No More “I Love” Views
There
exists an ancient Indian parable sometimes called “The Blind Men and the
Elephant” that is a touchstone for unlocking the mystery of the unreliable
narrator and the subjectivity of individual perspective. In the parable, six blind
monks approach an elephant, each one of them limited by his individual
perspective, relying only on touch as the key to perception. One touches a leg
and thinks it a pillar; another touches the tail and perceives a rope; a third
feels the trunk and thinks it a tree branch; and so on until the elephant’s ear
is a fan, the belly is a solid wall, and the tusk is a pipe. Each of them
grasps a piece of the whole, but none of them take in the entirety of the
reality of the elephant. Should they band together, surely there is a
possibility that their individual experiences could be fit together like a
puzzle to create the larger whole. Individually, each monk is left with the
limitations of his isolated experience. Akutagawa Ryūnosuke recreated this
anomaly of limited perspective in his short story “In a Grove.” In turn, Akira
Kurosawa’s masterful film Rashomon
captured the same phenomenon on screen. Told through the testimonies of both
witnesses and participants, the story of a murder unfolds, only to leave the
reader and viewer puzzling over the discrepancies, trying to make sense of a
muddled narrative. Ultimately, what Rashomon
reveals is that individual narratives, solitary perspectives, and biased
viewpoints are not to be trusted, but rather seen with a healthy dose of
skepticism, that eventually all narrators are unreliable, and that ultimate
truth is as elusive as human life itself.
The
opening scenes of Kurosawa’s Rashomon
insert the viewer into a torrential downpour, pelting a destroyed temple. It is
a dour world, and the viewers are introduced to two dour witnesses, the
woodcutter and the Buddhist priest, the selfsame initial storytellers from “In
a Grove.” The weather reflects the witnesses’ inner turmoil, in reaction to
recent events, while the ruined temple represents the characters’ recent loss
of faith in humanity. As they despair on the inside, the earth is pelted by a
deluge outside. They are soon visited by a passerby, an inserted character that
becomes a surrogate for the viewer. Just as the audience wants to find out more
about what has happened, the passerby does this for them, propelling the story forward.
Two extremely limited perspectives follow. The woodcutter begins, telling his
tale of walking through the groves, and Kurosawa accompanies this walk with
about as many angles of the woodcutter and the grove as there are stories to
tell concerning the events to come. Dappled sunlight peeks through the canopy
of trees, revealing to the viewer that the weather was drastically different
before the ensuing tragedy, hence revealing that all was not lost just a few
short days prior, while also revealing that stories are equal parts light and darkness, that perhaps what is about to be seen is to be as equally trusted as distrusted. The woodcutter finds a hat, a scarf, and a samurai’s cap, all
before finding the body of a slain samurai. The Buddhist priest adds his tale,
having seen the samurai with his young bride just hours earlier, commenting on
her beauty and confirming their position on the road. As these are outsider’s
perspectives, they merely act as prologue, an introduction to the end result
and the beginning, with just the “in between” to be narrated. For this, Ryūnosuke
and Kurosawa provide the trio of participants in the murder: the samurai, his
wife, and the bandit, Tajomaru.
The
bandit is heard from first, his perspective tainted by a show of bravado in
order to maintain his reputation. In both the short story and the film
adaptation, the legend of Tajomaru is well known. The wife’s mother has heard
of his antics (her story not included in the film), and the policeman who
caught Tajomaru had been seeking him for days. This being known, the viewer
must see anything that is said through the lens of Tajomaru as the ravings of a
narcissist, a man attempting to escalate his stature as a man to be feared and
acknowledged. At several turns, Tajomaru boasts of his prowess with a sword,
claiming that no one has ever crossed swords with him more than twenty times.
One is reminded about those who boast about their own experiences, exaggerate
events for effect, or outright lie in order to curry favor with others. If for
no other, Tajomaru’s testimony must be dismissed for this reason. As will
become evident with the other perspectives, the luxury of time has increased
the exaggerated nature of events, which Kurosawa depicts as almost cartoonish
actions. Characters laugh maniacally, sob uncontrollably, and either act more
bravely or more cowardly than is at all likely. While the woodcutter and the
priest give the viewer the bookends of the story, Tajomaru illustrates one
version of events, one in which he is naturally the daring and dashing brigand,
taking a beautiful woman for his own, and besting a samurai in order to win her
companionship. In fact, what is later described as a rape is seen in Tajomaru’s
version as more of a seduction, that she was naturally attracted to his roguish
nature. It is a ridiculous story from an obviously unreliable narrator, but he
is not the only one.
The
wife is questioned after the bandit, and amongst a fit of "soap opera worthy" sobs, she starts to reveal another series of events entirely. The seduction has
now become a rape, and any agency she has as a participant is immediately
abandoned. She seeks forgiveness from her husband, as he remains tied to a
tree, and he gives her nothing but the cold shoulder in return. She frees him
and asks to be killed, but instead she faints from his continued disconnection
and scorn. Once she awakens, her samurai husband is dead, and she attempts
suicide in response, completely bereft and distraught at the turn of events
that have ended in tragedy. The wife casts herself as a victim, an unwitting
participant, subject to the whims of the two men in the scene. Her story is
punctuated with sobbing, so much so that the story must be seen in the same
light with which one sees Tajomaru’s, as untrustworthy and unreliable, but for
different reasons. Whereas Tajomaru tries to maintain his reputation as a
dangerous brigand, the wife seeks to retain an air of innocence and propriety.
She casts herself as the ultimate ingénue, guiltless, blameless, and a victim
of circumstance. Unluckily for the wife, her samurai husband has something to
say from beyond the grave.
A
medium, one who communes with the dead, is summoned to relate the slain
samurai’s story. Just as in the short story, Kurosawa reveals this ingenious
method of unveiling one more side to the narrative. Through sinister background
music and an eerie voice effect, layering the samurai’s voice over the female
medium’s voice, Kurosawa convinces the viewer that he is watching the
disembodied voice of the murdered husband, though even this must be taken with
a grain of salt. In his version of the story, his newlywed wife breaks his
heart, asking to travel with Tajomaru after she is the victim of his rape. She
then asks Tajomaru to kill her husband so that she will not belong to two men
at one time. Tajomaru, shocked at this turn of events, gives the samurai the
option to either let the wife go or to kill her. Ultimately, the samurai kills
himself in his grief. The sword is eventually removed, but he does not see who
has removed it. Viewers may be tempted to take the voice of the dead as the
ultimate truth as there may be nothing more to gain from this story than a need
to set matters aright. However, holes in his story abound, including how he was
bested by a brigand in the first place, and whether or not the samurai has
chosen to present his death as honorable instead of having been slain at the
hands of a common thief. The short story closes with this perspective, the reader
is left wondering where the ultimate truth may lie, and this is indeed the
purpose of the narrative, to have one question the ultimate nature of truth,
especially within the perspectives of individuals, limited by bias, experience,
and perspective. Kurosawa adds more to the story, including another revelation
by the woodcutter, and a surprise to provide a moral message.
As
unbelievable as these stories are, especially placed one after another to
provide contrast and fuel doubt, the woodcutter claims that he has even more to
elucidate as he says he has actually witnessed the rape and murder. He avers that
all three told lies in their testimonies, though that should not be a shock to
the viewer. The woodcutter goes on to reveal that the wife was raped, that
Tajomaru begged the wife to marry him, that she freed the husband in order to
spur a confrontation, and that she lambasted each man, humiliating each of them
with taunts of emasculation and accusations of cowardice. The men eventually
fight, though what is revealed is that each fails to live up to his manly callings
or exploits, fencing in a purely inexpert manner, each terrified and completely
unskilled, cluing the viewer into the possible exaggerated nature of their own
stories. In the end, Tajomaru is seen to be the victor, though through no skill
of his own, the samurai is killed, the wife escapes, and Tajomaru leaves with
the sword. It would be easy at this point to believe that the woodcutter has
had the final word and that his outsider’s perspective is the only one to be
trusted. But the audience surrogate, the passerby who listens to each story in
turn, has one more story to unveil.
In
a revelation that is perhaps a bit facile and a lot deus ex machina, the passerby hears and finds a hidden baby within
the ruins of the temple. Though several critics and reviewers have had
different interpretations of the baby’s presence (after all, whose baby is
this? Where did it come from?), it must be noted that it is an easy leap to
make to say that amongst tragedy and death, there is still life that must be
attended, that despite a death that could shake the foundations of faith, there
is always new life that reaffirms them. Just as we are about to confirm the
woodcutter’s second story, the presence of the kimono and the amulet reveals
that the woodcutter is not entirely blameless in the events that have
transpired. The passerby accuses him of stealing the dagger / sword, and due to
the fact that the woodcutter claims Tajomaru left with the sword leaves his
entire story in question. We are left where we started, with many unreliable
stories and not one way to reconcile anything to resemble a truthful narrative.
This is intentional.
Kurosawa’s
film exposes the transitory and elusive nature of truth. Tajomaru’s need to
perpetuate his macho mythos, the samurai’s need to save face (even from the
afterlife), the wife’s need to appear guiltless, and the woodcutter’s need to
cover up his petty crimes (possibly in order to feed his family), all lead the
viewer to take each story as if it was the story from a monk describing one
piece of an elephant. It is possibly one piece of the truth, but the larger
picture needs a wider perspective and more capable eyes. Just as Kurosawa uses
light and shade to either uncover or obfuscate the scene, the truth is equally
in light and shade. We are left with a hopeful message, as the woodcutter
leaves with the baby, the sun has appeared as the storm has dissipated, and the
priest has regained his faith in humanity, but the truth is not as easily given
such closure. Instead, the audience is left having to be satisfied, or
dissatisfied, as the case may be, with ambiguity, and the fact that reality is
not filled with truth, but rather with varied perspectives.
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