​Navy,​251 Mirror,​30–32,​80,​177,​267 Miscegenation,​32 Misemono​(sideshow),​20 Mishima,​255 Mishima,​Yukio,​255 Mississippi Gambler,​277 Mitchell​camera,​16,​277 Miura,​Mitsuo,​3,​100,​177,​179,​181,​184,​186,​ 190–95,​203,​252,​267,​316n125 Miura,​Rei,​47–48 Miyagawa,​Kazuo,​14,​255–79 Miyaguchi,​Seiji,​308n117 Miyajima,​Yoshio,​17,​236 Miyamoto Musashi,​262 Miyauchi,​Shohei,​118 Mizoguchi,​Kenji,​13–14,​255–56,​267 Mizumachi,​Seiji,​92–93,​124 Mizuo,​Sakuko,​117 Mizuta,​Miya​Elise,​210–11 Mizutani,​Bunjiro,​39 Mizutani,​Yaeko,​53 Mobara,​Hideo,​159,​240 Mochida,​Yonehiko,​18 Modern​girl,​237 Modernity,​284n15;​co-​eval​modernity,​ 6–7,​11,​126,​128,​165,​246;​Japan​and,​5–9,​ 11–16,​20,​64–66,​121,​125,​133–34,​142,​170,​ 201,​269;​Shochiku​and,​11–16,​20,​55–66,​ 280;​spectatorship​and,​88–118;​technology​and,​145,​152,​155–56,​166,​171,​207,​ 214,​223 Modernization,​284n15;​cinema​and,​8,​17,​

374  inDex

20–21,​65,​68,​139;​Japan​and,​5,​19,​133–35,​ 145–46,​171;​Japanese​theater​and,​88–89 Monte Carlo,​101,​183 Montgomery,​Robert,​270 Monumental​style,​202 Morality,​32,​115,​132,​167,​170,​260 Mori,​Iwao,​56,​65,​68,​197,​234 Morin,​Edgar,​90–91 Morita,​Fujio,​47,​73,​103,​283n6 Moritz,​William,​162 Morocco,​183,​205 Mother​(Haha),​56 Mother of Memory​(Mabuta no haha),​184 Mother Should Be Loved, A​(Haha o kowazu ya),​217 Mountain​film​(Bergfilm),​212 Moussinac,​Léon,​118 Movie​theater,​27,​157–58 Muguruma,​Osamu,​57 Mukai,​Shunko,​127 Mukojima​studio​(Nikkatsu),​39,​48,​62,​ 103,​122,​293n144,​299n83 Murakami,​Hisao,​95 Murakami,​Tadahisa,​220 Murata,​Minoru,​17,​22,​39,​296n11,​311n153 Murayama,​Junji,​240 “Murdering​O-​Tsuya”​(“O-​Tsuya​goroshi”),​275 Murnau,​F.​W.,​120,​258 Muromachi,​Kyoji,​127 Murphy,​Joseph,​89 Music,​162,​187 Musical,​258,​261 Nagahama,​Keizo,​26–27,​59,​319n168 Nagai,​Shinichi,​290n100 Nagasaki,​150 Nagashi-​me​(sensual​sidelong​glance),​9,​ 103–7,​110–11,​113–15,​121,​138,​175,​177–78,​ 195.​See also​Close-​up;​Eye;​Mie;​Onobashi Nagata,​Masaichi,​59,​259,​277 Nagatsuka,​Takashi,​319n167 Nagayo,​Sensai,​156 Nagoya,​92,​112 Nakadai,​Tastuya,​270–71 Nakamura,​Ganemon,​249

Nakamura,​Ganjiro​I,​88,​92 Nakamura,​Ganjiro​II,​269 Nakano,​Toshio,​218 Nakatani,​Sadayori,​59 Nakazato,​Kaizan,​305n53 Namiko,​231,​234–35 Nanbu,​Ayako,​114 Nanbu,​Keinosuke,​316n125 Nani ga kanojo o so saseta ka.​See​What Made Her Do It? Nanko ketsubetsu.​See​Farewell of Nanko Nara,​83 Naremore,​James,​277 Naruse,​Mikio,​185,​323n264 Nasake no hikari.​See​Light of Compassion National​Film​Center,​34,​37,​47,​50,​72,​78,​ 102,​132,​290n102,​291n116,​297n22 National​film​policy​(eiga kokusaku),​196– 97,​200–202,​221,​254,​314n84 Nationalism:​cinema​and,​127–28,​191,​ 200–201,​229,​314n65;​Japan​and,​68,​196,​ 200–203,​230,​254,​259–60 Nationality,​6 National​mobilization​policy​(kokka sodoin taisei),​196 National-policy​film,​202,​237 Nationhood,​5,​201 Natsukawa,​Shizue,​236–37 Naturalism,​162,​223,​243,​262 Nazis,​199,​319n169,​320n172 Negotiation,​7–8,​13–14,​24,​80,​110,​119,​165,​ 201,​246,​251,​261,​280–81,​287n35,​288n57 Neighbor’s Wife and Mine, The​(Madamu to nyobo),​101 Neon​sign,​3,​146,​164,​210 New Earth, The​(Atarashiki tsuchi,​a.k.a.​Die Tochter des Samurai),​212,​221,​319n169 New Life, A​(Shinsei),​26,​77 News​film,​225,​247 New Year’s Eve​(Sylvester),​161–62 New​York​Institute​of​Photography,​231 Niblo,​Fred,​16 Nichirin.​See​Ring of the Sun Nihon​Eiga​Sha,​203 Nikkatsu​(Nihon​Katsudo​Shashin​Kabushiki​Gaisha),​17,​39,​43,​47–48,​50,​57–59,​ 62,​68,​74,​78–79,​98,​103,​122,​174,​203–4,​

220,​257,​259,​261,​295n214,​296n11,​303n1,​ 307n91,​317n140,​326n14 “Nine​to​Nine,”​157 Ninjo kamifusen.​See​Humanity and Paper Balloon Nipponese​Society​for​Cinematographers​ (nsc,​Nihon​Eiga​Kameraman​Kyokai),​ 2,​5,​17,​179,​186,​195,​207,​261,​316n125 Nishikawa,​Etsuji,​240–41,​243 Nishizumi sensha cho den.​See​Tank Commander Nishizumi Noda,​Kogo,​61,​157,​168 Nogitsune Sanji.​See​Sanji the Wild Fox Noh,​259,​263 Nomura,​Akira,​290n100 Nomura,​Hiromasa,​57,​227 Nomura,​Hiroshi,​18 Nomura,​Hotei,​43–44,​54–56,​62,​77,​87,​ 189 Nornes,​Abé​Mark,​12,​197–98,​208,​220,​252 Nostalgia,​213,​223 Nye,​David,​222 Oba,​Hideo,​57 Obata,​Toshikazu,​51,​57 Objectification,​90,​110–11,​115–16,​155,​160,​ 177,​272–73 Obo Kichizo.​See​Kichizo the Monk Obora,​Gengo,​48 O-Chiyo’s Umbrella​(O-Chiyo gasa),​258 Odd Obsession​(Kagi),​269–76,​279 Ofuna​studio​(Shochiku),​219–20,​226,​ 228–29,​235,​241 Ogawa,​Yukiko,​85,​131 Ogle,​Patrick,​238,​247,​323n273 Ogura,​Kinji,​207,​241 Ohashi,​Koichiro,​112 Oka,​Joji,​189,​306n89 Okada,​Munetaro,​43 Okada,​Tokihiko,​146,​149,​299n74,​308n122 Okada,​Yoshiko,​306n89,​308n122 Okajima,​Hisashi,​47 Okamura,​Akira,​95 Okochi,​Denjiro,​58,​74,​78,​93–94,​174 Okudaira,​Hideo,​129 Okumura,​Yasuo,​60 O-Natsu Seijuro,​98–99

inDex  375

180​degree​system,​44 Onnagata,​60–62,​64–66,​88,​103,​122,​ 299n83 Onnakeizu.​See​Female Genealogy Onna to kaizoku.​See​Woman and Pirates Ono,​Shichiro,​3 Onobashi​(extension),​9,​103–6,​110,​114–15,​ 121,​175,​177,​185,​195.​See also​Close-​up;​ Nagashi-​me Onoe,​Kikugoro,​142,​292n126 Onoe,​Matsunosuke,​49–51,​69,​78–79,​106 Opus I–IV,​162,​164 Oriental​Film​Company,​231,​234–35 Orochi,​83 Orthochromatic​film,​100,​263,​301n135,​ 317n130,​317n140 Osaka,​16,​19,​58,​64,​82,​91–92,​112,​176,​210 Osaka,​Soichi,​218 Osaki,​Koyo,​62 Osanai,​Kaoru,​22,​77–79,​288n56 Oshidori utagassen.​See​Singing Lovebirds Ota,​Saburo,​190,​192–93,​195 Ota,​Yoneo,​256 Otake,​Jiro,​127 Otani,​Takejiro,​16,​18–19,​21–22,​55,​59,​123,​ 170,​290n104 Otherness,​32 Otosan.​See​Father Ototo.​See​Younger Brother Otsuka,​Kyoichi,​23,​236 Our Daily Bread,​306n86 Over the Hill to the Poorhouse,​321n190 Oyatoi​gaikokujin​(hired​foreigner),​19 Ozawa,​Eitaro,​268 Ozawa,​Meiichiro,​131 Ozu,​Yasujiro,​10,​13,​120,​141–71,​217,​240,​ 321n190

Paramount​Pictures,​27,​51,​62,​240,​283n8,​ 316n125 Paramount​tone,​26–27,​159 Pathé​camera,​290n100 Patriarchy,​111 Peace​Preservation​Law​(1925),​68 Pearl​Harbor,​228,​251–52 Pépé le Moko,​183 Performativity,​88,​116 Phenomenology,​116–18,​163,​167 Photo​Chemical​Laboratory​(pcL),​59,​ 173–74,​203,​234–36,​323n249 Photogénie,​116–18,​159 Photogenist,​264 Photography,​146,​164–65,​182,​290n96 Pickford,​Mary,​22 Place for Leo​(Shishi no za),​259–60 Plato,​223 Poe,​Edgar​Allan,​150 Point-​of-​view​shot,​36,​53,​131,​136–39,​143,​ 146,​153,​170,​234,​273,​306n89 Polaroid​camera,​270,​273 Poppy​(Gubijinso),​34,​60–61 Primitivism,​117 Producer​system,​197 Product​differentiation,​124 Prokino,​318n145 Propaganda,​film​and,​200,​202,​220,​252,​ 310n149,​320n172 Public​sphere,​156,​159 Puppy Love,​62 Pure​film​movement​(jun’eigageki undo),​ 20–24,​42,​55–56,​77,​128,​288n56,​312n32

Race,​31–32,​117–18 Raft,​George,​185 Raine,​Michael,​308n111,​314n124 Rashomon,​14,​255,​258,​260,​265–67 Rationalization,​9,​24–25,​54–59,​65,​119,​​ Page of Madness, A​(Kurutta ichipeiji),​121– 280 23,​126–27,​129,​132,​133 Painting:​ink​(sumi-​e),​3,​248,​257,​267,​276;​ Ray,​Man,​169 Realism,​12–14,​25,​45,​61,​64–65,​70–71,​93,​ Japanese,​264;​scroll,​277–78;​Western,​ 104,​108,​115–18,​120,​142,​147,​162,​167,​176,​ 264;​woodblock​(ukiyo-​e),​248,​276 178–79,​181,​183–86,​188,​190,​193,​195,​211– Paisan,​264 25,​228,​230–31,​239–41,​245–48,​252–53,​ Panchromatic​film,​100–101,​121,​159,​164,​ 261–69,​272–73,​275–76,​278–79,​312n25,​ 205–6,​212,​230,​238,​247–48,​263,​301n135,​ 312n32,​320n176 309n128,​313n63,​317n140 Reality​effect,​263–68,​275,​279 Parallel​editing,​49.​See also​Crosscutting

376  inDex

Reception,​20,​80,​89–90,​122,​165 Record of an Edo Thief: The Shadow Monk​ (Edo kaizoku den: Kageboshi),​124 Record of the Ocean Country​(Kaikokuki),​ 85,​108 Record of New Women​(Shin josei kagami),​ 100 Red,​263,​275–79.​See also​Color Reflector,​15,​18,​32,​212,​253,​306n86 Reid,​Wallace,​51 Reinhardt,​Max,​289n82 Rembrandt,​27,​34,​36,​179,​312n25,​312n32 Rembrandt,​320n172 Renoir,​Jean,​141,​183 Rensageki​(chain​drama),​122 Resurrection​(Voskraeseniye),​299n83 Ri,​Koran,​198 Riegl,​Alois,​160–61 Ring of the Sun​(Nichirin),​78,​296n11 Rojo no reikon.​See​Souls on the Road Rokumeikan,​308n121 Romance of Happy Valley, A,​291n123 Rossellini,​Roberto,​264 Rules​of​Controlling​Motion​Pictures​ (Katsudo​shashin​kogyo​toroshimari​ ​kisoku),​104 Rustling a Bride,​62 Ruttmann,​Walter,​162,​164 Ryu,​Chishu,​226 Saito,​Tatsuo,​150 Saito,​Torajiro,​18 Sajimaro the Thief​(Kaito Sajimaro),​108 Sakata,​Tojuro,​176 Sakyo,​Sayuri,​176 Salome,​299n83 Salt,​Barry,​238 Sanitary​Bureau,​144–45,​148,​155–56 Sanji the Wild Fox​(Nogitsune Sanji),​108 Sansho the Bailiff​(Sansho dayu),​255 Sasaki,​Shintaro,​159 Sasaki,​Taro,​203,​229–30,​232–33 Sashidashi​(insert),​64 Sata,​Ineko.​See​Kubokawa,​Ineko Sato,​Haruo,​149–50 Sato,​Tadao,​105–6,​323n264 Satsunan sodoin.​See​General Mobilization in Satsunan

Sauerbruch,​Ferdinand,​310n149 Sawada,​Shojiro,​70–72,​81,​122 Sawamura,​Shirogoro,​50 Sawamura,​Tsutomu,​221–22 Scarface,​235 Schisgall,​Oscar,​157 Schrader,​Paul,​255 Scopic​field,​147–56,​166 Seashell and the Clergyman, The​(La coquille et le clergyman),​169 Season of Love, The​(Koi shiru koro),​317n140 Sea Star, The​(L’Étoile de mer),​169 Second​World​War.​See​World​War​II Secret Garden, The,​62 Secret of the Mine, The​(Kozan no himitsu),​ 26,​77 Seiran.​See​Blue Storm Seki,​Misao,​101 Sensory​perception,​11,​61,​115–16,​120–21,​ 135–36,​163,​166–67,​214 Sensuality,​32,​62,​64,​102,​105–6,​110–11,​113,​ 118,​121,​123,​160,​163,​188,​268,​299n83 Serpent Princess​(Hebihimesama),​240 7th Heaven,​97 Sexuality,​61,​115 Shanghai Express,​3,​205,​221,​226 Shiba,​Seika,​136 Shiga,​Shigetaka,​208–9 Shigeno,​Yukiyoshi,​48 Shima no onna.​See​Woman of the Island Shimazaki,​Kiyohiko,​181–84,​190,​192–94,​ 202–3,​218–20,​222,​224–26,​246,​253–54,​ 319n167 Shimazu,​Yasujiro,​9,​23,​51,​55 Shimokamo,​85–86,​92–118,​124,​129,​176 Shimokamo​studio​(Shochiku),​18,​54–55,​ 84–118,​120–21,​123–27,​129–30,​134,​147,​ 174–77,​184–85,​192,​204,​298n51,​301n134 Shimura,​Miyoko,​186,​198 Shimura,​Takashi,​265 Shina no yoru.​See​China Night Shingeki​(European-​influenced​form​of​ realist​theater),​22,​121–22 Shin-​jidaigeki​(new​period​drama),​82 Shin josei kagami.​See​Record of New Women Shinkankaku​(new​impressionist)​school,​ 122 Shinko​Kinema,​59,​259,​326n14

inDex  377

Shinkokugeki​(new​national​theater),​9,​ 69–74,​80–81,​122,​305n53 Shinoda,​Masahiro,​257,​263–64 Shinohara,​Yasushi,​236 Shinpa​(new​school,​or​modern​drama​influenced​by​traditional​Kabuki​style),​20,​ 22–23,​38,​43–46,​48,​51,​54–56,​60–62,​ 69,​73,​82,​87–88,​91,​103,​122,​139,​142,​188,​ 234,​287n37,​299n83,​303n1 Shin​rekishi​eiga​(new​history​cinema),​ 314n65 Shinsei.​See​New Life, A Shinsengumi,​70–71,​73 Shirai,​Matsujiro,​80–81 Shirai,​Shigeru,​19,​43 Shirai,​Shintaro,​43,​84–85,​91–92,​103,​110,​ 126 Shishi no za.​See​Place for Leo Shochiku,​1,​5,​8–11,​14–69,​72–73,​77–171,​ 173–78,​184–85,​189,​197,​199–204,​215–17,​ 219–20,​224–30,​232–33,​235,​238,​240,​252,​ 262,​280,​295n196,​296n1,​318n145,​328n79.​ See also​“Bright​and​cheerful​Shochiku​ cinema”;​Kamata-​cho;​Kamata​studio Shochiku​Cinema​Institute​(Shochiku​ Kinema​Kenkyujo),​22,​77 Shot​reverse​shot,​44,​62,​69,​102,​253 Silberman,​Marc,​139 Sin-Free City, The​(Tsumi naki machi),​215 Singer,​Ben,​10 Singing Lovebirds​(Oshidori utagassen),​ 261–63 Sino-​Japanese​War,​196,​219,​234 Skyscrapers​(Matenro),​17 Sobchack,​Vivian,​110,​242–45 Socialism,​68 Society​of​Motion​Picture​Engineers,​101 Soft​focus,​61,​98,​102,​258 Soft​tone,​107,​226,​236–39,​246–48,​268,​ 280,​291n123,​319n167 Soil​(Tsuchi),​318n167 Soma,​Ippei,​131 Sono yo no tsuma.​See​That Night’s Wife Sontag,​Susan,​320n175 Souls on the Road​(Rojo no reikon),​22 Sound,​136,​240,​320n176 Soyama,​Naomori,​207 Special​effects,​252

378  inDex

Spectacle,​10,​13,​65,​70,​72,​75,​79,​83,​89,​ 131–32,​139,​146,​153,​156–57,​162,​166,​171,​ 192,​201,​249,​261,​280 Spectatorship,​7–9,​23–24,​84–118,​120,​ 135,​153,​198,​200–202,​223,​247,​279–81;​ female,​85–88,​92,​110–18 Speedy,​308n111 Spider Tattoo​(Irezumi),​275–79 Spy​film,​258 Spy of Love​(Koi no misshi),​34 Stagecoach,​223–24,​306n86 Staiger,​Janet,​111 Stamp,​Shelly,​87 Standardization,​5,​10,​104,​252,​296n4 Standish,​Isolde,​22–23 Star,​7–10,​16,​19–20,​22,​25,​30,​34,​49,​51,​ 60–65,​68–69,​74,​80,​82–121,​123–25,​127,​ 134,​139,​159,​165,​173,​177,​181,​183–88,​193– 96,​198,​222,​225,​227,​231,​237,​246,​251,​ 258–60,​280,​299n74,​299n83,​323n264 Star of Woman and Man​(Jobuboshi),​93–94,​ 124 Steinhoff,​Hans,​320n172 Stendhal,​208 Sternberg,​Josef​von,​2–3,​9,​51,​165,​183,​207,​ 210,​226,​258,​283n8,​316n125 Stieglitz,​Alfred,​290n96 Story of the Filial Child Goro Masamune, The​(Goro Masamune koshi den),​50,​73,​ 293n153 Strauss,​Carl,​205 Street, The​(Die Straße),​120,​128,​139 Street​films,​10–11,​119–71,​280 Student Romance: Days of Youth​(Gakusei romansu: Wakaki hi),​150 Studlar,​Gaylyn,​111 Study of Japanese Landscape, A​(Nihon fukei ron),​208 Stull,​William,​179,​181,​216 Subjectivity,​5,​8,​88–91,​110–18,​135,​145,​200,​ 299n83 Sublime,​192,​195,​207,​209,​214,​222–24,​229,​ 239,​280,​319n167 Suga,​Tadao,​213 Sugawara,​Hideo,​308n122 Sugiyama,​Heiichi,​248 Sugiyama,​Kohei,​103–4,​112,​114,​121,​130,​ 136,​177,​240,​251

Suikoden.​See​Water Margin Sumi​ink,​248,​257,​263 Sunaeshibari,​82 Superimposition,​162 Surveillance,​133,​145,​152,​155–56,​163,​169,​ 308n117 Suzuki,​Denmei,​168,​299n74 Suzuki,​Hiroshi,​241,​252 Suzuki,​Juzaburo,​47,​51,​102 Suzuki,​Shigeyoshi,​168–70 Suzuki,​Tamotsu,​93 Swanson,​Gloria,​231 Swashbuckler,​75–77,​280 Sword That Slashes Human and Horse, The​ (Zanjin zanba ken),​298n51 Tableaux,​62,​64–65,​95,​103 Tachibana,​Kanichi,​203 Tachibana,​Koshiro,​203 Tachibana,​Nobuo,​241 Tachibana,​Takahiro,​85 Tachibana,​Teijiro,​62,​299n83 Tactility,​91,​110,​116,​128,​142,​159–63,​165,​ 273,​275–76,​310n136.​See also​Hand;​ Haptic;​Touch Taguchi,​Oson,​16,​18 Taisho​democracy,​67–68 Taisho​government,​134–35 Taishu​bungaku,​70,​74 Taizumi,​Yasunao,​15 Takada,​Hiroshi,​86 Takada,​Minoru,​45,​299n74 Takamine,​Hideko,​243,​323n264 Takamura,​Kurataro,​5 Takatsu,​Keiko,​168,​170 Takeda,​Akira,​55 Takeda,​Chuya,​125,​128–29 Taketomi,​Yoshio,​229 Takeyama,​Masanobu,​234 Takii,​Koji,​3–4 Takizawa,​Hajime,​68 Talking​picture,​101,​231,​235,​238–39,​280,​ 320n176 Tamagawa​studio​(Nikkatsu),​203 Tamai,​Masao,​215,​235 Tamaki,​Chonosuke,​16 Tamura,​Yukihiko,​198,​240–41 Tanaka,​Eizo,​122,​231

Tanaka,​Junichiro,​58,​83,​122–23 Tanaka,​Kaneyuki​“Edward,”​16,​26,​77 Tanaka,​Kinuyo,​87,​98–99,​168,​189,​228,​ 260,​306n89 Tanaka,​Toshio,​26,​216,​226–27,​306n86,​ 317n138,​317n140 Tanizaki,​Jun’ichiro,​1–2,​4,​209–11,​222,​ 269–70,​275–76 Tank Commander Nishizumi​(Nishizumi sensha cho den),​224–26,​228–29 Tateshi​(sword-​fighting​choreographer),​73 “Tattoo”​(“Shisei”),​275 Tawarada,​Tatsuo,​157 Technicolor,​3,​247,​277 Teichiku,​262 Teikoku​Engei​Kinema​(Teikine),​58,​68,​ 77,​170 Teikoku​Gekijo​Theater,​196 Tejima,​Masuji,​203 Television,​281 That Night’s Wife​(Sono yo no tsuma),​10–11,​ 120,​141–71 Theatricality,​8–9,​20–23,​44–46,​54–56,​61,​ 64,​68,​73,​80,​85,​103,​115,​139,​280 Thin Man, The,​199 Third-​person​narrative,​272 Third​Reich,​320n172 Thompson,​Kristin,​49,​97 Three Came Home,​260 Three-​dimensionality,​15,​33,​45,​54,​108,​219,​ 224,​246,​249,​310n136 Toa​Kinema,​58,​68 Toei​Kyoto​Cinema​Village,​74 Toho,​12,​45,​173–203,​215,​221,​228,​230,​234– 36,​238,​240,​253,​280,​295n196,​317n138 Tohoku,​240–41,​244 Tojuro’s Love​(Tojuro no koi),​176–84,​190,​ 203,​238 Tokuda,​Shonosuke,​129 Tokugawa​shogunate,​19,​72 Tokutomi,​Roka,​62,​234 Tokyo,​6,​8,​15,​19–20,​25,​27,​48,​56,​58,​64,​ 67,​85,​87,​112,​146,​149–50,​152,​156–59,​ 166,​174,​176,​210,​235,​308n117 Tokyo boshoku.​See​Tokyo Twilight Tokyo Chorus​(Tokyo no korasu),​308n122 Tokyo​Electric​Company​(Tokyo​Dento​ Gaisha),​308n121

inDex  379

Tokyo​Mazda​Lighting​School,​100 Tokyo​Metropolitan​Police​Department,​19,​ 85,​149,​203 Tokyo no korasu.​See​Tokyo Chorus Tokyo no onna.​See​Woman of Tokyo Tokyo no yado.​See​Inn in Tokyo, An Tokyo​Takarazuka​Gekijo​Company,​174 Tokyo Twilight​(Tokyo boshoku),​308n117 Toland,​Gregg,​13,​230–31,​238,​242,​245–48,​ 264,​267 Tolstoy,​299n83 Tomita,​Mika,​69 “Tom​Thumb”​(“Issunboshi”),​136 Tomonari,​Yozo,​304n21 Tone,​25 Tones​of​lighting.​See​Gacho Toranku.​See​Trunk Torn Woven Umbrella​(Yabure amigasa),​ 94,​96 Touch,​sense​of,​121,​135,​160,​163.​See also​ Hand;​Haptic;​Tactility Toyama,​Shizuo,​45 Toy​film​(omocha eiga),​104–105 Toyoda,​Masako,​239 Tradition,​4–5,​11,​20,​68,​201–3,​207–9,​227,​ 256,​258–61,​264–65,​267,​278,​280;​invention​of,​5,​7,​12,​14,​25,​211,​213,​219,​248,​260 Transcendence,​244–45 Transnationalism,​4–6 Transparency,​263 Tree of Love, The​(Aizen katsura),​227 Trespasser,​231 Truffaut,​Francois,​255 Trunk​(Toranku),​19 Tsuboi,​Hideto,​134 Tsuburaya,​Eiichi,​112,​114,​175 Tsuchi.​See​Soil Tsuchiya,​Kiyoyuki,​203,​239 Tsukigata Hanpeita,​70–72,​81,​122 Tsukiji​Shogekijo,​79 Tsumi naki machi.​See​Sin-Free City, The Tsumura,​Hideo,​198,​227,​251,​302n165 Tsura-​akari​(face​light),​64 Tsuruhachi Tsurujiro,​185 Two-​dimensionality,​33,​219 Uchida,​Tomu,​306n86,​319n167 Ueda,​Isamu,​85

380  inDex

Uehara,​Ken,​225,​228–29 Uemura,​Sumizaburo,​234 Uemura,​Taiji,​203,​234 Ugetsu​(Ugetsu monogatari),​14,​255,​263,​ 267–69 Uma.​See​Horse, The Umarete wa mitakeredo.​See​I Was Born, But . . . Union Pacific,​322n229 United​Artists,​122 United​Associations​of​Film​Artists​(Rengo​ Eiga​Geijutsu​Kyokai),​122 Universal,​277 Universal​Manhood​Suffrage​Act​(1925),​68 Universum​Film​ag​(ufa),​160,​320n172 Unno,​Ryujin,​168 Uno,​Masao,​203,​211–12 Uratani,​Toshiro,​73 Ushihara,​Kiyohiko,​17–18,​167–69,​229,​ 290n100 Ushimatsu in the Dark​(Kurayami no Ushimatsu),​142 Uzumasa​studio​(Nikkatsu),​58,​98,​326n14 Valentino,​Rudolph,​89–90,​111 Variety​(Varieté),​311n153 Vermeer,​Johannes,​79 Vertical​integration,​64,​197 Vidor,​King,​141,​165,​306n86 Village at Dawn, A​(Akeyuku mura),​ 290n102 Village at the Sunset, A​(Yuyo no mura),​61,​ 63 Visibility,​9–10,​13,​24,​29,​38–39,​45,​47–48,​ 57,​62,​64,​74,​95,​101,​119–20,​131,​142,​193,​ 228,​279,​281 Vision,​sense​of,​8,​11,​121,​132,​134–38,​141,​ 163.​See also​Eye Viva Mexico!,​327n49 Voice,​135 Voiceover,​270 Volkoff,​Alexandre,​118,​298n44 Voyeurism,​90 Wada-​Marciano,​Mistuyo,​20,​119 Wakana,​Mari,​177 Wakao,​Ayako,​276 Wagner,​Fritz​Arno,​164

Wall​Street​crash​of​1929,​146 War at Sea from Hawaii to Malaya, The​ (Hawai Mare oki kaisen),​186,​251–54 War​film,​104,​220,​224 Wartime​film​system​(eiga rinsen taisei),​196 Watanabe,​Yutaka,​256,​263–64,​267,​276 Wataragi,​Moichi,​100 Water Margin​(Suikoden,​a.k.a.​Shui Hu Zhuan),​216 Weine,​Robert,​161 Weisenfeld,​Gennifer,​157 Welles,​Orson,​246–47 Western​Electric​Sound​System​(We),​231,​ 234 Westerner, The,​242 Westernization,​25,​204,​257,​308n121 What Made Her Do It?​(Nani ga kanojo o so saseta ka),​168–69,​288n50 Whissel,​Kristen,​223 Whiteness,​31–32,​36,​38,​42,​51,​53–54,​61,​ 70,​74,​94,​108,​130,​132,​143–56,​163–64,​ 166,​195,​268–70,​272–73,​275–76,​278–79,​ 306n89,​308n117 Wide-​angle​lens,​224 Wilde,​Oscar,​299n83 Wilder,​Billy,​270 Williams,​Linda,​116 Williams,​Raymond,​25 Woman and Pirates​(Onna to kaizoku),​77,​ 82 Woman of the Island​(Shima no onna),​18,​ 38–40,​42,​60 Woman of Tokyo​(Tokyo no onna),​306n89 Woman Who Stands in Light​(Hikari ni tatsu onna),​39 Working​class,​68,​166 World​War​I,​8,​16,​310n149 World​War​II,​12,​14,​80,​255–56,​258–61,​ 264,​280–81 Writing Class​(Tsuzurikata kyoshitsu),​239,​ 324n274 Wyckoff,​Alvin,​27–28,​231,​289n79 Wyler,​William,​230,​242

Yabure amigasa.​See​Torn Woven Umbrella Yaji Kita: The Great Emperor’s New Year​ (Yaji Kita: Meikun hatsu agari),​261–62 Yakumo,​Emiko,​166,​308n122 Yakuza Umbrella in Spring Rain​(Kyokaku harusamegasa),​112 Yamada,​Isuzu,​185–89,​194,​196,​198–200,​ 229 Yamahoshi,​93 Yamamoto,​Kajiro,​176,​186,​239–40,​251 Yamanaka,​Sadao,​246,​248–49 Yamane,​Sadao,​185 Yanagita,​Kunio,​134 Yanai,​Yoshio,​87 Yanome,​Genichi,​126–27 Yari no Gonza.​See​Gonza, the Spearman Yasumoto,​Jun,​323n264 Yoda,​Yoshitaka,​256 Yojimbo,​256 Yokohama,​64 Yokota,​Einosuke,​317n140 Yoshida,​Kiju,​147 Yoshimoto,​Mitsuhiro,​68,​264 Yoshimura,​Kozaburo,​224–25,​322n232 Yoshino,​Jiro,​50 Yoshino,​Nobutaka,​1,​2,​4,​204,​281 Yoshiwara,​125,​130,​132,​137,​304n24 Yotsuya Ghost Story​(Yotsuya kaidan),​45,​ 292n128 Younger Brother​(Ototo),​268 Yukinojo henge.​See​Actor’s Revenge, An Yukitomo,​Rifu,​81 Yume no ukihashi.​See​Floating Bridge of a Dream, A Yuyo no mura.​See​Village at the Sunset, A Zanjin zanba ken.​See​Sword That Slashes Human and Horse, The Zen​Buddhism,​259 Zhang,​Zhen,​115–16,​213–14 Zola,​182 Zoo in Budapest,​204 Zukor,​Adolph,​29

inDex  381

Da i su k e​ M i yao ​is​associate​professor​in​the​Department​ of​East​Asian​Languages​and​Literatures​at​the​University​of​ Oregon.​He​is​the​author​of​Sessue Hayakawa: Silent Cinema and Transnational Stardom,​also​published​by​Duke​University​Press.

Library​of​Congress​Cataloging-​in-​Publication​Data Miyao,​Daisuke. The​aesthetics​of​shadow​:​lighting​and​Japanese​cinema​/​ Daisuke​Miyao. p.​cm. Includes​bibliographical​references​and​index. isbn​978-​0-​8223-​5407-​9​(cloth​:​alk.​paper) isbn​978-​0-​8223-​5422-​2​(pbk.​:​alk.​paper) 1.​Cinematography—Lighting. 2.​Cinematographers—Japan.​​ 3.​Motion​picture​industry—Japan—History. 4.​Culture​in​ motion​pictures. I.​Title. pn1993.5.j3M56​2013 777.092—dc23 2012033713