IkiruThe value of one's life comes not from the meaningless bureaucracy of doing one's job or following orders, but making a stand to support that which is truly of benefit to mankind and leaving a legacy behind which enriches the lives of those who survive you. Ikiru is the story of Kanji Watanabe (Takashi Shimura), the department chief of the Office of Public Affairs, a glorified pencil pusher who discovers that he has stomach cancer, and will die within the year. Confronted with his own mortality, Kenji struggles to rediscover how to live his life, and how to ensure that it was not in vain.
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The title, Ikiru, translates as "to live", the infinitive of the verb; it reflects a condition, a need "to live", an action that must be taken. Would Kenji have continued to live his life in the repetitious monotony of stamping papers with his diminutive seal--one he cleans upon the remnants of his nobler aspirations, now relegated to scrap paper? Would Kenji have sought the reason to live and the meaning of his profession--a feeling long since dissipated, drowned in the crashing waves of documents and petitions--were he not made aware of his impending death, staring him right in the eye? It's tough to speculate, but I suspect that no, Kanji would not have. It's clear that he entered public service to do just that--serve his fellow citizens--but along the way, perhaps beginning with the death of his wife some twenty years prior, the air started to seep out of him, and he grew comfortable under the warm embrace of all that pointless bureaucracy. Frankly, the seduction is real, visible in his coworkers, who are content to defer those who seek their help, such as in a lengthy scene of passing the buck involving a group of women complaining about the dangers of a cesspool out of control in their own backyard. Deep down, we all know that this kind of action is cowardly, but it's easy and safe, and the allure of this security is real as one enters middle age and time marches on. The criticism of this bureaucracy in Ikiru is noteworthy for Japan, a nation which culturally embraces stability and mannered behavior. Made in 1952, Ikiru is also a film depicting the nation still recovering from World War II, making the obsession with control and safety in one's life so much more pronounced, and the fear of radical action leading to catastrophe a sore spot. But ultimately, the problem with such a reserved stance is that it becomes an excuse for the bureaucrats to avoid any real responsibility when called upon, yet leaves them safe to take credit when things go their way. This kind of administration is no different than a mobius strip, turning but leading back upon itself. Kenji is aware that he is passing time--but it isn't until the indirect diagnosis that he uncovers that the sands have almost run out. Why does his doctor hide the diagnosis from Kenji? I suspect that it has to do with the order-obsessed mass neurosis of the setting, concerned that if Kenji were actually aware of his death sentence, he might stop playing his part in the machine. It's cynical, true, and the doctors may even be convinced they are doing him a mercy, but the truth is that they--desperate for stability, like everyone else--are too afraid to let that pain into their own hearts.
The overly restrained--even repressed--portrayal of Japan in Ikiru is not limited to Kenji's office; it also is felt in the family unit. Kenji is witness to a selfish suggestion by his son, Mitsuo (Nobuo Kaneko), prodded by his wife to try to coerce Kenji into giving them his pension so they may buy a house. It is a selfish plot which Mitsuo is rightly ashamed of when he realizes his father overheard everything. But Mitsuo isn't really connected with his father much any more, doesn't really appreciate him, even though he lives under his roof. Kenji recalls moments in his memories where he had the opportunity to confess his love for his son, but failed to do so out of propriety, out of the perception that to display intimacy would be perceived as a sign of weakness. The suggestion in Ikiru, however, is that this trait is not exclusive to Kenji, but Japanese households as a whole, a cautionary observance that family bonds require some degree of openness and vulnerability in order to teach children how to be loving in turn. Kenji is regarded with some degree of envy by his coworkers for his unfailing commitment to attendance, never having missed a day for just shy of thirty years; his appointment at the doctor's is the first exception. This perception is regarded as a virtue, but in reality Kenji's just burying himself in his work, running from the feelings he's buried deep within where they cannot hurt him, like something concealed under the mountains of petitions surrounding his work space. This critical assessment of endless toil as a boon represents another characteristic found deeply rooted in Japanese society, where the need to succeed in a highly competitive work environment seems to mandate it, meaning that failing to give more than the other guy is all the difference when it comes to a job. What this means is that when Kenji takes his unscheduled hiatus to discover what he will do with his remaining time, his coworkers and family are at a complete loss, thinking they knew the man now exhibiting uncharacteristic behavior. In truth, Kenji's been masking his personality from them all along, just as he has from himself.
Kenji struggles to rediscover how to live his life, albeit with some reckless, fumbling attempts at first. When he encounters a tippler novelist (Yūnosuke Itō), the man takes pity on Kenji and tries to take him out for a wild night on the town to help him rediscover his life. But Kenji realizes that for all the energy and excitement, such an excursion isn't really who he is. Kenji also tries to project his excess love--either paternal or sexual is never fully clear--onto a young coworker, Toyo Odagiri (Miki Odagiri), who needs his stamp to complete her resignation. But this isn't satisfying either, and leaves Kenji with the sense that he is still running from his own life. The real way that Kenji rediscovers his passion for life comes in returning to the reasons he entered public service--to help people. Regret comes from that which you meant to do but did not. Kenji learns of the women who have been strung along in their efforts to resolve the cesspool, and resolves to turn the land into a park, a place where their children can play and the citizens can live their lives in joy and happiness for what remains of it. Kenji is met with as much resistance as the women who sought his help; still, the park is made, which somehow befuddles the gathering of bureaucrats who debate what really led to its inception. The deputy mayor (Nobuo Nakamura), possessed of as meaningless of a bureaucratic post as can be, makes politically vague statements in response. It is only when he leaves that the remaining representatives from different departments who knew Kenji debate the veracity of whether Kenji had stomach cancer in the context of how and why he labored to get the park built. Whether their testimonies are embellished by the free sake or not, they proclaim an increasing admiration for the man, and his determination to bequeath a legacy greater than himself unto the world. When it comes down to it, that's the only thing we can really do in life--leave it a little bit better for those who follow us.
Recommended for: Fans of a sobering meditation on the significance of living one's life to its fullest and not flitting that precious gift away on banalities and meaningless exercises. It is also a critique of a society which is afraid to take a chance in favor of a concept of stability which is in actuality just stubbornness born from fear--a living coma and a slow, pointless death.
The overly restrained--even repressed--portrayal of Japan in Ikiru is not limited to Kenji's office; it also is felt in the family unit. Kenji is witness to a selfish suggestion by his son, Mitsuo (Nobuo Kaneko), prodded by his wife to try to coerce Kenji into giving them his pension so they may buy a house. It is a selfish plot which Mitsuo is rightly ashamed of when he realizes his father overheard everything. But Mitsuo isn't really connected with his father much any more, doesn't really appreciate him, even though he lives under his roof. Kenji recalls moments in his memories where he had the opportunity to confess his love for his son, but failed to do so out of propriety, out of the perception that to display intimacy would be perceived as a sign of weakness. The suggestion in Ikiru, however, is that this trait is not exclusive to Kenji, but Japanese households as a whole, a cautionary observance that family bonds require some degree of openness and vulnerability in order to teach children how to be loving in turn. Kenji is regarded with some degree of envy by his coworkers for his unfailing commitment to attendance, never having missed a day for just shy of thirty years; his appointment at the doctor's is the first exception. This perception is regarded as a virtue, but in reality Kenji's just burying himself in his work, running from the feelings he's buried deep within where they cannot hurt him, like something concealed under the mountains of petitions surrounding his work space. This critical assessment of endless toil as a boon represents another characteristic found deeply rooted in Japanese society, where the need to succeed in a highly competitive work environment seems to mandate it, meaning that failing to give more than the other guy is all the difference when it comes to a job. What this means is that when Kenji takes his unscheduled hiatus to discover what he will do with his remaining time, his coworkers and family are at a complete loss, thinking they knew the man now exhibiting uncharacteristic behavior. In truth, Kenji's been masking his personality from them all along, just as he has from himself.
Kenji struggles to rediscover how to live his life, albeit with some reckless, fumbling attempts at first. When he encounters a tippler novelist (Yūnosuke Itō), the man takes pity on Kenji and tries to take him out for a wild night on the town to help him rediscover his life. But Kenji realizes that for all the energy and excitement, such an excursion isn't really who he is. Kenji also tries to project his excess love--either paternal or sexual is never fully clear--onto a young coworker, Toyo Odagiri (Miki Odagiri), who needs his stamp to complete her resignation. But this isn't satisfying either, and leaves Kenji with the sense that he is still running from his own life. The real way that Kenji rediscovers his passion for life comes in returning to the reasons he entered public service--to help people. Regret comes from that which you meant to do but did not. Kenji learns of the women who have been strung along in their efforts to resolve the cesspool, and resolves to turn the land into a park, a place where their children can play and the citizens can live their lives in joy and happiness for what remains of it. Kenji is met with as much resistance as the women who sought his help; still, the park is made, which somehow befuddles the gathering of bureaucrats who debate what really led to its inception. The deputy mayor (Nobuo Nakamura), possessed of as meaningless of a bureaucratic post as can be, makes politically vague statements in response. It is only when he leaves that the remaining representatives from different departments who knew Kenji debate the veracity of whether Kenji had stomach cancer in the context of how and why he labored to get the park built. Whether their testimonies are embellished by the free sake or not, they proclaim an increasing admiration for the man, and his determination to bequeath a legacy greater than himself unto the world. When it comes down to it, that's the only thing we can really do in life--leave it a little bit better for those who follow us.
Recommended for: Fans of a sobering meditation on the significance of living one's life to its fullest and not flitting that precious gift away on banalities and meaningless exercises. It is also a critique of a society which is afraid to take a chance in favor of a concept of stability which is in actuality just stubbornness born from fear--a living coma and a slow, pointless death.