RashomonIs truth a matter of perspective, or is it an immutable absolute? The concept of Akira Kurosawa's Rashomon is that a testimony is not the same as truth, because each of us colors the truth with our own perspective, be it the result of circumstances or the intent to lie. There are those who will falsify the facts because they stand to gain from the outcome. But in Rashomon--a story which deals with the aftermath of a murder--the testimonies given by each witness all implicate themselves, upending our expectations, since a murderer would surely be punished.
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Rashomon gets its name because it is a story within a story, told to a stranger (Kichijiro Ueda) seeking refuge from the rain at the ruins of the city gate of Kyoto in medieval Japan. He encounters a wood cutter (Takashi Shimura) and a priest (Minoru Chiaki), who are still reeling from the events earlier in the day, the wood cutter muttering over and over, "I don't understand". The two men tell the listener of their session in the city court, where they bore witness to the testimonies of the parties involved. The first testimony (following the wood cutter's disclosure of finding the body in the woods, and the priest's mention of passing the victim on the road) comes from a notorious bandit, Tajōmaru (Toshiro Mifune), who was captured by a local who thought he was thrown from his horse; Tajōmaru mocks and corrects his misconception, indicating he had food poisoning from drinking bad water. Tajōmaru tells his story of his crime with gusto and shamelessness. He recounts that he was enticed to track the wealthy-looking samurai and victim (Masayuki Mori) not because of the potential to steal from him--although he is later found with his valuables--but because of his lust for his beautiful wife (Machiko Kyō). He impedes their journey by offering to sell some found swords and mirrors to the samurai for a low price, luring him into the woods, where he ambushes him and ties him up. He claims he tricks the wife into following him up to see her husband, at which point Tajōmaru rapes her, although she fights him desperately with a valuable pearl inlaid dagger. As this information is never reiterated through the other varied testimonies in Rashomon, we are inclined to take it for granted that even this is true to some extent; on the contrary, the tone and perception of Tajōmaru throughout his testimony is such that it is a story in which he casts himself in the role he feels is right for him, a rakish bandit, a paragon of masculinity. His story is even filled with a few displays of innuendo, such as when the wife passes, and he leans on his sword at his waist--raising it up in a phallic way--or when he duels the samurai, prodding him with the scabbard of the samurai's katana--a sardonic metaphor for his wife's violation. Tajōmaru's story seems so complete and comprehensive--his crimes so amoral and without remorse--that were we endowed with the capability, we would surely sentence him on this alone; only, the other witness accounts make this a far more complicated knot to untangle.
The wife delivers a testimony that contradicts Tajōmaru's in content as well as context. While she makes no account that any of the testimony up to, and including, the rape is inaccurate, the rest is far different. The wood cutter and priest sit as silent observers during these testimonies, off in the back, witnesses who stand is as objective observers, like us. However, while our role as an audience to the story should be objective, by virtue of the witnesses giving testimony practically into the camera, it is implied that we, too, are cast in the role of the court. It is in our nature to cast judgment upon receiving evidence, a reflex to understand the situation in the scope of our own world view--and that is why no one, not us, not the characters in the story, can truly be objective. Tajōmaru claimed that the wife wanted to go with him after the rape, but the wife makes no such claim. Instead, it was her husband's contempt for her that caused a mental break where she blacked out, only to awake and find her knife buried in his chest. And even before we can settle in on this "new truth", there is the introduction of a far more ghastly witness: the victim himself. The story at Rashomon gate becomes more and more fascinating, drawing in the listener as it does us. It seems strange that during what must be a hot and humid summer--complete with a torrential downpour--that the refugees should be making a fire, but it completes the picture of people gathered around the camp, sharing stories, a constant of bards and troubadours. The listener is cautious when the priest mentions the story, for he wishes to avoid a sermon, but a sermon is what the story is for the priest, a meditation on the inconstant nature of man, his faith in humanity shaken after the day's events. Is it a sin to lie? Most cultures will indicate it is, but even still, there is still the constant that it carried conditions, and since these conditions vary from person to person, it muddies the certainty of the act as a sinful one. A modern court--or any court, for that matter--would be hard pressed to accept testimony from a medium like the one who speaks on the samurai's behalf from the depths of the underworld (Noriko Honma), but what makes it more unusual is that this stranger tells a tale that resembles the other witness's stories, and yet also refutes their authenticity. So the mystery remains: what truth is the "real" truth, if any are at all? This is a conclusion expressed by the listener--whom we might very well identify with by this point--who picks up on the fact that the wood cutter had repeated over and over that the testimonies are all wrong, which prompts him to give his own account of the events. The listener believes that the wood cutter's story--which is not that different in some ways from Tajōmaru's, save that the duel is hardly the grandiose battle the bandit described, but a far more desperate and visceral affair--is the real story, but as an audience, we should find it circumspect. After all, this story kept secret from the court already makes the wood cutter out to be a liar--if even by omission--so why should it stop there? Is the wood cutter a "bad man"? Is he looking to prosper by conveying as story different than the others? If so, why? It is a question which is at the base of human interaction, because each and every one of us view the world through our own eyes, and responds based on what our impressions tell us. It may not be that there is no objective truth, but that each person's understanding of objectivity is subjective. When people vote in elections, they do so because they feel that one candidate is right and one is wrong, because of their perspective of right and wrong. The characters of Rashomon each see the world differently, because they--like us--are all individuals, no one formed from the same mold, and as we attempt to understand others, we must also understand ourselves.
Recommended for: Fans of a complex and rich story about a terrible event, told through the eyes of several witnesses, making even the truth of it elusive. Our expectations that the events which the camera shows us are subverted, as we must draw our own conclusions if we hope to seek any resolution.
The wife delivers a testimony that contradicts Tajōmaru's in content as well as context. While she makes no account that any of the testimony up to, and including, the rape is inaccurate, the rest is far different. The wood cutter and priest sit as silent observers during these testimonies, off in the back, witnesses who stand is as objective observers, like us. However, while our role as an audience to the story should be objective, by virtue of the witnesses giving testimony practically into the camera, it is implied that we, too, are cast in the role of the court. It is in our nature to cast judgment upon receiving evidence, a reflex to understand the situation in the scope of our own world view--and that is why no one, not us, not the characters in the story, can truly be objective. Tajōmaru claimed that the wife wanted to go with him after the rape, but the wife makes no such claim. Instead, it was her husband's contempt for her that caused a mental break where she blacked out, only to awake and find her knife buried in his chest. And even before we can settle in on this "new truth", there is the introduction of a far more ghastly witness: the victim himself. The story at Rashomon gate becomes more and more fascinating, drawing in the listener as it does us. It seems strange that during what must be a hot and humid summer--complete with a torrential downpour--that the refugees should be making a fire, but it completes the picture of people gathered around the camp, sharing stories, a constant of bards and troubadours. The listener is cautious when the priest mentions the story, for he wishes to avoid a sermon, but a sermon is what the story is for the priest, a meditation on the inconstant nature of man, his faith in humanity shaken after the day's events. Is it a sin to lie? Most cultures will indicate it is, but even still, there is still the constant that it carried conditions, and since these conditions vary from person to person, it muddies the certainty of the act as a sinful one. A modern court--or any court, for that matter--would be hard pressed to accept testimony from a medium like the one who speaks on the samurai's behalf from the depths of the underworld (Noriko Honma), but what makes it more unusual is that this stranger tells a tale that resembles the other witness's stories, and yet also refutes their authenticity. So the mystery remains: what truth is the "real" truth, if any are at all? This is a conclusion expressed by the listener--whom we might very well identify with by this point--who picks up on the fact that the wood cutter had repeated over and over that the testimonies are all wrong, which prompts him to give his own account of the events. The listener believes that the wood cutter's story--which is not that different in some ways from Tajōmaru's, save that the duel is hardly the grandiose battle the bandit described, but a far more desperate and visceral affair--is the real story, but as an audience, we should find it circumspect. After all, this story kept secret from the court already makes the wood cutter out to be a liar--if even by omission--so why should it stop there? Is the wood cutter a "bad man"? Is he looking to prosper by conveying as story different than the others? If so, why? It is a question which is at the base of human interaction, because each and every one of us view the world through our own eyes, and responds based on what our impressions tell us. It may not be that there is no objective truth, but that each person's understanding of objectivity is subjective. When people vote in elections, they do so because they feel that one candidate is right and one is wrong, because of their perspective of right and wrong. The characters of Rashomon each see the world differently, because they--like us--are all individuals, no one formed from the same mold, and as we attempt to understand others, we must also understand ourselves.
Recommended for: Fans of a complex and rich story about a terrible event, told through the eyes of several witnesses, making even the truth of it elusive. Our expectations that the events which the camera shows us are subverted, as we must draw our own conclusions if we hope to seek any resolution.