The most difficult aspect of writing about film is deciding which piece of the puzzle deserves attention in a brief review. Cinematic language carries into every element of a film, speaking to us on both conscious and unconscious levels. Akira Kurosawa’s 1950 Japanese wonder Rashomon is a technical genius with a truly unbelievable story line, placing four differing accounts of the same event into one film. We travel backwards and forwards in time with each account and are left wondering in the end what is true.
The basics of the story, that do not seem to change, is that three days ago, on a breezy sunny day, a samurai was killed after his wife was taken advantage of, possibly raped, by a well-known bandit in the forest. Four corresponding stories are told, first, the bandit, then the woman, then the samurai via a medium, and lastly the woodcutter, who originally only admitted to finding the samurai’s body, finally admits, he saw the entire event. Three of the characters take responsibility for the samurai’s death. So, who is telling us the truth? I have a theory.
Kurosawa’s use of the camera is well documented. We get to know the characters intimately using close-up shots. We get to know the tropical environment through long shots. We feel the fighting through medium shots. You get my point. We know and feel this story through the use of the camera. But what is not so much talked about is the sounds and what they can tell us. The music and sound in this film lead us to the truth.
Through sound, we learn the bandit is telling us the least believable story. During his story we hear unreal, cartoon-type music. It reminds me of the old Tom and Jerry cartoons. He laughs like a hyena. We are tantalized and amused by his antics, even though deplorable, as this music follows his movements and actions. Up, down, and all around, with sound we know the bandit is telling us an unreal story.
Conversely, when the woman is telling her story and the medium is telling the samurai’s story, we hear sad, forlorn music. There is doom and gloom music. The sounds are much less. Calm. Sad. Sometimes we only hear crying. Sometimes we hear nothing. We hear the woman scream. We feel her going mad. We want to believe that what we are seeing and hearing is the truth because we feel more forlorn than chaotic.
When we hear the woodcutter’s story, we hear no music at all. We only hear his story. We can focus on his facts. His story is told without any background noise. We hear him breathing. We hear insects in the woods. I think I even heard the wind. I believe Kurosawa did this by design. The sound in Rashomon is descending from the chaotic madness of the bandit to the calm of the innocent woodcutter; we are taken from least believable to most believable through sound.
Rashomon is a terrible story but an amazing film. Because there is so much that can be discussed and analyzed, I chose to focus on the sounds, as they tell their own story. In addition to carrying us from the unbelievable to the believable through sound, Kurosawa uses sound to keep us grounded in the present by using the sound of torrential rain. I will end with the final sound, the baby crying. We descend from chaos to innocence. Kurosawa entrusting the woodcutter with the baby, tells me his was the most truthful account of what happened in those woods.
