The Story of the Last Chrysanthemum (1939)
Directed by Kenji Mizoguchi

Film Review

Whilst the middle period of Japanese film director Kenji Mizoguchi is massively overshadowed by his later achievements - notably the universally acclaimed Ugetsu monogatari (1953) and Sanshô dayû (1954) - it does contain one or two cinematic marvels that are well-worth discovering.  Of these the finest is almost certainly The Story of the Last Chrysanthemum (a.k.a. Zangiku Monogatari), an exquisitely poignant period melodrama which is generally regarded as the best film that Mizoguchi made before WWII.  Exemplifying the director's growing interest in contemporary social themes, the film is based on a popular novel by Shôfû Muramatsu and was co-scripted by the director's long-term collaborator Yoshikata Yoda.

Set in Japan in the Meiji period of late 19th century, like many of Mizoguchi's films, The Story of the Last Chrysanthemum embraces themes that are central to the director's work - the oppression of women by social conventions in a male-orientated society; the impossibility of transcending one's class in society; and the inherent nobility of women in relation to the selfishness and vanity of men.  The story is a familiar one, of love thwarted by a tragic conspiracy of circumstances, but Mizoguchi handles it with such delicacy that no one who watches the film can fail to be moved by it. Artistically, the film develops the techniques that had become Mizoguchi's signature by the mid-1930s - primarily his use of extremely long takes, camera motion and deep focus, wide-angle lens photography - and achieves a noticeably greater degree of harmony and expression than earlier films, such as Osaka Elegy (1936) and Sisters of the Gion (1936).

The Story of the Last Chrysanthemum may be set in the past, but it serves as a pretty uncompromising commentary on the class divisions and social attitudes that existed in Japan at the time the film was made.  Even as late as the 1930s, Japan was a highly stratified society and the behaviour of individuals within each class was governed by a strict code of etiquette.  When we first meet them, the two main characters in this film - the celebrity actor Kikunosuke and wet-nurse Otoku - clearly belong to different social spheres.  And yet Kikunosuke derives his status not from being an actor - at the time, most actors were generally ranked as lowly as servants - but because he is famous, the equivalent of today's A-lister.  The central irony of the film is that if Kikunosuke had been an ordinary jobbing actor, there would be nothing to prevent his happy union with Otoku.  Once Kikunosuke has turned his back on the adopted father to whom he owes his fame, once he has taken a few knocks and has become an anonymous travelling player, he is finally a suitable husband for Otoku.

Yet neither Kikunosuke nor Otoku is satisfied with this outcome.  Otoku's one desire is that Kikunosuke should fulfil his potential and become a famous actor, but this will inevitably result in their being divided by class once again.  So intense is her love for her 'young master' that Otoku willingly sacrifices herself so that he may succeed in his profession.  Once Kikunosuke is a success, she knows she can never belong to his world and their separation will become absolute and irreversible.  None of this would have come as a surprise to a Japanese audience: it was understood that the role of the woman was to be subservient to the needs of the dominant male.  The injustice of this central tenet of Japanese life can be felt in much of Mizoguchi's work, but rarely with such blistering intensity as in this understated humanist masterpiece.

The most striking aspect of Mizoguchi's filmmaking technique, particularly for western audiences, is his reluctance to use the close-up.  The Story of the Last Chrysanthemum is shot almost entirely in mid-shot with a near-fixed perspective (as a spectator would have whilst watching a play performed in the theatre).  Occasionally, the camera is pulled back or the rear of the set opened up for some dramatic long shots - for example in the spectacular sequences depicting the Kabuki theatrical performances in all their visual splendour.  There is not a single close-up in the entire film, and nor does there need to be.  Mizoguchi regarded the close-up as a phoney cinematic device, a short-cut to the result which he felt he could achieve far more effectively through long takes and careful composition of the shots.  There is a restrained, Brechtian quality to Mizoguchi's mise-en-scène, and the director never lets us forget that we are watching a play.  The lighting adds to the theatricality and poetry of Mizoguchi's films, reflecting the changing moods of the protagonists so eloquently, and yet so subtly, that we have no need of close-ups to know what the characters are thinking and feeling.

Mizoguchi's frequent use of long takes (typically four or five minutes in length) is another conscious breach of conventional filmmaking technique, but in Mizoguchi's films the long take works very effectively, allowing emotions to develop naturally out of a situation without the need for cutting and cropping.  The long tracking sequence in which Kikunosuke and Otoku first meet is a good example of this: as the two characters make contact and get to know one another, we can sense the social barrier that separates them gradually dissolving, so that in their next long scene (where they happily slice up a water melon together) we are in no doubt where their relationship is heading.  The long sequence near the end of the film, in which Kikunosuke runs back and forth along a railway platform, frantically searching railway carriages for Otoku, powerfully conveys the hopelessness that is starting to overtake the actor, a slow realisation of the price he is about to pay for his latest stroke of good fortune. 

Mizoguchi is a master at guiding our senses and manipulating our emotions, so much so that he has no need of the more familiar cinematic trickery.  The emotional impact that his films deliver is far from superficial - it is intensely visceral, but at the same time as gentle as a lover's caress.  The Story of the Last Chrysanthemum may just fall short of the stylistic and technical brilliance of Mizoguchi 's late masterpieces but this does not prevent it from being a major achievement, easily one of the director's most compelling and poignant films.

Film Synopsis

Tokyo in the mid-1880s.  Kikunosuke Onoue intends to follow in the footsteps of his adopted father, the great Kabuki actor Kikugoro Onoue.  Whilst he enjoys fame, on account of his name, Kikunosuke has little talent as an actor and he is derided by the rest of his troupe.  One evening, he strikes up a conversation with Otoku, the young wet-nurse to his adopted father's baby son.   Although Otoku admires Kikunosuke, she frankly admits that he is a poor actor, but assures him he could be a great actor if only he tried harder.  Kikunosuke warms to Otoku's candour and an intimacy develops between the two.  This is seen by Kikunosuke's family, who, fearing a scandal, dismiss Otoku.   Incensed by this, Kikunosuke leaves home and heads off to Osaka, where he joins another theatre company.  In time, he meets up with Otoku and the two live together as man and wife.  When the manager of the company dies, Kikunosuke has no choice but to join a travelling theatre company.  The couple's resources dwindle and they become dependent on Otoku's meagre earnings as a seamstress.  Just when everything appears hopeless, Kikunosuke is given an opportunity to make his name with a reputable troupe.  His success reaches the ears of his adopted father, who offers to accept him back in his company.  Otoku persuades Kikunosuke to return to Tokyo, but she knows she cannot follow him.  As expected, Kikunosuke becomes a great actor, a credit to his adopted father.  But, whilst performing in Osaka, Kikunosuke receives some terrible news: Otoku is gravely ill...