Something Wicked This Way Comes: Kurosawa's Throne Of Blood

I spent much of May teaching "Hamlet" to a Grade 12 English class. After getting over the cognitive dissonance that it was me teaching them about the Bard, and his great Danish prince, we had much fun dissecting the play's many themes, enjoying the lusciousness of the language, and marveling at how much of a dink Polonius could be ("To thine own self be true" my eye!).

All of which led to a renewed desire to reacquaint myself with Shakespeare's great works, purely for pleasure's sake. First on my list was "The Scottish Play", a rousing and bloody tale about fate, murderous desire, and obsessive hand washing. Well imagine my delightful surprise when, moments after reading Malcolm's concluding speech ("Of this dead butcher and his fiendlike queen"), a DVD of Akira Kurosawa's "Throne of Blood" arrived in the mail.

Which is a statement that makes little sense, unless you know that "Throne of Blood" is a not-so-literal retelling of "The Scottish Play" story, set in feudal Japan. Which means that it’s about a returning warrior, the spectral oracle who steers him towards power-mad insanity, and the wife who thought her marriage vows said, "till death do your part".

"Throne of Blood" begins with a piercing solo flute, an ominous melody that plays while a soup of fog disperses. An enormous obelisk, marking the center of a barren and desolate field, slowly becomes visible. On its spine are engraved the words "Castle of the Spider’s Web". An unseen chorus sets up the world we are about to enter: "the castle of ruins… haunted only now by the spirits of those who perished." So we know that all will end badly, that the fates will conspire to turn what was once a great outpost into this wasteland we see now, and that otherworldly forces will return only "when the hurlyburly's done, when the battle's lost and won".

And then, in a cloud of smoke, we are back in the past.

We are thrown into a scene of mid-war confusion, as sentry after sentry (dressed in an every increasingly garish array of battle garb) bring the Great Lord of the castle bad news. It’s quite a dynamic opening, one that is followed by the solemn introduction of our returning heroes. On horseback, galloping through the labyrinthine web of woods that surround the castle, we meet Taketori Washizu (standing in for the Thane of Glamis) and Shiteru Miki (he who would be Banquo). We have already heard of their towering exploits, and are predisposed to marvel at their skill. Which is all for naught, when they happen upon a strange cage in a clearing. Inside the cage, bathed in a blindingly unnatural white light, sits a strange, solitary figure. She is slowly spinning silk, while singing an eerie song about the pointlessness of people, the power of fate, and the fragility of existence. "Oh fascinating, the life of man!" she notes, as the song draws to its conclusion. This is our witch, an image meant to unsettle both the viewer and the characters on screen (a goal it achieves, with room to spare, on both counts). She prophesizes that Washizu will rise through the ranks to become the castle’s new Great Lord, but cautions that it shall be Miki’s son, and not his own, who will succeed him. And you know where the story is headed from there…

It is worth pointing out that "Throne of Blood" is Kurosawa’s attempt at mixing the Elizabethan themes of Shakespeare with the formal style of Japan’s Nō theatre. This produces a propulsive and fatalistic plot, played out over sets that are distinctive mainly for their reliance on spartan design, and in a style that could be called graceful (if you have the patience) or slow (if you don’t). Witness one scene, where Washizu and Miki ride their horses through an extra-chunky soup of a fog. They gallop off into the thick of it, only to return, lost, to where the camera was originally stationed. This happens nearly a dozen times (back and forth, back and forth), and lasts several seemingly-interminable minutes. The annoyance it engenders in the audience is given purpose only in hindsight, when moments later one man says to the other, "I can't help but feel this is already a dream". "Throne of Blood" never aims for a level of reality; but that doesn’t mean its drama is any less human, any less forceful, or any less powerful.

Toshirô Mifune, the yin to Kurosawa’s yang in 16 of the great director’s films (including "The Hidden Fortress" and "Rashomon"), plays Washizu. Mifune is an actor best known for his titanic physicality, and his gruff growl of a voice. That being said, "Throne of Blood" manages to be his least subtle and most overblown performance. Which is fully acceptable, once you realize that, in keeping with the Nō tradition, each actor here acts his role as if wearing a commedia dell'arte-styled mask. There is no room for subtle characterization; the audience must understand who the character is on sight. The lines of Mifune’s face, which appears to be in a constant state of constipated rage, are accented by harsh black makeup. It gives the effect of seeing Washizu as if here always hiding in the shadows, which I guess is appropriate given his ignoble deeds. Akira Kubo, on the other hand, plays Miki with a sense of fatigue, a world-weariness that comes with having seen countless atrocities, while maintaining the honour necessary to go on. The two men, using seemingly-contradictory styles, manage to compliment one another quite well.

Taking a similar route is Isuzu Yamada, who plays Lady Asaji Washizu, doppelganger to history’s most guilt-ridden sleepwalker. Yamada, apparently an enormous star in Japan at the time of shooting, shows no charisma in her role. At least not showy charisma. The actress impressed me with her strength of will in Kurosawa’s "Yojimbo", and does equally stunning work here. Her Lady Asaji is as still as a stone on a windless day, and twice as resolute. She attains a level of forcefulness, over her husband, by being simple and logical. In their scenes together, Mifune is like George Foreman at the Rumble in the Jungle: he flails wildly, with punch after metaphorical punch, while his wife waits against the ropes for her husband to tire; it is only then that she throws her knockout blow.

And what a blow it is. She reasons with Washizu in such a way that he has no choice but to kill the Great Lord. I've always felt that the new thane of Cawdor could have argued more vociferously, in the face of his wife’s dastardly plan. Washizu, for his part, is painted into a rhetorical corner by his lady, and could not possibly get himself out. In this light Washizu becomes less monstrous then Devilish Scot. He is more a victim of his own fate, than a purely evil being, a theme that Shakespeare -- so adept at manipulating the fates -- should have latched on to, but didn’t.

Which leads me to note how "Throne of Blood" differs from "The Scottish Play", often for the better. In the end, Kurosawa leaves out the prophecies of the first and second apparition, preferring to have his great warrior know his immortality, full on in the knowledge that the great forest will never rise up in arms against him (a seemingly safe bet). Where there’s a shade too much witchcraft in "The Scottish Play" (to the point where the audience starts to think it real), "Throne of Blood" relies more on the kernel of thought implanted in Washizu’s head. Further allowing this kernel to pop is Lady Asaji’s pregnancy. The more conspiracy-minded among the film’s audience might think that, where Shakespeare’s character merely threatens to "pluck [her] nipple from [the baby's} boneless gums, and dash[] the brains out", Lady Asaji follows through on the promise. It is a wrenching scene, made even more glorious by Kurosawa’s cinematic powers, filtered through the stark blacks and whites that the Nō style demands.

But where the play and the film most differ is in the ways they treat their main characters. Or, rather, who/what they identify as the main characters. Shakespeare clearly has his eyes set on the murderous Mac; so much so that he names the play after him. Well, Kurosawa hasn’t produced a movie called "Washizu". What we are watching is called "Kumonosu jô" in the original Japanese, a name that doesn’t refer to the doomed man, but the castle he so openly lusts over. It becomes, then, a play about the symbol of power – and power itself – rather than the violent political climb of one savage man and his domineering wife. Miki recognizes this early on, when he longs for an end to the bloodshed that has marred the castle’s line of succession. Kurosawa further cements this notion, of the castle as King, by contradicting the rules of Nō drama (bare bones sets) and creating instead a massive and impressive castle set, complete with enormous wooden doors, dozens of archer’s turrets, and an oppressive aura. The Castle of the Spider’s Web manages to even overshadow the unstoppable Mifune, as it dominates the lives of those who live in and around its walls.

"Throne of Blood" is not my favourite Kurosawa by a long shot (that honour still goes to "Seven Samurai"). But it does fit quite easily into the second level of Kurosawa masterpieces, as a rousing tale of fate, blood, and how the two intersect. It stands on its own, quite proudly, even against its source material "Macbeth" (D’oh! The Curse is unleashed! Run for the hills!). Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I heard the mailman. And since I just finished reading Shakespeare’s "King Lear", I’d bet that Kurosawa’s "Ran" now sits patiently in my mailbox.