Something Like an Autobiography Read online

  And indeed from then on my ordinary child’s day began. It followed the usual schedule of breakfast, going to school all day and returning home in the afternoon. But, compared to the teaching of Mr. Tachikawa, the instruction I now received at school seemed deficient. The hours in the classroom struck me as dry and tasteless, a painful exercise to be endured. I did not get along well with the new teacher who took over our class. Until my graduation, it was as if we were continuously engaged in a contest of wills. He seemed to be completely opposed to every aspect of Mr. Tachikawa’s educational philosophy, and he was forever making sarcastic comments about his predecessor’s teaching methods. He’d say, “Mr. Tachikawa probably would have said this,” or “Mr. Tachikawa probably would have done that,” and his face always bore a contemptuous smile as he spoke.

  Every time he did this, I would give the foot of my friend Uekusa, sitting next to me, a good kick. Uekusa would respond with a quick grin. Something like this even occurred:

  It was during art class. We were to paint a still-life of a white vase full of cosmos flowers that decorated the classroom. I wanted to capture the volume of the vase, so I emphasized its shaded areas with a thick purple. I showed the light leaves of the cosmos as masses of green smoke, and the pink and white blossoms as scattered splashes.

  The new teacher took my picture and put it up on the side of the board we called the pin-up board. Here the best examples of students’ calligraphy or compositions or pictures were put up as a model for the rest of us to follow. The teacher called out, “Kurosawa, stand up.” I was very pleased, thinking I was about to be praised again, and I stood up proudly. But the new teacher, pointing at my picture, gave me a thorough dressing down.

  “What’s the matter with the shading on this vase—where do you see any dark purple? What is this green here that looks like a cloud? If you think that looks like the leaves of cosmos flowers, you’re crazy.” There were too many barbs and too much venom in his words. His accusations were full of ill will. I stood like a stick, feeling the color draining from my face. What was this all about?

  After school was over that day, Uekusa came running up behind me as I nursed my wounds in silence on the way down the Hattorizaka slope. “Kuro-chan, that was mean, wasn’t it? It was too mean! It was awful! It was unforgivable!” He kept repeating these things all the way home.

  I think this was the first time I ever experienced the savagery that lies in the human heart. I could never find pleasure studying under this teacher. But I acquired a determination to work so hard that this teacher would never be able to criticize me again.

  Calligraphy

  I USED TO return home exhausted in the afternoon, tired out from all the walking and from having to prove myself to the teacher whom I hated. The way seemed three times as long as it had in the morning, and still longer because I had to look forward to a calligraphy lesson.

  My father loved calligraphy, and frequently put hanging scrolls of calligraphy on display in the tokonoma alcove of our house. Only very rarely did he put up paintings. The scrolls he usually hung were either ink rubbings of inscribed stone monuments from China or characters written by his Chinese acquaintances.

  I still recall a particular antique rubbing of a gravestone from Hanshan Temple. Here and there the characters had been broken or chiseled off the stone, and there were blank spaces in the middle of some sentences. My father would fill in the missing words, and in this way he taught me the poem “A Night Spent by the Maple Bridge” by the Chinese poet Chang Chi of the T’ang Dynasty.

  Even now I can recite this poem off the top of my head, and I can write it with a brush just as easily. Some years ago I attended a gathering at a Japanese-style restaurant where this same poem by Chang Chi, written in an overly graceful hand, was hanging as a scroll in the art alcove. Without really thinking about it, I quickly read it aloud. The actor Kayama Yŭzō overheard me, and staring in wonder said, “Master, your accomplishments amaze me.”

  It’s no wonder that Kayama should have been impressed. Reading the script for Sanjurō aloud, he had a line that was to be “Wait behind the stable.” Mistaking “stable” for another character with the same radical, he read it, “Wait behind the outhouse.” Nevertheless I gave him a major role in this 1962 film and used him again later in Red Beard (1965). But now I must tell the truth, and the fact is that I could read that poem only because it was from Hanshan Temple. Presented with any other Chinese poem, I would have simply stammered. Of another Chinese poem in a hanging scroll my father liked, for example, I remember only the lines

  For your sword, use the Full Moon Blue Dragon Blade

  For your study, read the Tso Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals.

  This is of limited interest.

  I have strayed from the subject again. The point is that I cannot understand how my father, who loved calligraphy so much, could have sent me to study with the kind of teacher he did. Perhaps it was because the teacher’s school was in our neighborhood, and because my brother had also gone there. When my father went to enroll me as a student, the teacher inquired after my brother and urged my father to send him back for more lessons. Apparently my brother had done extremely well there.

  But I was unable to find anything interesting about the teacher’s calligraphy. He was indeed strict and forthright, but I found his writing without flavor or fragrance—just like printed characters in a book. I had my father’s orders, however, so I went to the school every day and, using the teacher’s calligraphy as a model, I practiced writing.

  Both my father and the calligraphy teacher let their facial hair grow, as was fashionable in the Meiji era. But while my father had both a full beard and mustache in the manner of a Meiji elder statesman, the calligraphy teacher wore only a mustache, in the manner of a Meiji petty bureaucrat. He invariably sat behind a desk wearing a stern expression, as if challenging the students lined up behind their desks across from him.

  Beyond him we could see the garden. Dominating the garden was a huge construction of shelves crowned by a row of bonsai miniature trees displaying the antique bends of their branches. As I looked at them, I couldn’t help thinking how like them were these students at their desks. When a student felt he had done a good piece of writing, he would carry it up to the teacher with great trepidation. The teacher would look at it and take a brush with red ink to correct the strokes he did not like. This procedure would be repeated over and over again.

  Finally, when the teacher approved the student’s writing sample, he would take out a seal I couldn’t read because it was carved in ancient seal script and stamp it in blue on the side of the student’s work. Everyone called this the Blue Seal, and when you got the Blue Seal, you could go home for the day. Since I wanted nothing except permission to leave quickly and go to Mr. Tachikawa’s house, I applied myself with fervor to copying the teacher’s calligraphy. But you can’t love what you don’t like.

  About half a year later I asked my father if I could quit the calligraphy lessons. With my brother’s assistance, I succeeded in getting permission to stop. I don’t remember my brother’s exact words, but he had a very logical understanding of the vague dissatisfaction I felt with the teacher’s writing. He came to the conclusion that it was perfectly natural I should feel as I did. I remember I sat in amazement and listened to him as if he were talking about someone else.

  When I left the calligraphy school, I was still at the stage of writing four-character poems on large sheets of paper in block-style script. To this day I’m very good at that kind of calligraphy. But if I have to write anything smaller than that or write characters in cursive script, it’s no good at all.

  In later years I was told by an older colleague in the movie world that “Kuro-san’s writing isn’t writing, it’s pictures.”

  Murasaki and Shōnagon

  WHEN I DECIDED to write this thing resembling an autobiography, I got together with Uekusa Keinosuke to talk about the past. On that occasion he told me about how, o
n the hilly street where Kuroda Primary School was situated, called Hattorizaka, I once told him: “You are Murasaki Shikibu and I am Sei Shōnagon.” I have no recollection whatever of having said this.

  In the first place, it’s not possible that we—in primary school—could have been reading Murasaki’s Tale of Genji or Sei Shōnagon’s Pillow Book, both written around the middle of the Heian period (794–1185). But now that I think about it carefully, Mr. Tachikawa had told us a great deal about these classics of early Japanese literature during our visits, which took place after my calligraphy lessons. Uekusa was generally there, waiting for me, and we spent many pleasant hours with our former teacher. So I think this exchange between Uekusa and me could have occurred as we walked home together down the hill between Denzu-in and the Edogawa River.

  Even so, the idea of comparing ourselves to Murasaki Shikibu and Sei Shōnagon was outrageously conceited. Yet I have some inkling of why this childish utterance might have taken place: At that time Uekusa’s compositions were long narratives, while mine were always very short descriptions of impressions.

  In any event, when it comes to friends from that time of my life, Uekusa and I were together so much that he is the only one I remember anything about. But our home lives were entirely different: His was a townsman’s household, while mine had a samurai atmosphere. So when we sit back and talk over old times, the things he remembers well have a completely different character from those I recall.

  For example, Uekusa retains a very vivid impression of the time he caught a glimpse of his mother’s white calves above the hem of her kimono. He also remembers that the prettiest girl in school was the girls’ group leader of our class, that she lived in the Ōtaki area on the Edogawa River; he remembers her name and tells me, “You seemed to be interested in her, Kuro-chan.” I have no recollection at all of these kinds of things.

  What I remember has to do with getting better at kendō and becoming a sub-captain in my third term of the fifth grade at primary school. And how as a reward my father brought me a suit of black kendō armor. And I remember that in a fencing match I beat five opponents in succession with a reverse body twist. I remember that the captain of the opposing team was the son of a fabric dyer and when we were in close combat he gave off a terrific odor of dark-blue dye. For some reason, all of my recollections betray this martial spirit.

  Among them there is one incident that remains the most memorable. It was when I was ambushed by students from another primary school. As I was on my way home from the Ochiai fencing school, I came to a fish shop near Edogawabashi bridge. In front of it was a gathering of seven or eight slightly older children whose faces I did not recognize. They carried bamboo swords, bamboo poles and sticks.

  Children have their territories staked out, too. Since this was not Kuroda Primary School territory and these children were looking at me in a strange way, I stopped. But since I had taken on the airs of a boy swordsman, I could not allow myself to show any fear in a situation like this. I put on a blasé expression and walked on past the fish shop, and since nothing happened even when I had my back to them, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Immediately afterward I felt something whizzing dangerously near my head. Just as I moved my hand to touch my head, I was hit. Swinging around, I saw a hail of rocks coming at me. The group of children remained silent, but all of them were heaving stones in my direction. It was their silence that terrified me.

  My first impulse was to run, but I felt that if I did, my poor bamboo sword would shed tears of humiliation. With this in mind, I took the bamboo sword I was carrying and brought it round to aim at their eyes. But since my kendō outfit was dangling from the end of my sword, the move didn’t achieve quite the effect it was supposed to.

  The children, however, interpreted my move as a threat, and, shouting something to one another, they all came at me flailing their weapons. I, too, flailed my sword with all my might. My kendō outfit went flying off the end of it, and my sword became light. And once they raised their voices, my adversaries ceased to be so frightening as they had been when silent.

  Grasping my lightened sword and yelling “O-men!” “(To the face!”) or “Kote!” (“Gauntlets!”) or “Do” (“To the torso!”) and such things as I had learned in my kendō lessons, I went at them with the bamboo blade. For some reason, they didn’t surround me, but all seven or eight bunched up together and faced me. They came forward wildly brandishing their weapons, so there was no backing down. These myriad flying arms were imposing, but by merely jumping to one side or the other it was easy for me to gain the advantage. I remembered that in such a situation it was dangerous to close in too soon, so I avoided that, and the result was that I had plenty of leeway.

  Finally they fled into the fish shop. The proprietor, wielding one of the long shoulder poles used to support loads at each end, came running out from the interior. At that point I picked up the high wooden clogs I had kicked off when it had become a great swordfight, and fled.

  I clearly remember escaping into a narrow alleyway that had sewage running down the middle of it. I ran zigzag, jumping from side to side to avoid the foul-smelling water. It wasn’t until I came out of the other end of this alley that I stopped to put on my clogs. I have no idea what happened to my kendō outfit. It probably became the war spoils of my adversaries.

  My mother was the only person I told about this incident. I really didn’t want to tell anyone at all, but since I had lost my kendō outfit, I had to talk to her. When my mother heard my story, she said nothing, but went to the closet and brought out the kendō outfit my brother was no longer using. Then she washed the gash on my head where the rock had hit me and put soft ointment on the wound. I had no other injuries. But to this day a scar remains from the stone.

  (As I have been writing about my bundled up kendō outfit and my high wooden clogs, I have had a sudden realization. Without knowing it at the time, it was these objects from my past that I employed in my first film, Sugata Sanshirō [1943] as visual devices showing Sanshirō’s new dedication to a life of judo. Perhaps it is the power of memory that gives rise to the power of imagination.)

  As a consequence of this incident, my route to and from the Ochiai fencing school underwent a slight alteration. I did not pass by that fish shop a second time. But this was not because I was afraid of those urchins. I simply didn’t feel like running into that fish-shop proprietor’s carrying pole again.

  I am sure I must have told Uekusa about this incident at some point, but he now remembers nothing of it. When I accused him of being an old lecher who could only remember things having to do with women, he vehemently denied it. The fact is that this pretty boy you could knock over with one punch was a real problem when it came to knowing his own limits. When we were in the sixth grade, there was a battle with some students from another primary school on Kuseyama mountain. The enemy had their encampment on top of a hill, and they came at us with a shower of stones and dirt clods. Our allies were skirting this by keeping to the hollow created by the bluff as they climbed. Just as I was contemplating sending some men around behind the enemy, Uekusa suddenly shouted out something and ran up the hill, the picture of recklessness.

  What can you do when your weakest man takes it upon himself to charge the enemy alone? On top of that, this was a cliff that took more than the usual fortitude for anyone to climb. Covered with wet red clay, it was so steep and slimy that you slipped back two steps for every one you gained. Undaunted, Uekusa rushed forward into the enemy’s range of dirt-clod and rock fire. He was immediately hit in the head by a large stone and fell back down the bluff.

  When I rushed over to help, he lay stretched out on the ground, his mouth agape and his eyes fixed on some remote corner of the sky. I would have liked to call him a fearless hero, but in all honesty I can only say he was a lot of trouble. When I turned and looked up, I saw all of the enemy lined up on top of the cliff looking down with terror-stricken faces. I was left standing there staring at Uekusa’s p
rostrate form and wondering how in the world I would get him home.

  I must tell one more story about Uekusa and Kuseyama mountain. One evening Uekusa was standing alone atop Kuseyama. He was sixteen, he had written a love letter to a certain girl student and he was waiting for her. He had climbed up Kuseyama and looked out over the Emma-do, the temple dedicated to the king of hell, watching the steep street for some sign of her.

  But the girl did not appear at the appointed hour. He decided to wait another ten minutes. Having done so, he was just thinking about waiting yet another ten minutes when he turned and saw a figure in the darkness. “Ah, she has come,” he thought, and his heart leaped. He started toward the figure and then noticed that it had a beard.

  At that point, according to Uekusa, “I did not lose my courage. I did not run away, but approached the man.” The man asked him, “Did you write this?” He was holding Uekusa’s love letter up in front of him. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “I am this girl’s father,” and handed Uekusa his name card. The first thing Uekusa saw on it was “Police Headquarters, Building and Repair Section.”

  Uekusa says that then, because he was courageous, he resolutely faced the man and undertook to describe his feelings for the daughter and how pure they were, drawing—amazingly—a comparison to the poet Dante’s love for Beatrice to illustrate his point, patiently and elaborately explaining to the girl’s father. “And then what?” I asked. “Her father at last understood my feeling,” claims Uekusa. “And what happened with the girl after that?” I queried. “Never saw her again, but we were just kids anyway.” I think I understand and yet I don’t.

  The Fragrance of Meiji, the Sounds of Taishō

  AT THE BEGINNING of the Taishō era, 1912 and the years following, a fragrance of the preceding Meiji era lingered on. It was evident even in the songs we sang in primary school, all of which were invigorating tunes. The two I still like best today are “The Battle of the Japan Sea” and “The Naval Barracks.” Their lyrics are open-hearted, their melodies simple, and they describe their events with surprising directness and precise fidelity—no unnecessary sentiments are tacked on. In later years I told my assistant directors that this was exactly what movie continuity (the shooting script) should be like. I encouraged them to use these songs as models and learn from their descriptions. I am still convinced this is a good method.