Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. Carrot

When I saw *Carrot* just once during a busy period, my memory of its impressions became scattered; nevertheless, among films I’ve seen recently, it still struck me as one of the fairly interesting ones.

Among the characters, the most skilled actor is the protagonist Ninjin.
There’s not the slightest hint of theatricality; it appears truly natural.
The young girl is similarly natural.
Of course, this is by no means unique to this film.
Since the days of Jackie Coogan long ago, young children have generally succeeded as movie actors.
The same holds true in Japan.
In *Enoken’s Drunken Tiger Legend*, which I saw recently, the boy who comes out to snatch the sweets served to the guests seemed more natural and effective than any of the actors.
This seems to suggest to us that movie actors' performances should be founded on an entirely different basis than those of stage actors.
In Russian films, an uneducated farmer emerges as the most brilliant star, while in American films, natives put on performances incomparably better than white movie actors' underlings—these are phenomena of the same nature.
In plays set against natural backgrounds, humans too must perform naturally to maintain balance.

In this sense, Ninjin’s father, mother, maid, and uncle all seemed to be slightly overacting; however, since Westerners are originally far more theatrical in their everyday behavior compared to Japanese people, that degree might actually be just right.

The French rural nature depicted in this film was truly beautiful.
When I considered that such old countryside still existed in twentieth-century France, I couldn’t help feeling envious.
It seemed as if landscape paintings by Corot and Daubigny had entirely come to life—a delightful realization.
In Japan, one would probably rarely encounter such places.
In the scene where Ninjin—having visited his godfather uncle in that countryside—paraded through the pasture playing mock wedding with young Matilda, ducks, pigs, and cows intermittently appeared through flash cuts, their accompaniment to the uncle’s paper harmonium perfectly timed to create a joyful rhythm.
It was not that such contrivances were clever, but rather that the editing’s rhythm was masterful.
Even when attempting similar techniques, German films inevitably tended to feel ponderous.
Another example of this masterful rhythm appeared in the brief close-up of what seemed to be a stationmaster’s face.
Though truly insignificant on its own, there was an inexplicable charm in how temporal relations unfolded around that moment.

When the maid came to fetch him and they were returning by cart, as he observed the seemingly happy people of other households, Ninjin’s heart gradually grew irritated, and he began wildly whipping the horse into a frenzied gallop—I find the accompanying music in that scene to be exceptionally well-crafted. There was something that evoked the intense, helpless emotions of a child’s heart pressed to its limits.

In the scene where he ran to throw himself into the pond, filming it to appear as though he might collide with the left edge of the screen at any moment was a kind of technique. Had this been reversed—had he instead run leftward toward the right edge of the screen—that pressing sensation would have failed to emerge.

As for fairy dances and entrancing visions, it rather seemed to me that their absence was preferable.

It seems viewers of this film all have different interpretations.
For someone like me, the most pitiable in this drama was the owner of a heart turned to dried fish—that is, Ninjin’s mother—while the happiest was Ninjin, who received sympathy even from animals.
And so, the one who had become the best child and reaped the rewards was none other than the village headman—society’s representative of “fathers.”

II. The Dram Shop

This was said to be a film adaptation of Zola's *The Dram Shop*.
Having not read the original work, I could not comment on its relationship to the source material.
Yet one thing remained abundantly clear—it possessed characteristics markedly different from ordinary American novel-based films.
The plot and scenes consisted entirely of utterly ordinary urban events—though there certainly existed a ghastly scene of alcoholic patients raging inside a mental hospital—making this overall a film with little visual variety and, in a sense, tedious.
Precisely because of this, considerable directorial skill and acting artistry were thought necessary to compile these elements cohesively while maintaining interest without undue tedium.
The transformation of the old man's facial features as he deteriorated from alcohol appeared genuine.

In the final scene, a woman who had fallen to the lowest depths of degradation was saved by an old friend and settled at their boarding house; after devouring a bowl of porridge there, she leaned back in a chair and fell into a deep sleep—her face rigidly hardened by long-endured hardships.
It abruptly transformed into a different face.
With features that looked a good ten years younger, her eyes brimmed with tears.
The ice encasing her tightly closed heart melted, and the spring of rejuvenation came.
Thus, the conclusion of this story quietly faded out.
In this handling of the ending, one could perceive a certain refined rhythm characteristic of French art.

III. World’s Roof

In this film, the scene I found most beautiful was that of the many white-robed Muslims gathering in the temple square during Ramadan's Month of Fasting to pray. But it is regrettable that this intriguing scene has been ruined by a contrived, lackluster action sequence. In the scene of the Lama monks' dance as well, unnecessary acting has similarly destroyed the serious reality.

Muslims fast for twelve hours each day over thirty days, abandoning their own affairs to live lives intoxicated with prayer. Such a life is ultimately an incomprehensible, mysterious existence for at least the majority of Japanese urbanites.

Contrasting devotees who make arduous ascetic practices their life’s sole work at Varanasi’s holy sites with the men and women of modern civilized nations who wander from movie theater to movie theater, kabuki to department store in pursuit of mere pleasure makes for an intriguing exercise.
That questions like “What is life?” cannot be carelessly raised unless one has fully seen the world—this truth one would realize even by watching such a film.

IV. Chushingura

I had only seen the first half, "The Assault Chapter," of Nikkatsu's current large-scale production of *Chushingura*. When compared to period dramas from several years prior, there were indeed various points that showed considerable progress. Techniques such as depicting the Noh performance for imperial envoys solely through stage backdrops and program notes, or representing the seppuku scene with a single cherry blossom petal falling onto a poem card inscribed with a death verse—though somewhat conventional—were ultimately a characteristically Japanese symbolic approach that proved effective in salvaging the overly theatrical drama. However, the most problematic aspect remained human acting—particularly its dialogue. While whoever played Lord Kira Kozuke was considered relatively straightforward, Asano Takumi no Kami's role proved genuinely challenging. Mr. Kataoka Chiezo appeared to have made considerable efforts, yet his performance ultimately felt unconvincing. I felt that the psychological progression leading to the sword assault forming the climax of Part I's first half required deeper study. From my perspective, Takumi no Kami should have suppressed his agitation and resentment far more until the final moment. That impulsive transformation in the ultimate instant needed more thorough analysis and projection through gradual acceleration. Moreover, beyond Ueno being cut down and rolling like a dog, I wanted concise yet powerful flash frames showing greater terror and panic. Without these adjustments, what should have been a carefully built climax risked feeling underwhelming.

The second climax occurs where, following the blood oath within Akō Castle, the true intent of revenge is revealed. In the scene where Kuranosuke repeatedly states, "The objective is but one," it seemed there might be some editing technique to add greater emphasis. For instance, close-ups of the castellan's face and a few comrades' faces, along with flashbacks to "the sword thrust into the pillar" used in the first climax—it appeared another inventive technique could have been employed.

While the inclusion of *A Castle in the Moon* as accompaniment for the sentimental finale—where retainers of the ruined clan scattered in their own ways—was commendably audience-friendly, might not the overly elaborate cutbacks of castles and sailing ships have risked dulling the intended effect? As I always reiterate, if filmmakers possessed even a modicum of knowledge regarding haikai linked verse, it seems to me there would be no end to the effective use of material in such instances.

One imagines that even in the series of edits showing the fast messenger’s journey, had they borrowed the techniques of haikai linked verse, they could have produced suggestive richness to any degree desired.
When it comes to such things, it was thought that the Japanese should be most skilled of all—which made their failure to utilize this strength profoundly and repeatedly regrettable.

V. Ivan

In this Dovzhenko film too, one noticed the same technique of linking static frames seen in his earlier *Earth*.
The movement of cranes at the dam construction site and trains proved so dizzying to watch, yet their editing method remained static rather than dynamic.

The vast, desolate landscape of the Dnieper riverside in the opening was also static.
For the Japanese to attempt to imitate a people born of such nature was truly meaningless.

This film possessed the potential to be utilized as an ideological guidance film by entities such as the Ministry of Education.
This was not irony.

(June 1934 [Showa 9], Kinema Junpo)

VI. Banja

I watched the film *Banja*. Compared to conventional wild animal documentaries, this one had some distinctive features. With relatively few instances of obvious acting, it made for pleasant viewing that avoided boredom.

The elephants employed by humans obeyed commands remarkably well and worked diligently despite their appearance. One found oneself wondering why such intelligent creatures never saw through human frailty to rebel. Humans prided themselves on controlling these animals through wisdom alone. Yet were these elephants ever to truly rampage, most human ingenuity would likely prove powerless against them. Elephants do not lose to humans through lack of wisdom—their weakness lies rather in an inability to cooperate. That coordinated violence renders wisdom obsolete stands demonstrated throughout human history.

Rhinoceroses as creatures are truly awkward beings.
However, why does this come to exclusively enjoy the privilege of the adjective "awkward" more than many other animals?

Among the various tools and machines humans use, those that look somewhat well-shaped at first glance are generally easy to handle.
Even precision instruments used in physics experiments—those that are poorly designed and difficult to use—somehow look awkward in appearance; this has been my experience over the years.

Even among animals, those that appear somehow awkward seem ill-adapted for living within the environments that currently dominate the Earth.
The fact that rhinoceroses are gradually being hunted to near extinction by humans likely stems from being endowed with traits ill-suited for survival in the present world.

In some past era, creatures like rhinoceroses once flourished and roamed freely.
What elements of that era’s environment proved advantageous to their survival makes for a fascinating question.

If tens of thousands of years hence saw Earth's physical conditions utterly transformed, allowing rhinoceroses—or their descendants—to reign supreme once more, then to humanity's eyes in that era—should humanity still exist—this creature would likely appear as a symbol of elegance and grace. That such an era might never come remains unprovable by current science. Does not what we say of rhinoceroses apply nearly identically to human thought?

What made one laugh most in this film was the trick used to capture the "spectacled monkey." A hole was made in the shell of a yashi nut, a few grains of rice placed inside, tied with a rope whose end was secured to a stake driven into the ground. When a monkey came, stuck one hand into the hole, and grabbed the rice, its fist became stuck and could not be pulled out. Though it could have escaped by fleeing from the snare, it desperately clung to it while waiting to be captured.

There exists an amusing anecdote: when a guest reached their hand into a jar of comfits served as a treat and found it irretrievably stuck, the jar had to be broken open—only to reveal they had greedily clutched a fistful. Such humans might indeed be few, but those who through their own actions become captives in similar snares and expose their shame while alive are truly countless in number. We cannot simply laugh at the "spectacled monkeys" alone.

A giant snake lay sleeping after swallowing a whole pig.
"The term 'fullness' proved insufficient."
This was a fullness of three hundred or four hundred percent.
The body's diameter had undeniably swollen to three or four times its original size.
It seemed difficult to imagine any tissue in other animals stretching to such extremes without rupturing.
To be sure, one might cite the uterine expansion of viviparous animals as a parallel case—yet stretching this freely within such brief intervals as seen in the snake remained truly extraordinary.
This surely involved unique cellular or fibrous specificity, yet such tantalizing details—precisely those we most wished to know—stood conspicuously absent from standard zoological texts.

There was a scene where Mr. Buck, the protagonist, was attacked by an umbrella snake, removed his coat, threw it over the creature, and subdued it. This might be described as softness conquering softness through yielding. Even a snake would likely find itself perplexed when faced with such a flaccid jacket. The film also showed leopards and giant snakes being captured using wire mesh. Nets appeared to be an even more formidable adversary for animals than coats—truly nets of fate itself. The expression "heaven's net" proved an inspired turn of phrase indeed. When creatures pushed against one side trying to break free, the pressed area would retreat while the opposite side constricted around them.

In the scene where the giant snake escapes from the box, they showed close-ups of the monkeys' and bears' terrified faces.
Those faces were well-crafted.
In contrast, the theatrical expressions of the humans attacked by the umbrella snake appeared artificial and comical, making this the most poorly executed scene in the film.
Our country’s esteemed star actors would do well to observe and study those monkey and bear faces.

VII. The Cartoon Dog

Among the cartoon films I had seen recently, the most interesting was from the Mickey Mouse series titled *Pluto's Wild Rampage*
(Playful Pluto).
Among these, the most delightful scene that made me laugh involuntarily was the photographic depiction of the dog's movements as it was tormented by flypaper.
The part where it tried to blow off the piece stuck to its nose felt a touch too human, but the way it spun around frantically trying to remove what was glued to its rear proved genuinely amusing.
The reason this was amusingly funny was because "truth" itself was amusingly funny.
When the dog ultimately became tangled in the window shade and spun round and round—while novel—it wasn't the least bit amusing.
That was because it had ceased being truth.

The protagonists of cartoons—mice, rabbits, and frogs—are drawn with faces resembling those animals, but their actions merely exaggerate human behavior. In the end, they amount to nothing more than humans wearing masks. Yet this dog alone remains an authentic dog at all times. It expresses a truth unattainable to any creator who lacks deep love for dogs and exhaustive study of their habits. Why can we not depict genuine humans through the same approach used for this dog? Were this achieved, one imagines it would truly open new horizons for cartoon films as legitimate art. Do not current grotesque-themed cartoons somewhat miss their intended mark? To vividly render images impossible for real humans—those extending human potential while swaying within desire's dreams—may constitute an art form. Yet one suspects such cartoons provide nothing spiritually, imparting instead only a physiologically decadent effect.

Don Quixote is an excellent subject for a cartoon film that depicts the truth of humanity as discussed here. However, I think that Chaliapin’s *Don Quixote* screened recently was rather impure in that sense. I wish to express my hope for the emergence of a cartoon film depicting Don Quixote using the same technique employed to portray the dog in Mickey Mouse that I recently saw.

VIII. Ippon Gatana Dohyōiri

One rarely encounters Japanese period films that prove engaging.
They typically prove either tedious or cringe-inducing.
Yet *Ippon Gatana Dohyōiri*, viewed recently, offered neither tedium nor discomfort throughout its duration.

First was the excellent rhythm in transitions between cuts and scenes. Even in sequences where Otsuta and Mobei exchanged dialogue across upper and lower floors—situations that should have grown intolerably tedious with even slight timing misalignments—viewers watched without boredom due to this editing's superb rhythm. Though Otsuta's repeated interruptions to call out to Mobei should by rights have felt tiresome and overbearing, here each instance brought psychological development and a graduated intensification of emotion, making the repetitions instead vitalize the scene. While this owed something to the quality of the original work, the skill evident in this aspect of the film was judged to derive almost entirely from the director's intelligence.

In ordinary films, fight and action scenes are often unbearably tedious, but in this film, such scenes are concise, well-executed, and all the more realistic for it.

Hasegawa Kazuo and Okada Yoshiko performed with such infused spirit that they became unrecognizable compared to their appearances in other recent films. In film, there was proven truth to the assertion that actors are secondary elements entirely shaped by the director's will. It felt remarkable because even all minor roles were vividly active.

In the final scene where he suddenly recalled his former identity upon seeing the sumo wrestler ukiyo-e that Otsuta had dropped—while this might have catered to popular tastes—it came across as somewhat contrived; one wished they had delved deeper into psychological analysis. The number of cuts between the emergence of the revived new Mobei and this moment of recollection felt slightly excessive, rendering the remembrance artificial. Wouldn't that crucial climax have stood out far more powerfully had they either tightened those intervals or replaced them with other cuts conveying greater "frenetic energy"?

There was a montage of Ryōgoku's fireworks. Previously, in *Sturm der Leidenschaft* (Storm of Passion) starring Jannings, there had also been a sequence that incorporated fireworks. On that occasion, the fireworks had raged wildly in counterpoint to scenes of jealousy-fueled struggle, achieving superb harmony, but in this instance such an effect appeared absent. Nevertheless, it proved quite effective in aiding mood transitions.

I had never seen any of Mr. Kinugasa's films before, but upon viewing one for the first time on this occasion, I felt I had come to understand that this director truly possessed a remarkably superior intellect and technique, just as the rumors claimed.
I look forward to his future developments.
However, the scientific mechanism of this talkie equipment remains incomplete.
It is regrettable that there are points where the concise progression of the plot becomes unclear due to indiscernible language.

(September 1934, Bungakukai)

IX. Carnera vs. Baer

I have never actually witnessed a boxing match in person.
Though they are occasionally shown in films as unexpected extras, until now this competition had never particularly aroused my interest.
Yet I found myself truly fascinated by the recent Carnera versus Baer match.
Being a complete amateur who knows neither boxing rules nor techniques, what struck me from the very beginning was how starkly these two fighters' personalities contrasted.

Carnera possessed a massive frame reminiscent of sumo wrestlers historically nicknamed "cannons," coupled with an oddly sluggish expression, while Baer—though comparatively smaller—exhibited throughout his steel-like physique both elasticity and rigidity, with a keen falcon-like intensity gleaming across his entire form. There was something about him that evoked sumo wrestlers of old known for unorthodox techniques.

In their initial clash, Carnera's colossal frame staggered under Baer's lightning strike. Yet from roughly the third round onward—contrary to my expectations—Baer appeared to maintain an overwhelmingly defensive posture throughout. Carnera persistently pressed the offensive in response, repeating monotonous attacks at an almost metronomic tempo. To my eyes, he seemed faintly impatient—as if rushing to force an early conclusion. At superficial glance, Baer appeared near defeat, evasively circling his opponent.

Chasing after something that is constantly retreating and striking it would diminish the impact due to reduced relative velocity; conversely, striking something coming toward you yields greater advantage—this principle was so evident it required no physicist to explain. Yet Baer clearly appeared to utilize this: mitigating his opponent’s attacks while borrowing the enemy’s momentum to amplify his own strikes.
Carnera seemed unfazed by such considerations—while his sustained offensive was commendable, the ceaseless repetition of moderate punches appeared highly inefficient from the perspective of work economy, as if he were wastefully dissipating his energy through futile motions.
Baer appeared to be following a strategic plan of conserving and stockpiling energy as much as possible, then carefully aiming for rare advantageous moments to concentrate every ounce of his strength in a single burst.
From around the tenth round, Baer appeared to have reached the opportune moment he had been preparing for—concentrating every ounce of his stored strength into a fierce barrage of blows—and Carnera’s decline, now visibly fatigued, became unmistakably clear even to untrained eyes.

In the eleventh round, the referee declared a TKO, resulting in Baer’s victory; however, to an amateur viewer of this film, both fighters still appeared capable of continuing through multiple more rounds—there was no moment showing anyone knocked unconscious and unable to rise.

When viewed as a contest between physical strength and intellect, even an amateur like myself could sense this match’s unique fascination.

Carnera weighed 119 kilograms and stood 2.05 meters tall, while Baer measured 95 kilograms and 1.88 meters—physically speaking, there was no contest.

However, during the match, Carnera was thrown to the floor twelve times in total.
In one of those instances—where his ankle was sprained and nose injured—his entire face swelled up “like pulp,”
and it is said his abdomen and sides were marked with crimson impact marks.

Max Baer is said to be a Jewish butcher residing in San Francisco.
I cannot help but feel there is profound significance in both his being of the "Jewish race" and his occupation as a "butcher."

Among the sixty thousand spectators, it is said there were ten thousand women who admired both Baer's talent as a cinema actor and his various sentimental adventures, raising a resplendent ovation.

While discussing this film with friends, Mr. K—who happened to be present—drew a comparison to the legendary duel between Miyamoto Musashi and Sasaki Ganryū as commonly recounted.
It is said Musashi arrived hours late to the appointed time, thoroughly exasperating his opponent.
Musashi too might have possessed a mind somewhat akin to that of Jewish people.

X. “Tadano Bonji”

Part II

Passengers on the train were reading here and there a newspaper that carried an article about how the company where Bonji worked had gone bankrupt and its president had disappeared.
Unaware that it lay spread out right beneath his nose, he went to work as usual only to find the office completely empty save for Yamako alone.
There, laborers came to carry out the desks and chairs.

The rhythm here was superb.
However, what proved curious was how the American film *The King of Fashion* shown that same day and venue contained an equally comical scene of furniture being removed from a similarly bankrupt office.
Down to the laborers attempting to filch the hero’s hat—it followed precisely the same pattern.
Whether this constituted mere coincidence or the program planners’ irony remained unclear.

The scene where Bonji meets his father, "Easygoing Mr. To," and "The General Next Door" at Ueno Station came off as somewhat overdone and not particularly enjoyable.
However, when one sat stiffly in Madame Moroko’s parlor, the dining room doors ahead swished open on both sides to reveal a beautifully decorated table—the "rhythm" of that sequence was exceptionally well-executed.
This represented the intriguing rhythm unique to cinema—something analytically difficult to explain.

The expressions of the four people at the dining table were also relatively natural and pleasant. What was most effectively executed in this film was likely the brief segments immediately before and after this scene. However, once Bonji's group went to Ōshima, it became rather a failure. Not only was the entirety overly long, but the rhythm of the scene transitions lacked any vitality.

The only part that felt strangely alive was where Moroko threw a tantrum and slapped the monkey. In the prequel as well, the scene where the same person sharply slapped her younger brother’s cheek similarly contained a truly living soul.

The General Next Door took hors d'oeuvres at the dining table, then glanced up sharply at the waitress's face—that gesture too possessed a "living, dynamic quality."

To be alive meant possessing a manifested expression of nature's true aspect.
When I encountered such moments, I felt relieved and redeemed—yet it was by no means rare for many Japanese films to lack even a single scene evoking this sensation from beginning to end.

XI. Wild Horse Smoky

In this film too, the director intended to make the horse perform theatrically, but the horse—naturally enough—remained utterly devoid of theatricality and maintained complete seriousness throughout, making the viewing of this equine hero truly delightful.
In a scene where a foal had been born just three days prior, its mischievous antics—suckling at its mother’s milk while throwing a tantrum and kicking her legs with soft thuds—paired with the mother’s unfazed composure even as she was kicked, overflowed with such heartwarmingly adorable and amusing authenticity that it brought tears to one’s eyes.

While the process of taming the wild horse undoubtedly involved considerable editing artifices, the manner of its thrashing when enraged remained authentically real—utterly devoid of theatricality—making it truly fascinating.

Watching this film, I felt I had discovered for the first time the beauty of wild horses.
As those who train horses improve, they gradually come to select wilder steeds—I sensed I had gained some understanding of the psychology behind this.
Above all, in the figure of the wild horse rearing up and leaping, there lay a beauty of "vigorous spirit" that defied comparison.

This film’s “plot” was relatively straightforward, so it didn’t get in the way of watching the “horse.” Thus, when viewed as an introductory guide to acquaint audiences unfamiliar with horses—even slightly—with the beauty and charm of this wondrous animal, one might say this film had admirably achieved its purpose.

XII. The Loyal Dog and the Wild Beasts

This was also a film showcasing animal performances; however, compared to the acting of elephants and horses, the Shepherd’s performance proved too polished and too akin to human acting—so much so that admiration took precedence, somewhat diminishing pure objective interest.

The editing of this film seemed somewhat lacking in tightness.
There were too many repetitions of similar scenes, resulting in no small number of parts that induced weariness.

In the original story of this film's source material, I believe that in the end, the loyal dog defeated the wild beast but also lost its own life on the spot.
In the film version, however, it had been given a happy ending.
This was probably because it would not have been well-received by general audiences otherwise.
Yet this very discrepancy points to a fundamental problem concerning the distinction between film and novel.

If in novels it proves more advantageous to "kill" the loyal dog while films find it preferable not to kill it, one must ask from what source such a distinction arises. Might this not offer a thread to unravel one of cinema's fundamental aims that distinguishes it from prose fiction?

One factor lies in certain factual differences between novels and films regarding their respective audiences' qualities and consumer demographics. Yet more crucially, I would argue that cinema's visual imagery evokes a visceral realism whose intensity—when contrasted with mental images conjured through written words—likely constitutes this distinction's decisive determinant.

If one merely "reads" the loyal dog's death, there remains room to savor its beautiful melancholy. Yet when "shown" this same event, the visceral impact grows too intense—one fears it might rupture beyond pleasure's domain altogether.

XIII. Blood Smoke: The Tenmei Battle Formation

I watched this film from the middle.
It was an exceedingly tedious film.
I felt that scenes of humans chasing humans and people clashing blades occupied at least fifty percent of its total runtime.

In such films' swordplay sequences, I always sense myself being shown a peculiar variety of ceremonial sword dance.
This reveals an artful choreography where blades whirl with boundless vigor yet harm none—a skillful pantomime of violence.
Furthermore, it displays superhuman exertions that would reduce ordinary men to exhaustion, sustained endlessly through cinematic artifice.
This belongs to cinema's unique domain of possibility.

According to stories I heard from elders in my childhood, real duels were apparently completely different from this.
They spent an inordinate amount of time glaring at each other, but the moment their sword tips made the slightest contact, both would leap back simultaneously only to resume their staring contest.
It was said that just from glaring at each other, their breathing gradually grew hurried until their shoulders heaved.
Just hearing about it made it seem intense.

A scene commonly found in this type of film showed one group of people and another group chasing and being chased across grasslands or riverbeds, captured from various angles.
The sight of humans scurrying about oddly like ants or something was both ludicrous and amusing.

I cannot comprehend why such a vast number of monotonous, utterly tedious sword fights and chases have been incorporated into these films. Or perhaps I think this is because it costs the least.

In these period films, actors appear most stupid precisely in moments when they affect an air of thoughtful gravitas. The more they try to show an air of deep deliberation on their faces, the more stupid they inevitably become.

I think it's about time Japanese period films underwent some sort of fundamental overhaul in their approach.

XIV. Eat or Be Eaten

When two turtles wrestled, the defeated one would be flipped onto its back.
Once overturned, they could never right themselves again and reportedly ended up dried out.
Since they neither shed blood nor tore flesh like wild beasts' struggles, these duels might initially seem non-cruel or even comical—yet in truth they constituted the most brutal combat.
Spiritually analogous showdowns frequently existed in the human world too, yet curiously enough, such varieties of dueling remained unprohibited by law.

Even when turtles and kingsnakes crossed paths, they pretended not to notice each other.
To snakes, turtles were like mere stones; to turtles, snakes appeared no different than moving sticks.
The spheres of interest of these two animals formed two distinct layers that never intersected.
Thus there existed neither hostility nor friendship.

The worlds of kingsnakes and rattlesnakes overlapped.
In such circumstances, only one of two paths remained: eat or be eaten.

The duel between these two snakes brought to mind finger wrestling.
It appeared that the kingsnake’s mouthparts securely pinned down the rattlesnake’s because the former’s nerve response speed was just slightly faster than the latter’s.
The factors determining victory in human fencing and boxing were likely the same, but whereas humans possessed the ability to control these factors through training, animals likely had only differences in instinct.

The posture a kingsnake assumed when grappling with a weasel-like small beast was truly a fascinating sight.
The figure that had coiled its forebody three or fourfold into rigidity and risen up perfectly resembled a boxer’s stance with shoulders raised and elbows spread.
Moreover, the way it continuously twisted its raised upper body left and right to target openings in its enemy was exactly like that of a human.
Of course, this was not imitating humans; nor were humans imitating snakes.
It was simply that mechanics of universal applicability were being unconsciously applied in a purposeful manner, one might surmise.
It was a fascinating spectacle as an example of mechanical principles being applied in “nature’s design.”

The rattlesnake lying horizontally struck me as peculiar.
I doubted ordinary snakes could perform such feats.
This difference in capability seemed likely to create a significant handicap gap during duels.
This was because the "degrees of freedom" in movement increased by one.

The sight of pelican chicks toddling unsteadily only to tumble appeared both comical and endearing.
Whether birds, beasts, or humans, those childlike movements common to all young creatures were consistently observable in films of this genre.
One came to feel that the source of affectionate feelings toward helpless infants—that this too was instinctual—grew distinctly clear.

There can never be too many films of this kind.
It seems that whether the editing is skillful or clumsy hardly needs to be considered.

XV. Roar, Volga

I watched "Moeru Volga" (commonly known as "Roar, Volga"). I did not find the movie particularly interesting, but within it, I thought the folk song sung by the troika driver and the male chorus in the barracks were truly beautiful. The song ended mercilessly just when you wanted to hear more.

In "Heidelberg Student Songs" (colloquially known as "Young Heidelberg"), setting aside the window-side student serenades, there was a scene of mass university student choruses at an open-air beer garden where the familiar strains of "Ergo Vivamus" and the clamor of "Salamander Leben" echoed across the Rhine Valley to the opposite hills.

It was truly enviable that both Russia and Germany possessed such an abundance of genuine choral songs that groups of men could sing wholeheartedly when gathered together in large numbers.
If one were to say Japan too had Tokyo Ondo and Dekansho, then indeed it did.
Yet what poverty this revealed even when compared solely to the two choruses that appeared in the aforementioned talkies.

This was a problem for talkie creators while simultaneously being a matter concerning the musical life of the entire nation.

XVI. An Incident on a Certain Night

Gable and Colbert's *It Happened One Night* possesses a uniquely American cinematic charm all its own.
In this film, there were two scenes where spectators near my seat—particularly the female spectators—burst into laughter that seemed genuinely amused, entertained, and delighted.
One was the scene in a rainy night’s makeshift lodging where the male and female protagonists engaged in a battle of wits across the barrier of a single blanket; the other was the scene where the bride’s own father, even as they approached the wedding altar, urged her to annul the marriage right before her eyes.

The female spectators seemed to be laughing with genuine delight.
I felt that the cumulative influence such American films exert upon Japanese women’s ideology might prove unexpectedly significant.

The grand theme of 'Cinema and Morality' was suggested.
Films such as this one and，for example，the recent 'Life’s Design' would serve as valuable materials when investigating this significant issue.

The morality of the film world need not necessarily coincide with that of the human world.
That is because the worlds are different.
However，for general audiences，the difference between these two worlds was not clearly recognized.
Therefore，it is a natural tendency to fall under the illusion that all things possible in the film world are equally possible in the human world.

However, if we consider that there is no evidence to prove phenomena existing solely in today's cinematic world will never become possible in tomorrow's real world, then the dreams of present-day cinema may well become precursors and omens guiding us toward the true form of future reality.
Here lies what I sense to be the very crux of this weighty issue.
I believe this is a matter that must by all means be entrusted to the prudent study of qualified individuals.

(October 1934 [Shōwa 9], Film Critique)