Throne of Blood is Japanese filmmaker Akira Kurosawa’s treatment of William Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Of all the adaptations of Shakespeare plays on film, it may only be ranked by Ran, Kurosawa's adaptation of King Lear. The film effortlessly moves the story to medieval Japan. An indomitable warlord (Toshiro Mifune) encounters a prophecy of his rise to the throne. At the behest of his wife (Isuzu Yamada), he decides to fulfill his destiny through treachery and murder. Guilt and paranoia overwhelm him, and he ultimately faces battle with other warlords who challenge his rule. Kurosawa doesn’t include any of Shakespeare's poetry. He makes the story his own through an unforgettable use of locations, virtuoso staging, and expressionistic stylizations. The outdoor sequences have extraordinary grandeur. The indoor scenes are even more impressive; they reportedly rely on the influence of Japanese Noh drama, and their austerity serves to make the warlord’s descent into madness all the more vivid. The spare, largely empty sets create a powerful dynamic with Mifune’s performance: the more overwrought he becomes; the more isolated and diminished he seems. The scenes in which the warlord’s wife goads him into conspiracy and murder are especially impressive. She is ghost-like and preternaturally still; when she speaks, she doesn’t seem a real person so much as a chillingly rational personification of his ambition and ruthlessness. Her almost unholy calm has its flipside: when her complicity in murder finally drives her insane, the contrast with her earlier affect is shocking. The scene of her trying to wash her hands of imaginary blood may be the most powerful treatment of the moment in any Macbeth production. Kurosawa also comes up with some indelible epic visuals, such as the coming of the forest to the warlord’s castle, and the warlord’s final confrontation with his archers. The latter may be the greatest finish for an action-film protagonist ever. Kurosawa shares screenplay credit with Shinobu Hashimoto, Ryuzo Kikushima, and Hideo Oguni. The excellent black-and-white cinematography, finely atmospheric in the outdoor scenes and elegantly crisp in the indoor ones, is by Asakazu Nakai.
Showing posts with label 1957 Films. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1957 Films. Show all posts
Monday, April 1, 2013
Short Take: Throne of Blood
This review was originally published on Pol Culture.
Throne of Blood is Japanese filmmaker Akira Kurosawa’s treatment of William Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Of all the adaptations of Shakespeare plays on film, it may only be ranked by Ran, Kurosawa's adaptation of King Lear. The film effortlessly moves the story to medieval Japan. An indomitable warlord (Toshiro Mifune) encounters a prophecy of his rise to the throne. At the behest of his wife (Isuzu Yamada), he decides to fulfill his destiny through treachery and murder. Guilt and paranoia overwhelm him, and he ultimately faces battle with other warlords who challenge his rule. Kurosawa doesn’t include any of Shakespeare's poetry. He makes the story his own through an unforgettable use of locations, virtuoso staging, and expressionistic stylizations. The outdoor sequences have extraordinary grandeur. The indoor scenes are even more impressive; they reportedly rely on the influence of Japanese Noh drama, and their austerity serves to make the warlord’s descent into madness all the more vivid. The spare, largely empty sets create a powerful dynamic with Mifune’s performance: the more overwrought he becomes; the more isolated and diminished he seems. The scenes in which the warlord’s wife goads him into conspiracy and murder are especially impressive. She is ghost-like and preternaturally still; when she speaks, she doesn’t seem a real person so much as a chillingly rational personification of his ambition and ruthlessness. Her almost unholy calm has its flipside: when her complicity in murder finally drives her insane, the contrast with her earlier affect is shocking. The scene of her trying to wash her hands of imaginary blood may be the most powerful treatment of the moment in any Macbeth production. Kurosawa also comes up with some indelible epic visuals, such as the coming of the forest to the warlord’s castle, and the warlord’s final confrontation with his archers. The latter may be the greatest finish for an action-film protagonist ever. Kurosawa shares screenplay credit with Shinobu Hashimoto, Ryuzo Kikushima, and Hideo Oguni. The excellent black-and-white cinematography, finely atmospheric in the outdoor scenes and elegantly crisp in the indoor ones, is by Asakazu Nakai.
Throne of Blood is Japanese filmmaker Akira Kurosawa’s treatment of William Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Of all the adaptations of Shakespeare plays on film, it may only be ranked by Ran, Kurosawa's adaptation of King Lear. The film effortlessly moves the story to medieval Japan. An indomitable warlord (Toshiro Mifune) encounters a prophecy of his rise to the throne. At the behest of his wife (Isuzu Yamada), he decides to fulfill his destiny through treachery and murder. Guilt and paranoia overwhelm him, and he ultimately faces battle with other warlords who challenge his rule. Kurosawa doesn’t include any of Shakespeare's poetry. He makes the story his own through an unforgettable use of locations, virtuoso staging, and expressionistic stylizations. The outdoor sequences have extraordinary grandeur. The indoor scenes are even more impressive; they reportedly rely on the influence of Japanese Noh drama, and their austerity serves to make the warlord’s descent into madness all the more vivid. The spare, largely empty sets create a powerful dynamic with Mifune’s performance: the more overwrought he becomes; the more isolated and diminished he seems. The scenes in which the warlord’s wife goads him into conspiracy and murder are especially impressive. She is ghost-like and preternaturally still; when she speaks, she doesn’t seem a real person so much as a chillingly rational personification of his ambition and ruthlessness. Her almost unholy calm has its flipside: when her complicity in murder finally drives her insane, the contrast with her earlier affect is shocking. The scene of her trying to wash her hands of imaginary blood may be the most powerful treatment of the moment in any Macbeth production. Kurosawa also comes up with some indelible epic visuals, such as the coming of the forest to the warlord’s castle, and the warlord’s final confrontation with his archers. The latter may be the greatest finish for an action-film protagonist ever. Kurosawa shares screenplay credit with Shinobu Hashimoto, Ryuzo Kikushima, and Hideo Oguni. The excellent black-and-white cinematography, finely atmospheric in the outdoor scenes and elegantly crisp in the indoor ones, is by Asakazu Nakai.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Short Take: The Seventh Seal
This review was originally published on Pol Culture.
The setting of Swedish writer-director Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal (1957) is 14th-century Sweden. A knight (Max von Sydow) has returned after a decade of fighting in the Crusades. But before he arrives home, Death (Bengt Ekerot) comes to claim him. He is granted a stay after challenging Death to a chess game. The knight is wrestling with his faith in God’s justice, and he is hoping for answers before he dies. As he continues the game and makes his way across the plague-ravaged countryside, he comes to terms with his spiritual crisis. This existential morality play is a potent mix of allegory and realism, and it includes some of the most unforgettable imagery in all of film. (The moment of Death’s arrival and the chess game that follows have become iconic.) The allegorical elements are maddeningly opaque at times, and the story’s moral--keep faith in God, and enjoy life while you can--is much too pat, but Bergman’s vision has such power the flaws seem beside the point. It’s a great film, and well deserving of its stature. The fine ensemble also includes Gunnar Björnstrand as the knight’s nihilistic (though just-minded) squire, Maud Hanson as an insane teenage witch, and Nils Poppe and Bibi Andersson as the lovely married couple who are Bergman’s personifications of hope. Gunnar Fischer provided the stunningly atmospheric black-and-white cinematography.
The setting of Swedish writer-director Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal (1957) is 14th-century Sweden. A knight (Max von Sydow) has returned after a decade of fighting in the Crusades. But before he arrives home, Death (Bengt Ekerot) comes to claim him. He is granted a stay after challenging Death to a chess game. The knight is wrestling with his faith in God’s justice, and he is hoping for answers before he dies. As he continues the game and makes his way across the plague-ravaged countryside, he comes to terms with his spiritual crisis. This existential morality play is a potent mix of allegory and realism, and it includes some of the most unforgettable imagery in all of film. (The moment of Death’s arrival and the chess game that follows have become iconic.) The allegorical elements are maddeningly opaque at times, and the story’s moral--keep faith in God, and enjoy life while you can--is much too pat, but Bergman’s vision has such power the flaws seem beside the point. It’s a great film, and well deserving of its stature. The fine ensemble also includes Gunnar Björnstrand as the knight’s nihilistic (though just-minded) squire, Maud Hanson as an insane teenage witch, and Nils Poppe and Bibi Andersson as the lovely married couple who are Bergman’s personifications of hope. Gunnar Fischer provided the stunningly atmospheric black-and-white cinematography.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Short Take: The Curse of Frankenstein
This review was originally published on Pol Culture.
The Curse of Frankenstein, the 1957 Hammer Films adaptation of Mary Shelley’s classic novel, doesn’t concern itself with the moral, philosophical, and allegorical aspects of the book. Like most pop-culture treatments of Shelley’s material, it is content with being a reactionary horror melodrama. The story couldn’t be more familiar: A misguided scientist plays God and builds a creature from the remains of human corpses; the creature turns out to be a violent brute; the scientist and the creature confront each other, and only one survives. But director Terence Fisher and scenarist Jimmy Sangster do a better job with it than most; the story is told with an admirable economy. And they hit upon an idea that served the producers well through a number of sequels: the real monster of the film isn’t the creature; it’s the scientist. Their Dr. Frankenstein is a vicious monomaniac. His experiments are all that matter to him, and pity anyone who gets in his way. Peter Cushing plays the role with such sinister relish that one begins to think the character welcomes being interfered with. The body count is part of what makes his work enjoyable. The fresh portrayal of the scientist more than makes up for the letdown of the creature (Christopher Lee, buried under a shoddy make-up job). The monster here is neither tragic nor especially scary; it’s just pathetic. All one wants is for it to be put out of its misery. The real drama is in waiting for Dr. Frankenstein’s comeuppance. With Robert Urquhart, who does an effective job playing Frankenstein's teacher and the movie’s conscience.
The Curse of Frankenstein, the 1957 Hammer Films adaptation of Mary Shelley’s classic novel, doesn’t concern itself with the moral, philosophical, and allegorical aspects of the book. Like most pop-culture treatments of Shelley’s material, it is content with being a reactionary horror melodrama. The story couldn’t be more familiar: A misguided scientist plays God and builds a creature from the remains of human corpses; the creature turns out to be a violent brute; the scientist and the creature confront each other, and only one survives. But director Terence Fisher and scenarist Jimmy Sangster do a better job with it than most; the story is told with an admirable economy. And they hit upon an idea that served the producers well through a number of sequels: the real monster of the film isn’t the creature; it’s the scientist. Their Dr. Frankenstein is a vicious monomaniac. His experiments are all that matter to him, and pity anyone who gets in his way. Peter Cushing plays the role with such sinister relish that one begins to think the character welcomes being interfered with. The body count is part of what makes his work enjoyable. The fresh portrayal of the scientist more than makes up for the letdown of the creature (Christopher Lee, buried under a shoddy make-up job). The monster here is neither tragic nor especially scary; it’s just pathetic. All one wants is for it to be put out of its misery. The real drama is in waiting for Dr. Frankenstein’s comeuppance. With Robert Urquhart, who does an effective job playing Frankenstein's teacher and the movie’s conscience.
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