内田吐梦

照片 :
照片描述 : 大导演内田吐梦
中文名 : 内田吐梦
英文名 : Tomu Uchida
出生年 : 1898年
出生日 : 4月26日
出生地 : 日本冈山
逝世 : 逝世
逝世年 : 1970年
逝世日 : 8月4日
逝世地 : 日本
国家/地区 : 日本
职业1 : 导演
首字母 : N
条目星级 : ★

内田 吐夢(うちだ とむ),原名常次郎,1898年4月26日1970年8月4日,日本电影导演,他的电影生涯被二战拦腰截断,战前作品几乎都没有保存下来。

1970年内田吐梦因癌症去世的时候,《[[影与声]]》杂志仅仅用一行文字报导了这位“在西方鲜为人知的,老牌日本导演”的死讯。在35年过后,情况依然没有多大变化。那些偶然放映的内田晚期作品如《[[宫本武藏]]》系列(1961年——1965年),《[[饥饿海峡]]》(1965年),《妖刀物语》(1960年)尚不能充分展现他一贯的智慧和题材的多样化。但是,内田其实是一个类型片导演,在评论家们已经乐于承认好莱坞类型片导演的成就之时,却常常用更苛刻的标准去看待日本的古典主义作品。内田的作品与[[安东尼·曼]](美国著名作者导演)有相似之处:他用智慧的风格和个人的倾向去处理那些普通的主题和情况。如果他是在好莱坞工作,如果在法国可以更容易地接触到他的作品,毫无疑问《电影手册》的评论家们早就应该对他推崇倍至了。

生平

内田吐梦1898年出生于日本西部城市冈山;他的名字“tomu”,是他自己后来取的,是对英语单词“tom”的音译,也说明了他早年对西方文化的浓厚兴趣。而写成“吐梦”则代表了“吐出梦想”的意思。16岁离家来到横滨担当钢琴厂学徒,随后对艺术产生了浓厚兴趣。

二十年代

1920年内田吐梦以演员身份在当年成立的大正活映株式会社([[大活]])工作,同时还在于日本电影之父牧野省三旗下的“牧野教育映画制作所”(后易名为“牧野映画”)与另一位名导衣笠贞之助共事,曾任演员(同期演员包括[[冈田时彦]])、副导演、摄影助手等。1923年的关东大地震后他以巡回剧团演员的身份度过了数年,在1926年加入日活电影公司的京都大将军制片厂,最初是作为助理导演和助理摄影师。1927年凭借《三日竞赛》升为正式导演,专注于导演和编剧职务。

三十年代

内田因第一部同时也是最著名的”[[倾向电影]]”—-这是一部揭露日本资本主义与社会间之关系的左翼电影——《活的玩偶》(1929年)而广为人知,随后他又执导了一系列带有社会批判元素的电影如《复仇选手》(1931年)、《人生剧场》(1936年) 、《裸之町/穷街》(1937年)等,同时期的《生命之冠》(1936年)却被国内认为是失败之作。但同时,内田确实也拍摄了一些亲军国主义的电影如《亚洲的怒吼》(1933年),《世界的转折》(1928年),后者是关于日本未来实施空中打击的耐人寻味的疯狂幻想。遗憾的是这些电影大多都遗失或者只留下了大大缩水的国内放映版。

1932年九月内田曾与[[京都大将军制片厂]]村田实[[田坂具隆]]伊藤大辅等七名电影业同道退出[[日活]], 成立[[新映画社]](后更名为新星映画社)。

由于[[新映画社]]的经营者们过份理想化而不善经营,结果只完成了由田坂具隆导演的《昭和警备队》(1932年)后就再也没有作品问世,很快自然消失, 内田吐梦于1935年回到了[[日活]],进入在京王沿线新建立的[[多摩川制片厂]]

战前

虽然没有可能进行详实的分析,但是还是对内田战前的电影做一个简短的说明。从目前保存完好或者基本保存完好的四部内田战前作品可以看出,他在国内时已经尝试了多种题材,并且有沿着社会批判路线发展出一种类型叙事模式的能力。1929年的《汗》是利用倾向电影主题发展出的滑稽闹剧,一个被流浪汉偷走衣服的年轻富商不得不穿上了流浪汉的衣服,然后像一个劳工一样工作。本片立场鲜明,传达的信息—辛勤的劳动有益于人的灵魂–很有新意,而抽科打混的效果如果说达不到[[巴斯特·基顿]]的程度,至少也有[[劳拉与哈代]]的水准。《警察》[[1933]])被[[Noel_Burch]](《电影理论与实践》的作者)描述为:“一部远远超越了时代,可以看作把好莱坞战后带有社会意义的警察电影完美混合的作品。”这是一部关于两个曾是童年好友的警察和罪犯,爱恨交织的强盗电影大作。1936年的《人生剧场》和[[1937]]年的《裸之町》也都是展现了当代知识青年理想抱负的高水平作品。1937年的《无止境的前进》是一次罕见的合作,由[[松竹]]小津安二郎创作剧本而内田执导,表现了一个中年男人和他的家人对美好生活的愿望,但现实却是残酷的。由于其风格化的视觉效果,表演以及布景,这几乎可以看作是对好莱坞”美梦成真”式电影的一种讽刺。

《土》

《土》(1939年)可能是内田最为著名的战前作品,也是[[多摩川制片厂]]最后的辉煌,是关于在日本东北贫穷农民的一曲史诗,由于[[日活]]总公司驳回了原始企划,本片是内田在制片厂主任[[根岸宽一]]的帮助下,利用空余时间花了两年在外景地恣城秘密拍摄完成的。片中的景象朴实粗糙,并利用了高反差照明和旋转摄影。《土》通常被认为受到了德国和苏联电影技巧的影响。其修辞技巧极具冲击性,但是去政治性的人道主义立场又显得太过单纯。影片仅仅是用记录片的手段表现假想中的穷人生活,却没有同时做出任何分析,这代表了一种政治姿态。公平的说,当时的电影检查制度使得在电影里公开表现出任何左翼倾向都是没有可能的。但是整体上这部电影还是严重缺乏连接内田战前和战后电影的讽刺意味,以及创造了他那些最好作品的复杂观念。在内田最好的战后电影里,这种讽刺以一种脱节的,对主角,主角的行为和幻想的批判态度的形式出现。虽然他的故事往往是悲剧性的,但是把它们标上虚无主义的标签同样很不公平。内田的主角通常会自我毁灭,如果不这样就会被界限森严的社会所吞噬。他的作品一贯着眼于那些脱离了自身生存的环境的角色:《自己的穴之中》(1955年)里住在洞里的失业流浪汉,《疯狂的狐狸》(1962年)中为亲人死而疯狂的英雄,还有《绝境》1958年)中好斗的虾夷人。他对此类角色的偏爱并不让人吃惊:长别十年之后才回到日本,内田必然感到他就像一个呆在自己国家的陌生人。

中国

内田的职业生涯被二战和他在中国度过的数年截成了两半。1945年他离开日本,最初为政府主持的[[满映]]工作,日本战败后他留在中共领导的[[东北电影制片公司]]工作。协助中国发展电影技术。尽管随后爆发中国的内战让局势非常恶劣,而且内田自己也身染重病,但他还是一直坚持到[[1953]]年冬天才回归日本。时至今日,中国大陆的电影评论界对内田吐梦有颇高评价。有人认为战争和被关押的经历极大地改变了他内田的风格和思想倾向,在他的后期作品里,战前作品中的社会良知完全让位给了虚无主义。由于内田的战前作品几乎都没有保存下来,要验证这一说法的正确性是很困难的。

五十年代

《黄昏酒馆》

尽管内田战后的声誉主要建立在他的系列古装电影之上,但是在他回归日本拍摄的头三部电影中还是有两部是现代背景,而且是对现代日本社会的一种批判。《黄昏酒馆》(1955年)带有一种自传的味道质–内田起用了和他长期合作的战前明星[[小杉勇]],面对自己的作品在战争期间被当作宣传工具的现实发出了艺术家的悲叹。这部电影通过把时间限定为某个傍晚和只使用一个场景(小酒馆内)营造出了古典的整体感,,用艺术家的视角观察者酒馆内相互关联的顾客和侍者,而他们足以代表日本社会的一个断面。其中还有一名军官和一名警长,二人是唱着军歌冲进来继续喝酒的。[[Quintín]] 曾经比较过《秋刀鱼之味》1962年)中与之十分相似的酒馆场景,小津安二郎对之的处理非常精细:对战争的缅怀被小心地处理成了对令人失望的现在生活的回应,而每一句台词都受到了细心且严格的审查。内田的处理则更宽泛,但是也让其显得更加直接并对日本的战后政治进行了了讽刺。当听到街上的游行队伍中出现军歌时,老战士们露出了满足的微笑,但是当听到老的行军曲中居然出现了左派词语时又陷入了沮丧之中。这个场景可以说是一把有效的双刃剑:它一方面表明战时观念在今天的新日本已经过时了。另一方面又展示了左翼和右翼极端份子之间一种有趣的相似。

1955年起, 直到1970年, 内田吐梦以七十二岁高龄病死在片场为止, 他以年产两至三部电影的速度, 再度建立以气势磅礴的格调见称的电影世界, 堪称电影快刀手。 内田吐梦一生作品多达六十八部, 以实验性和情景壮观的风格、营造紧张的气氛见称。 内田吐梦的电影不以情节取胜,善于把人物置身于各种社会环境中, 并揭示人的心理活动, 从而探讨人性的善恶对立。

内田吐梦晚期主力拍摄[[东映]]映画的大型时代剧电影系列, 如《[[大菩萨岭]]》三集、《[[宫本武藏]]》五集, 以及毕生巨作《[[饥饿海峡]]》。

The incident is extremely well staged, with imaginative use of offscreen sound: a technique that Uchida used more than once to convey a sense of a wider society in complement to the specific preoccupations of the onscreen characters. A Hole of My Own Making, Uchida’s other 1955 film with a contemporary setting, is similarly creative in its use of sound; the bleak drama of conflict within a family is underscored by the repeated noise of construction work, or the scream of American jets overhead. In fact, the assertions of one character that Japan has now become an American colony are among the film’s weaker aspects: there is too little to justify them in a work which remains, primarily, a study of destructive emotions. The motif of construction work is a metaphor for the decline of Japanese traditions as focused through the disintegration of one family. With the father dead and the son bedridden, authority in the family is divided between the two women, daughter Tamiko and her stepmother, who, as so often with Uchida’s protagonists, are locked together in irreconcilable and almost inexplicable hatred. The mechanics of the relationship are opaque; Uchida offers too little psychological background to make them immediately comprehensible. Tamiko’s jealousy of her stepmother and of her relationships with Tamiko’s own suitors hints at Freudian motives: we may suspect that she hates her stepmother for taking possession of her father. More generally, Tamiko’s paranoia and suspicion are a response to her powerlessness, as a woman, within the structures of Japanese society. Marriage seems the only route to financial security, but she does not really desire it. The film’s limitation is its failure to suggest any positive option for its heroine; in consequence, it ultimately comes close to the nihilism of which Uchida is sometimes accused. Yet Tamiko makes her own decisions, and as the English-language title suggests, she carves out her own prison. In the last scene, with her brother dead, her lovers gone and her stepmother banished, she seems the exemplar of Uchida’s self-destructive protagonists.

Uchida’s other major ’50s film with a contemporary setting was The Outsiders (a descriptive but inaccurate translation – the Japanese means “Festival of Lakes and Forests”), which tackled the controversial topic of discrimination against the country’s racial minorities. The focus is on the Ainu, indigenous peoples of Hokkaido. Of all Uchida’s films, it is this which most resembles the work of Anthony Mann, both in its muscular action scenes and in its expressive use of landscape. Intriguing comparisons could be made between The Outsiders and the slightly earlier pro-Indian cycle of Hollywood Westerns spearheaded by Mann’s own Devil’s Doorway (1950), and developed most famously by Delmer Daves in Broken Arrow (1950) and White Feather (Robert Webb, 1955; produced by Daves). Hokkaido, Japan’s northernmost island, functions in film as the nation’s Wild West; pre-war films (for example, The Reclaimed Land of Bears [Shigeyoshi Suzuki, 1932]) stressed the heroism of the pioneers, and the Ainu, when they appeared, were presented as destructive savages (see the climax of the much-remade Futari Shizuka [Gengo Obora, 1922]). The Outsiders belatedly takes a sympathetic view of Ainu culture and supports their claims to equality. The pro-Indian cycle of Westerns was inhibited by Hays Code prohibitions of miscegenation, which dictated a tragic ending for the interracial romance in Broken Arrow; miscegenation is the subject of The Outsiders, which boldly confronts taboos relating to Japanese assumptions of racial purity. The militant hero, Ichitaro, challenges the owner of a fishing concern to admit his own Ainu heritage and retract his hypocritical refusal to employ Ainu. But a later revelation proves that Ichitaro himself is not pure-blood Ainu, but mixed-race. The film’s theme is the impossibility of sustaining the Ainu as a race apart, and thus the inevitability of miscegenation. In the last scene, after Ichitaro’s disappearance, the Japanese heroine is left carrying his child; that child may uphold Ainu heritage, but he is only quarter Ainu by blood. (That this child is conceived through rape is admittedly something of a lapse in taste; Uchida’s sexual politics are not the most progressive feature of his work). Less than 50 years after the film’s production, it appears prophetic: only a few hundred pure-blood Ainu remain; the customs and festivals that Uchida portrays are now preserved largely for tourists; and the majority of Ainu have integrated into Japanese society.

Bloody Spear at Mount Fuji
These forays into contemporary drama rank among Uchida’s most distinguished post-war films, but he was most highly honoured in Japan for the period films which formed the bulk of his later output. In these films, he consistently raised generic expectations only to subvert them. Donald Richie has described his first film on returning to Japan, Bloody Spear at Mount Fuji (1955), as “a ‘real’ samurai film with pre-war motivations (loyalty to the master)”, and indeed the film reveals the influence of the great pioneer director of samurai films, Daisuke Ito, who assisted the film’s production (8). If anything, though, the spirit of the film is closer to that of the pre-war master of comic jidai-geki, Mansaku Itami, partly in its detail of characterisation, partly in its repeated delaying of generically anticipated swordplay. Also reminiscent of Itami is the focus on unglamorous characters: here, the drama centres on the servants, while the master, Kojuro, is a fool and drunkard. The comic device of a servant cleverer than his master is not uncommon, but here it is used to call into question the hierarchical structures of Japanese society. As the film proceeds, Kojuro’s encounters with the common people and his perception of social injustice, lead him to challenge his own values. The climax of the film is tragic: Kojuro is murdered by a group of samurai who mock him for inviting his servant, Gonpachi, to drink with him at the same table. Gonpachi is obliged to kill them in turn. In doing so, he discharges his feudal duties while challenging feudal hierarchies. The irony, however, is subdued: the abiding sense is one of tragic waste, for which the imagery of the final battle, fought in the courtyard of an inn where sake leaches to the ground from barrels breached by spearpoints, seems the perfect symbol.

Uchida’s later period films were also critical of feudal strictures. The Horse Boy (1957) is a small masterpiece tracing the events following from the birth of an illegitimate child to a lady of the court; when she is forgiven and promoted to be wet nurse to a newborn princess, she is forced to give her own child up for adoption. Again Uchida’s target is the inflexible class system, inflected through a study of the disintegration of a family. Here, unlike in A Hole of My Own Making, all the pressures come from outside. The film is difficult to analyse: its impact depends on the excellence of the performances, and especially the intensity of child star Motoyuki Uehara’s responses to his experiences. Once again there’s very little swordplay, though the brief climactic scuffle is superbly realised in a single, long travelling shot. The real climax, however, is an emotional one: the suicide of the father in restitution for the theft by his son of a dagger, intended as a wedding gift for the princess’ marriage. Uchida plots a savage indictment of values which give symbolic objects more value than human life, and finds a positive alternative to the feudal outlook in the humane relationship which develops between the adopted boy, his surrogate mother, and the man who does not yet know to be his real father. These scenes, set in a country town, are directed with a vitality and wit that contrasts with the oppressive formality of the scenes at court.

By the 1960s Uchida’s period films were less successful overall, though there are none which fail to contain brilliant moments. The Drunken Spearman (1960), in particular, has a magnificently subversive first half. A hot-headed young samurai, Kurodo, threatens to commit public seppuku in response to the humiliation meted out to his family by the Shogun. Again Uchida shows how feudal obligations overwhelm family affections: the hero’s elder brother at first instructs him to complete the suicide, then tells him to obey the shogun’s messengers when they forbid his death, then, after the shogun’s own death, instructs him to commit suicide after all – each as honour demands. Subversively, Kurodo rejects his obligations and retires to the countryside with his wife.

The Drunken Spearman
But the film’s satire is aimed not only at the dehumanising ideology of another era; it is also a critique of its own audience. The hero’s decision to commit seppuku is widely publicised, and a substantial crowd gather to watch; Kurodo is offended by the party atmosphere, “as if,” he says, “they’d only come to look at the autumn leaves.” Uchida slyly satirises the chambara audience, who go to the cinema for the cheap thrills of dramatised violence and bloodshed, and poses the perennial question of whether the portrayal of violence on screen desensitises its audiences to violence in life. In the light of this, alas, the film’s ending seems dishonest; the climactic bloodbath may be ironic in intention, but it feels as though Uchida is finally yielding to audience expectations and commercial pressures. The visual rhetoric overpowers any sense of tragedy: in this case, Uchida’s flair for action undermines his message.

Uchida’s other period film of 1960, Killing in Yoshiwara, though one of his best known works in the West (it led David Shipman to declare him “the equal of Mizoguchi and Kinugasa”), is ultimately one of his most conventional (9). The tragedy of a wealthy silk merchant exploited by a heartless whore, it dovetails his fall and her rise; despite the elegance of the dramatic construction, the emotional effect is finally a little monotonous. The violent climax is, once again, directed with breathtaking assurance; it is, in fact, perhaps the single most brilliant scene in Uchida’s oeuvre. Even so, it lacks the gravity of similarly explosive endings in Bloody Spear at Mount Fuji, The Outsiders and The Horse Boy. So academically perfect is the narrative development that the bloodshed, when it comes, seems less tragic than perversely satisfying.

In contrast to the rather academic classicism of this film, it’s worth stressing that there is a modernist (even post-modernist) dimension to Uchida’s art. His plots were often derived from kabuki and bunraku; while some of these adaptations, like Killing in Yoshiwara, were as naturalistic as Mizoguchi’s Crucified Lovers (1955), others point up their own artifice. Chikamatsu’s Love in Osaka (1959) places Chikamatsu, the author of the original play, as a character in the drama. Relatively classical at first, the film grows increasingly self-conscious as it proceeds. Chikamatsu, initially an observer taking inspiration for his writing from the events he views, begins eventually to intervene in events, saving the heroine from suicide, substituting a gentler ending for the tragedy which seems likely. The last scene is not performed by actors at all; instead, Chikamatsu watches bunraku puppets play out his climax on stage.

The Mad Fox
Fascinating in summary, Chikamatsu’s Love in Osaka is not ultimately as successful as its premise might suggest, if only because the realisation of certain scenes is slightly pedestrian. The Mad Fox , on the other hand, is a notably complete success as an avant-garde retelling of a Heian-era folk tale. Again some scenes are shot on theatrical backdrops; others unfold against painted sets reminiscent in style and colour of medieval screen paintings. The film is a fable of wish fulfilment: the hero loses his wife in a courtly plot, is driven mad by grief, and then meets her double – actually a fox that can take human form. Dispensing with naturalism completely, Uchida uses his sets and colour schemes in expressionist fashion to convey the shifting states of mind of his protagonist. The film’s wild and fabulous artifice makes Kobayashi’s Kwaidan (1964) seem a lot less original by comparison.

In general, the last years of Uchida’s career represented a certain falling-off in quality. He devoted much time to the five-part serial, Miyamoto Musashi, remade a past success along contemporary lines in his mediocre yakuza film, Hishakaku and Kiratsune (1968), and died halfway through the making of his last film, Swords of Doom (1971). It may be assumed that the sort of film with which Uchida was associated was becoming old-fashioned, and that by the mid ’60s it would be difficult to work in such a manner with distinction. Yet Straits of Hunger is a definite attempt on his part to essay the modernist style and subject matter then being mined by such as Imamura (whose work in my opinion it surpasses). By this time Uchida worked invariably in colour; for this film only, the grainy look of ’60s black and white ‘Scope was aped and intensified by the decision to shoot on 16mm before blowing up to 35. The film is the story of a criminal, Inukai, who escapes justice after a theft which caused the destruction of a Hokkaido town. A brief encounter with a prostitute leads her to become romantically obsessed with him; years later, seeing his photograph in the newspaper, she goes to look for him, only to be killed by him when she threatens to betray his now hidden past. The narrative construction is masterly. The film is divided into three segments, each of different timbre: the first, an action-packed account of Inukai’s flight; the second, a bleak and realistic study of the life in Tokyo of the lovelorn prostitute; the third, an account of the psychological duel between cop and criminal. The drama moves, with geographical symmetry, from the strait dividing Hokkaido from Japan’s main island of Honshu, through northern Honshu to Tokyo, then northward again to conclude at the strait. The symmetry gives the film a sense of inevitability, as the past exerts a controlling influence on the present.

Described by Donald Richie as a “working out of karma”, it’s also something of a reworking of such novels as Crime and Punishment and Les Misérables in its study of a man pursued by an obsessive cop and haunted by guilt from the past (10). As a novelistic drama, the film actually doesn’t quite work; where a novelist could dramatise and explain the criminal’s state of mind, the camera leaves a little too much to the viewer’s imagination, with the result that Inukai’s final suicide seems insufficiently motivated. Yet, as a study of various elements of post-war Japanese society, the film is remarkable. The struggle for material survival, the gradually growing wealth of the nation, the situation of women, the banning of prostitution are all concerns, and the film weaves a remarkable tapestry of the development of Japan in the post-war era. It could be argued, indeed, that the war is the repressed subject of the film: it opens in the late 1940s with a violent cataclysm, which might seem to stand in for the war; moreover, Inukai’s whereabouts and occupation in the war years are left deliberately uncertain. The criminal who conceals his past to go straight and achieve success as a businessman might be interpreted as a personification of his country, achieving material success after military defeat. May we infer that war guilt is the repressed which returns to destroy the protagonist?

Such an interpretation would not be implausible, as Uchida’s cinema had often imbued personal drama with political resonances. His best work is both straightforward and subtle, combining the visceral impact of explosively staged action scenes with underlying complexities of attitude and implication. Neither the loss of much of his early work, nor the decline of his last years, should blind us to the general quality of his output in the decade 1955–65. So far, only a small proportion of his films have been made available outside Japan, and that only in a handful of venues. But Uchida remains a minor master, and it is time that Western audiences were given the opportunity to see for themselves.

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