Rashomon - Akira Kurosawa

“It’s human to lie. Most of the time we can’t even be honest with ourselves.”

So says a nameless commoner (Kichijiro Ueda). He has come upon a priest (Minoru Chiaki) and a woodcutter (Takashi Shimura) in a broken-down gatehouse identified by an overhead sign: Rashomon. It is Akira Kurosawa’s celebrated 1950 mystery, set in feudal Japan, about the rape of a woman (Machiko Kyô), the death of her samurai husband (Masayuki Mori), and the various conflicting accounts of the crime. The priest and woodcutter were both witnesses at the trial and now, racked with confusion, struggle to understand what is true and what is not. The film’s oft referenced and repeated story structure was so influential that it created a genre unto itself.

But this is not a simple film about the commission of a crime. Kurosawa layers meanings onto it, making it both a meditation on human morality and a commentary on filmic art. He ponders, using his camera and characters, whether film can ever be an agent of truth and if human beings are even capable of it. It’s our nature to lie, the commoner tells us. Is he a voice of cynicism or realism?

The first version of the story is told by Tajômaru (Toshirô Mifune), the bandit accused of the crime. His account is full of masculine braggadocio; he imagines a heroic romance in which his advances are reciprocated by the samurai’s wife and the murder is the result of an honorable duel. He laughs when he tells the tale, full of boastful pride. The samurai’s wife remembers with a sense of shame; she is driven mad by the look of loathing in her husband’s eyes after he witnesses her rape. Even the dead samurai has a story to tell, through a spiritual medium, and it’s raw with anger and betrayal. The storytellers can’t agree on the circumstances, the culprit, or even the personalities of the participants. They may believe what they’re saying, but we can be fairly certain none of them are telling the whole truth.

So what is the truth? The priest and woodcutter cannot cope. The stories are inhuman. If they are lies it’s even worse, because who could lie about such a thing? Consider the trial: we never see a judge or jury. The witnesses testify directly to the camera, and then tell their stories in flashbacks . We are the judge and jury. We are the arbiters of truth. But we are not only questioning the witnesses — we are questioning Kurosawa himself, his medium. His characters may be liars, but perhaps it’s impossible for any of us to convey objective truth without filtering it through our emotions, biases, and denials. How then can film, the most influential tool of the modern storyteller, produce anything but lies? “I don’t care if it’s a lie, as long as it’s entertaining,” says the commoner. But Kurosawa cares. He gives his testimony and throws himself at the mercy of the court.

He captures images of obfuscation. He sets his film in a dense wood, where the foliage blocks the sunlight. The sun, which is featured in a famous shot where Kurosawa points the camera directly at it, functions as a dual symbol: it suggests truth, but also reminds us of the manipulation of light by a movie camera. The truth struggles to make its way through the tangled branches, and so too does Kurosawa struggle to shine a light on reality through the murk of human interpretation.

“The demon living here in Rashomon fled in fear of the ferocity of man,” the commoner explains as sheets of rain pour down on the gatehouse, another element to block the edifying sun. He believes the witnesses’ lies reflect mankind’s wicked nature. The priest believes otherwise. The woodcutter doth protest too much; he has secrets of his own that creep their way to the surface. Having concerned himself with truthfulness, Kurosawa now wonders if there is anything but evil in man’s soul. He comes to a conclusion that is not entirely satisfactory; the rain clears and the sun comes out in a manner that isn’t quite earned. It’s a philosophical sort of deus ex machina.

So what of film’s relation to truth? The director provides no clear solution, nor should he. Having posed the question, he knows better than to venture an answer. Rather, he leaves it in our hands: when a film speaks to us, it’s up to us to decide if it speaks honestly. By showing humility before so grand a dilemma, Kurosawa proves wise, and I think reveals a little truth in the bargain.

Watch a segment from the film here: