This review may contain spoilers.
Akira Kurosawa’s Ikiru, meaning “Living” in Japanese, is ironically a film about death. Rather, it is a film which questions existence and if there is any meaning to life. Above all else, it stresses the importance of human connections and love. Sounds straightforward, right?
This film has been regarded as a masterpiece and a staple of Japanese cinema by local and international viewers alike. It is a favourite of the director himself, and has even gained the attention and praise of none other than Stephen Spielberg. And of course, the film is rated extraordinarily high on the film review site Rotten Tomatoes, with an audience score of 97%.
So what is so special about Ikiru?
In a little over two hours, Ikiru follows the ordinary Kanji Watanabe (played by Takashi Shimura) from his diagnosis of a terminal cancer to his funeral. It is clear from the start of the film that Kanji cannot escape his fate, and as the plot unfolds, he struggles with both the knowledge of his eventual demise and a sense of regret for how time has slipped away.
For the past thirty years, Kanji has worked constantly at a dull office job, so much so that he earned the nickname “The Mummy” from his lively co-worker Toyu (played by Miki Odagiri). The reason for this is simple: after losing his wife, Kanji shut out the possibility of finding love again and threw himself into his work, thinking that it was what was best for his son, Mitsuo (played by Nobuo Kaneko). Yet Kanji could not have been more wrong, as the film suggests that his reserved nature ruined the relationship between father and son: Mitsuo sees Kanji as a burden who is only good for the fortune he has amassed throughout his life. This relationship of unrequited love is devastating to witness, because although it is not the son’s fault that Kanji became a “Mummy” (as Toyu points out to him), his selflessness has nonetheless been in vain.
The film has its tender moments, too. Kanji explores all that post-World War Two Tokyo has to offer in a desperate attempt to spend some of his life savings, and in doing so he encounters all kinds of personalities. It is full of amusing shots, such as Kanji losing his well-beloved hat in a crowd, to him falling asleep in a lively cinema. Kurosawa’s piece is full of the knowledge that life has slipped Kanji by, and now he can only watch. At first this frightens him, but as the film unfolds, he learns to accept this and enjoy the view.
And what a view it is. The cinematography is simplistic, and some viewers may find the black-and-white camera dated. But that is the beauty of it. Kurosawa’s lens captures a Tokyo without skyscrapers, a Tokyo that to western viewers could be mistaken for any city or town in Japan. It is a visual trip into a time that has long since passed.
Despite its historical grounding in post-war Japan, there is a timelessness to Ikiru. The header image of this article for instance belongs to an iconic scene in which our protagonist quietly sings an old romantic ballad to himself on a swing as snow falls around him. The lyrics he sings are as follows:
— ‘Gondola no Uta’ (1915)
As the camera slowly pans to Kanji, a gentle melody plays. On paper, these lyrics are full of passion, but when Kanji sings them there is a sense of slowness and gentility. The world around him is becoming increasingly fast-paced, but in this moment it is as if time stands still.
Kanji finds his purpose not in living his last days wildly, nor in finding a lover, but instead in pushing for a children’s playground to be built. Unlike his love for his son, his gentle persistence to make a difference in the community are not in vain. When the final shot of the playground full of children plays out, there is a sense of completion.
Ultimately, Ikiru is unusually optimistic; it reaffirms the idea that life has meaning, and that all people, even those who are dying, can make a difference. This film is not light-hearted, far from it, but what it lacks in cheerfulness is made up for in meaning. And in a world that is constantly striving to do better, Ikiru is a reminder that our seemingly small and ordinary actions are enough.
