Ikiru (Akira Kurosawa - 1952)

Directed by Akira Kurosawa
Written by Akira Kurosawa, Hideo Oguni, Shinobu Hashimoto
Cinematography Asakazu Nakai 
Starring Takashi Shimura

Of the great Japanese directors (or at least those that I am aware of), Akira Kurosawa seems to have been the most preoccupied with moral dilemmas, of the spiritual fragility of humankind. Kurosawa's fixation with the darker side of human nature seemed to cover most of his oeuvre, and these themes percolated in his period pieces as well as dramas set in contemporary backdrops, and of the latter, Ikiru could very well be the finest. 

The film's premise of an aging government official diagnosed with a terminal illness and with hardly a year to live provided Kurosawa enough fodder for a critique of bureaucracy as well as the cynicism of modern society. But most of all, as the title Ikiru (which roughly translates as "to live") indicates, the film also asks what it means to live, which is not the same as merely existing.

When the film's protagonist Kenji Watanabe (Takashi Shimura), after 30 years in government service, realises that he has stomach cancer and has less than a year to live, he is faced with the bare truth that he has accomplished nothing all these years. Deciding to make the most of the time he has, the otherwise miserly Watanabe indulges in the city's nightlife and tries to flirt with a young woman from his office, but he soon tires of it. With his days coming to an end, he seeks truth, or simply put, a sense of purpose. And he very soon finds it during one of his evenings out with the young woman.

'Ikiru' is split neatly into two halves, the first depicting Watanabe's predicament and his search for meaning, and the second a memorial after his death, where his co-workers discuss his "legacy". Kurosawa opens the film by showing us an X-ray of Watanabe's cancer-afflicted tummy, followed by a dissolve into a shot of Watanabe, surrounded, even overwhelmed, by files all around him. Almost immediately, we are shown a group of women making a ruckus with the local municipals for taking so long to cover up stagnating water bodies in their area, giving us a glimpse into the rampant red-tapism in public sector bodies in Japan at the time. It would also prove to be a vital part of the narrative, later on. 

Throughout the remaining portion of the first half, Kurosawa tries to put the viewer on its protagonist's side, imploring us to empathise with the poor man's plight. To make sure that we do, Kurosawa makes use of every possible device in his cinematic arsenal - deep focus photography, montage sequences, wide-angle shots etc.. Especially moving are the montage sequences where he flips through memories of life with his son whose mother died when he was a kid (the son is now indifferent towards his father), the long shot showing Watanabe all alone in the clinic as he waits for the doctor's verdict, a desolate figure, and the close-up where Watanabe, looking straight into the camera, sings in a drunken stupor, "Life is short - fall in love, dear maiden", as his eyes brim with tears. When Watanabe, after finding his purpose, walks out of the restaurant when a birthday celebration is on in the background with the "Happy Birthday" refrain, it is hard to miss the allegory.

It is in the second half that Kurosawa's portrait of contemporary Japanese society becomes especially bleak. As Watanabe's co-workers gather at a memorial held after his death, what begins as a discussion on whether he was aware of his terminal illness soon delves into something less than mud-slinging, as they try to wring credit out of the departed bureaucrat for his parting gift to the world, which was to cover up the open sewer and turn it into a children's park. As they gulp cup after cup of sake, Kurosawa lets us note the irony with which the bureaucrats, who were all too eager to dump the women's request to the other department, are now desperate for the credit once the work has been completed.

But Kurosawa refuses to be cynical about humanity. As the film closes on a shot of the park with children gleefully playing in it, we are reminded, without any words spoken, that Watanabe's efforts, no matter how late in life, did not go in vain, and that the world could do with a few more of his ilk.

Kurosawa's flashy style when it came to telling his stories, which play upon the film's pacing too, are in marked contrast with the more nuanced styles of Ozu and Mizoguchi. One might even be tempted to call his style "brash", as many have, but does that really matter? He spoke from his heart, and was master of his craft, which alone accounts for his triumph as one of the cinema's formidable artists.