Something Like an Autobiography - Akira Kurosawa [22]
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 prostrate 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.
I believe that the people of the Meiji era were like those described by contemporary novelist Shiba Ryotaro in his Saka no ue no kumo