太平记 （大河剧1991）

 

这部池端俊策主笔（虽然有几集是仲仓重郎写的）的大河剧的中心问题在于：第一集童年足利高氏在佛龛里找到的朽烂的神像象征了什么？

显然，这不是一个批判或质疑宗教的故事，虽然主角足利尊氏偶尔描绘佛像。

从一个相对简单的问题入手：此剧美化了足利尊氏吗？虽然我对日本历史的知识都是从维基上学来的，但也能看出，肯定美化了啊！足利尊氏的名声就是大反贼，一生反来反去，在名义上的主公（们）之间跳来跳去，换山头比换袜子还迅速。然而剧中不厌其烦地细细描述他每一次的重大背叛都是形势所迫逼不得已，让人难免有点怀疑其真实性。

对比三谷幸喜所作的大河剧《镰仓殿的十三人》(2022)，其中主角北条义时也是从纯朴的少年形象出场，同样是喊着 “开创新时代” 的口号，后面变成一个阴险狠辣的霸主，就比《太平记》要更加 cynical ，对各人动机的揣测比较不留情面。一般来说我对于历史大人物的态度是比较接近三谷的，也就是 “别跟我说什么心地善良的黑手党，心地善良的人当不了黑手党” 的原则。然而太平记给我留下的印象完全翻转了我一贯的态度，即使明知终生胸怀创造太平盛世的理想的男主角跟现实中的足利尊氏相距甚远（那简直是一定的），也拦不住我被池端大叔的剧本和真田广之以及剧组各位演员的表演深深感动。 It doesn't have to be realistic to convey a certain truth. 这也算是意外的收获吧。

仅看尊氏的生平记录，习惯了二极管两党制的现代人多半会被搅晕。从幕府下第一臣子，到尊王倒幕的关键人物；从后醍醐天皇面前的大红人，到把后醍醐天皇流放孤岛的朝敌；搞出了南北朝分裂之后还从北朝倒向南朝又跟南朝翻脸互殴 ... 让我不得不重温前阵子琢磨了半天的思路： ideology 的虚幻性。别以为14世纪的室町幕府时代没有 ideology，当时的各武士栋梁们可没少辩论大义呢！到底追随哪位领袖才算是大义？是忠于天皇还是幕府？跟天皇打仗算不算下克上？因为日本历史上缺乏乌央乌央的大批御用文人和史官们替当权者拼命洗地，用头头是道天花乱坠的说法蒙倒众人，但又捉襟见肘地想要模仿左邻的儒家理论为己所用，反而帮助我们认识到一切 “忠义” 体系的荒谬性和虚伪性。

池端大叔提出的问题看似老生常谈：是英雄造时势还是时势造英雄？他用令人信服的叙事给出了答案：任何一方的领袖都可能被周围的人群和浪潮挟裹，即使自以为正在带领同志们开拓新政建立新时代，其实不知不觉已经不知道自己在干什么（虽然绝大多数领袖不会象剧中主角那样具有自省能力，而是终生以为自己掌控了方向）。也有例外，如执拗坚定地反时代潮流的后醍醐天皇，屡战屡败而屡败屡战坚决不肯认输，第一次读他的维基条目已经被惊到了——当时镰仓幕府已经建立百年，天皇的地位越来越弱，但他绝不放弃做中式皇帝的梦想！但是大多数领袖，如尊氏和弟弟直义，经常很难分清他们的选择是来自个人的强烈意志还是周遭的推波助澜。当时制度下，战争极度依赖各武家出兵结盟，每家都在打自己的小算盘，多角 alliance 极不稳定，说不定谁就带兵倒戈了。如果你诟病尊氏叛变得快，那是因为你没去注意佐佐木道誉代表的大多数武家。这样复杂而多变的忠诚 (or the lack of) 定义一直持续到关原之战，甚至在幕末亦成疑问。

虽然日本历史上的这种武力割据导致的状态跟其它国家有很大差异，但是如果我们放弃以国家为边界的历史观，观察区域性的演变或结构复杂的帝国，充满背叛和不稳定的多角关系普遍且真实，常见的二分对立才是陈腔滥调。对我来说，最近几个月恶补大河剧与相关历史，更加证实了历史的混乱性和偶然性，掺入了道德的历史规律（“得道多助失道寡助”）基本上可以丢弃不理了，而且领袖的个人意志的作用也远远比我们想象得要低。

放弃了道德体系和个人英雄主义的历史观之后，池端大叔就有充分的自由和空间表达他的终极关注： humanism. 在他的画布上就完全不需要好人vs坏人的角色，进步vs落后的设定，每一个重要角色都浸透了人性，值得理解与同情，只要观众能放下自己对于定义或坐标的执念，都可以被打动甚至叹息流泪，我们对于正确vs错误的执念也就自动融化消失了。非常重要的是，他也完全不需要流行的武士道忠君义理来激发观众的情绪（虽然这段历史里处处有陷阱）。不管是北条高时身上透出的绝望感，还是足利直义最后的执拗，都是以独立的个人呈现出来，邀请观众去共情人物的独特处境和动机，说不定能稍微增加一点慈悲的能力。No shortcuts，每一个都是扎实地写出来，完全没有陈腔滥调或迎合大众（这一点三谷幸喜在《真田丸》里就没做到，多半是因为真田幸村代表的 “忠义” 符号太深入文化太难颠覆了）。

这不是说作者没有自己的立场和好恶。可以说不论大小没有丑化任何一个角色，但是明显他对于某些人物寄托了更多自己的情感与投射。其中之最显然是楠木正成，我以为藤夜叉也是作者的化身（可惜对于17岁的宫泽理惠来说超纲了， not her fault）。这两个角色是教科书式的怎样写正面人物，怎样倾注真情而避免陷于滥情或煽情。楠木正成在明治之后被用作忠君保皇大英雄来宣传，如果一不小心就会落入窠臼甚至 ickiness，但此剧中弱化了他的“忠义”，而重点描述一种朴素的反战态度，细想简直是打了官方说法一记耳光的感觉。在这部 historic fiction 里，是否忠于史实让位于作者想要表达的情感与理念：楠木说跟着妹妹的猿乐团周游四方表演为生的日子才是人生里最幸福的时刻，对儿子说不要战死沙场而是回家播种谷物驱散乌鸦，什么时候才能让百姓都过上这样和平安稳的生活呢？没有人知道。

对于主角、配角、乃至反派人物，池端比三谷温柔一百倍，但是，我不认为这样的刻画是一些评论中所说的洗白或者美化！剧中的尊氏也许跟真实的尊氏差别巨大，但是通过这个人物的挣扎和矛盾来表达作者对于理想的探讨和辩论完全没问题：以太平盛世为目（口）标（号）的战争能不能给人民带来太平盛世？That's a serious question. 结合最近我在考虑的一个问题：人类历史的进步（更多的人过上好日子）是一个自然现象/偶然结果，还是有方向有目标的努力导致？还是，甚至， the road to hell is paved with good intentions? 

所以，这就是我对于开头的问题的答案：木刻神像腐烂成小木片所象征的意义，就是理想。

池端俊策也许比三谷幸喜更温柔悲悯，更多人文主义，更少 cynicism，但是他并不更乐观。

----

象征不限于一种解读，腐烂的小木片让我联想到那段著名的对白， What is power? It's a shadow on the wall. 池端在剧集里并没有详细地阐述，但那些站队倒来倒去的诸位武家家主，是因为什么原因而选择跟随这边还是那边？我们知道很多家族的 loyalty 是建立在地域上的远近，彼此联姻的历史，个人层面的交情，当时的形势，以及，当然，利益所在。这方面的复杂性，在《真田丸》里也是一条主线，而每一次关原之战被重拍都会拉出小早川秀秋鞭尸一通，我们都知道日本历史上的叛徒实在数不胜数。值得细看的是，为什么武家选择站队与追随，而跳出来自扮天下人的诸侯很少呢？后醍醐天皇有个人魅力来说服楠木正成与新田贞义为他去打仗送死（虽然他的政策削减武家权力），足利尊氏也是一呼百应号召力无比，弟弟直义在占尽上风的情况下都不敢直接废除他的征夷大将军名号。为什么呢？他们不是肉身凡人吗？却被其它人当成木制神像来膜拜和跟随。这个问题牵涉到为什么日本历史一千多年，天皇制度长立不倒；也让我联想到很多年前我问别人， Dick Cheney 权倾朝野，为什么自己不去当总统？得到的答案是 he lacked electability. 所以这 elusive electability 是什么东西？佛龛里腐烂的小木片。

Don Quixote Notes (End of Part 2)

It is evident that Part 2 was written with a more complex and refined structure than Part 1. There are no chunks of excursions into other people's stories for chapters at a time. This is in response to literary criticism against Part 1, as Cervantes acknowledges in the text. Instead, other characters' stories are much reduced and, when they occur, are woven into the adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Meanwhile, the main characters are given more complexity and nuance -- less crazy shit from Don Quixote and more display of Sancho's "simple" wisdom, including lifting some old fables of wise judges and anecdotes into a collage of original and uncredited materials. 

Once upon a time I lost someone's respect by voicing my dislike for Hamlet. Now I could probably lose some more by admitting that Don Quixote is one of the most annoying characters I've read. Not that the character himself is poorly written, mind you, but rather there is quite a bit of truth in him. He reminds me of quite a few well-educated men I have met in real life, blathering on about lofty ideals and profound philosophies and "the perfect woman" while entirely detached from real people. Throughout the novel, I kept wondering how many weak and downtrodden people were actually saved or helped by Don Quixote. There is the shepherd boy, who harbors no gratitude for the more severe beating from his master after the knight's intervention. And about his gallantry ... I made a note in Chapter 63, "As much as Don Quixote loves Sancho as a friend and cannot do without him, he has no qualms with making him flog himself for a woman who doesn't exist." What a great friend! Also in at least two places, Sancho and a duenna, respectively, get beaten up by someone in front of Don Quixote, and Don Quixote's reaction is either to run away as fast as he can or hide under the bedcover shivering like a coward. 

From these details, we can infer Cervantes' opinion of his title character. Therefore, I have to wonder about readers who sincerely praise Don Quixote's "idealism" -- Do they genuinely identify with him or have they read only the Cliff's Notes of the novel? 

The depiction of Sancho, on contrast, is full of subtle admiration and affection. I am not ashamed to admit that I identify with many of his qualities, especially his get-rich-quick schemes and flexible understanding of "loyalty." The relationship between Don Quixote and Sancho is not nearly as simple as either friendship or master-servant, which is one of the most interesting aspects of the novel. In Chapter 60 is a fun paragraph that illustrates the relative martial skills between the two men in no uncertain terms:

Sancho Panza got to his feet, rushed at his master in a fury, and tripped him so that he fell to the ground and lay there faceup; Sancho placed his right knee on his chest, and with his hands he held down his master's hands ...

Another interesting aspect, perhaps not entirely intentional, is the interlude about a converted Moor who is forced into exile by the king's immigration policies. Behind the fairy tale in the novel, we see trails of tear and blood of thousands of families being mass deported from their homes or killed. Some things never change. 

Overall, Don Quixote is amusing and highly readable, and I am glad I have read it, but would I go back to read it again in the limited time left of my life? No, thanks. 

Life and Death as Tropes: Drive My Car

 

I don't need to dwell on the many wonderful qualities of this 2021 movie, except that the single most effective choice made by the director (Ryusuke Hamaguchi) was to cast a deaf actor as Sonia in Uncle Vanya, the play within the movie. It is absolutely ingenious and perfect. I don't know how other people feel about the extensive enactment of "Uncle Vanya" and use of its lines to suggest the characters' state of mind throughout the movie. For me, who recently read the play and watched 2 other movies based on it, the power of Chekhov is immense. It is unmistakable that Hamaguchi feels the same way. 

Nevertheless, I want to touch on a particular aspect of the movie that is unsatisfactory to me. Spoilers abound below.

After watching "Drive My Car," I went and read the original short story by Haruki Murakami and a couple of other stories in the same collection, Men Without Women, that contributed minor elements to the movie. I have not read any of Murakami's novels, but one cannot escape his cultural influences. I read his “Barn Burning" after watching Lee Chang-Dong's adaptation, the 2018 movie "Burning", which left little impression (unlike the movie). None of his short stories resonated with me (quite the opposite of Chekhov). 

One of the things that has bothered me from the start about Murakami's works is his (ab)use of deaths, often in female characters and sometimes suicide, as a crutch in service of the male character's emotional state. There is a similar phenomenon in English-language popular culture that, by now, has been well established, ie, female characters die in order to bring about the spiritual growth or maturity of the (male) hero. Fundamentally, I think Murakami's tendency is not that different, but it might seem a little different to western critics because of the pervasive sense of melancholy in Japanese arts and culture. Death evokes a kind of beauteous sentimentality about the fleeting nature of life and all good things. That in itself is fine, but excessive use with a callousness can trivialize death as a dramatic device and obliterate its meaning.

The flip side is another convention in Japanese popular culture, based on my limited exposure: the trope of life affirmation. I have lost count of Japanese movies and TV series in which characters tell each other or themselves with a loud declaration: "I/you/we must go on living!!!" (At least 3 exclamation marks!) Implied in the declaration is that living takes too much effort and death is the default position. 

Putting aside the rightness or wrongness of this philosophy --- who am I to judge? --- I am merely pointing out that death and "pushing oneself to keep on living" are two tropes in Japanese popular culture. I don't know how the average Japanese people in real life feel about it, as I don't know any Japanese person in real life. Maybe they don't give a fuck and enjoy life just fine. 

Coming back to "Drive My Car," the theme is the difficulty for people to connect with each other, even between couples in love or parents and children. The main character is haunted by his inability to talk to his wife about her having sex with other men; now it's too late to understand because she died suddenly. The driver is haunted by her guilt over the death of her abusive mother. The two lonely people, damaged by the death of their loved ones, connect with each other in the little red Saab. The climactic scene, when the main character expresses his regret for his avoidance of talking to his straying wife when she was alive, did not have the expected effect on me. Instead, for me, it was a moment like, "Isn't it ironic, don't you think? A little too ironic..." 

The main character had repressed his feelings about his wife's infidelity and maintained the pretense of a happy marriage, because of his fear of the confrontation with his wife and possible dissolution of their marriage. That part is obvious. So then, isn't it convenient that she is dead? Her sudden and random death is, symbolically, his (the author's) wish fulfillment. Her death removes the threat of being exposed to an intolerable reality --- that she is a real person with her own thoughts, feelings, desires, and intentions, which may not align with his. Maybe she doesn't love him any more. Maybe she prefers other men to him. Maybe she will leave him.

One could extend this argument to the movie itself. After observing these two characters gently and compassionately for over 2 hours, it successfully avoids the hard stuff: a painful self-discovery, both of the main character's insecurity about his manhood and of the driver's hatred for her mother and her desire for separation. Also avoided is the characters' aggression toward the people they love. Their anger and resentment alongside love and attachment. Their fear of rejection and abandonment.  All the difficult and terrifying honesty is swept under the rug of a rote declaration, "We must go on living!" The end.

The truths in life must be avoided at all cost (eg, love exists alongside hate, we all have aggression, attachment cannot be permanent, we are not the center of the universe). In comparison, death is an easy escape from painful confrontations. Hence we can see how these tropes are so irresistible to dramatists. That is why we all need to go back and read Chekhov again.

Don Quixote Notes (Pt. 2, Ch. 30)

 The second part begins with an extremely modern premise: The adventures of Don Quixote and his squire Sancho Panza have been published and become an international bestseller. Don Quixote's dream of worldwide fame has come true. How very meta. It is surprising that such a device has not been widely adopted in the past few hundred years --- For example, having Harry Potter and friends be swarmed by paparazzi in London or letting Bridget Jones enjoy her celebrity in the sequel, or making Clark Kent's parents go on TV to explain the origin of Superman and sell his baby clothes as souvenirs. 

Don Quixote's early adventures in Part 2 are much more pleasant than those in Part 1. He magically defeats the neighbor who pretends to be a similar knight errant and challenges him to single combat. He is hosted by a wealthy gentleman farmer. He gets to use his combat skills (again!) in a disrupted wedding, while Sancho gorges on the wedding feast. 

In addition to the new victories and fame and fortune, Don Quixote has a hallucinatory experience in the cave of Montesinos. At this point, the novel further blurs the line between dream and reality. The text frequently suggests that Don Quixote is aware of his self-deception and his choice of fantasy over reality, perhaps because in the fantasy he is the world's bravest and purest knight errant. However, given the new fame he gained in the "real world" (both in the novel and in Cervantes' world, which is sort of our world), his fantasy is not so far from reality. 

Sancho, meanwhile, gains surprising insight into Don Quixote's madness through his own power of deduction. If Don Quixote is convinced that the peasant girl is Lady Dulcinea of Toboso of his dream, a claim that Sancho just made up, then nothing else he believes is true. As Sancho can verify one of Don Quixote's beliefs as fantasy, it stands to argue that all of his believes are --- except the reward of governorship to an insula promised to Sancho himself. In other words, Sancho is smart enough to see through the delusions of Don Quixote, except when it comes to the hopes of riches for himself. Hmm, where have I seen that behavior before ... ?

The 13 Lords of the Shogun

Episode 15 of the 2022 NHK taiga serials, The 13 Lords of Shogun, is quite possibly as shocking and riveting as The Red Wedding in A Song of Ice and Fire. I have often wondered about the unique political structure of historical Japan, and the complex relationship between the superiors and subordinates, such as those between the Emperor and Shogun and between the Shogun and his chief counselor. It is unlike the political system in China, in which the surest path to the height of power is to the Emperor's throne, with an entire apparatus supporting him, or the European system, in which kings must contend with both the Pope in Rome and the feudal lords. 

It is absolutely fascinating how, throughout history, people struggle for power. While in each period and circumstance, the political and cultural structures may differ vastly, the insatiable desire for power and the necessity of using other people for one's own purpose are always the same. Blood must be spilled, and money must be spent; alliances must be made and broken; friends and families must be formed and betrayed. How does one man drive others to obey his orders and do his bidding? By any means necessary. But one person's will is always insufficient, and there has to be something in it for everyone, even if that something is quite intangible and perhaps deceptive. Even if only one man's name remains on top of a page in the history book, there were many people who used each other to get to where they were. 

Written by the highly regarded Koki Mitani, the series are surprisingly clear-eyed and uncompromising (the occasional humor notwithstanding). It is not interested in making heroic myths or taking the side of whoever's point of view it's narrating from. There are no good guys or bad guys, only political and military expediency in a particular place and time. The characters do not have a hint of historical hindsight to allow them the luxury of posturing or moralizing their choices. 

It is often claimed that the Japanese society was (and perhaps still is) rigidly hierarchical and people were somehow naturally loyal or obedient. Such simplistic theories can never withstand a closer look. There is a saying in Chinese that can be roughly translated as "Rules are dead but people are alive," which means that people both rely on rules/hierarchy and violate them all the time, depending on the circumstances. Theories and reality, words and behaviors, are never exactly the same. 

A Scandal in Paris

 

Is there any filmmaker like Douglas Sirk? The point is not his subversiveness, for there are plenty of subversive artists, but rather how the viewer is never certain how he feels about the conventionality within his movies. 

On the one hand, anyone can see that he pokes fun at stale cliches. There is irony in his treatment of familiar stories and tropes. On the other hand, he seems to genuinely embrace them and relish in the familiarity. When every other artist can't wait to display their originality and emphasize how unconventional they are, Sirk seems to enjoy toying with tropes and messing with our expectations. He could not toy with tropes without first loving them and understanding them inside out. 

For example, the hero in "A Scandal in Paris", a man who calls himself Vidocq among other names (George Sanders), a life-long thief and con man who also happens to be dashing and irresistible to women, is in the end reformed by a young woman's love to become an upstanding citizen, even the police chief of Paris. Gee, how many times have we seen that story before, especially in 19th century romance novels. There is no realistic depiction of his "moral awakening" or psychological turning point. And yet, there are these little knowing jokes here and there, never calling attention to themselves, that wink and nudge at the audience, to suggest that no one should take these cliches seriously. 

The real climax of this movie is not the obligatory confrontation and fights at the end but rather the scene between Vidocq and Therese (Signe Hasso), the aristocratic woman who converts him. Presented initially as shy and naive, she represents the archetypal "good woman" who usually changes the bad boy's mind with her purity and innocence or stimulating his protective instinct (yeah, I too know the tropes inside out). Here, however, she declares that she would become a thief and a criminal for him. "If I can't get you to join me on my side, I'll have to go over to your side," she says. Sure, we could consider this yet another trope: a woman swept up by her infatuation with a bad boy and willing to abandon her social standing for him. But it's not. Her glee and enthusiasm hint at a repressed desire for thrills and rebellion. It's no more than a hint but unmistakable if you pay attention.

In another familiar but ambiguous scene, Loretta (Carole Landis), the "bad woman" in contrast to Therese (again a conventional setup that feels slightly off), betrays her poor sop of a husband in a rendezvous with Vidocq. Her husband finds her and, in a rage, threatens to commit suicide, but instead he shoots her dead. One could of course argue that her death is just a silly plot device to get Vidocq out of a jam, which it is, but it can also be interpreted as the husband's inability to express his hatred for her except through violence and murder. Funny how that is eerily realistic but hardly ever described.  

In 1946 under the stranglehold of the Hays Code, even the most nihilistic movies have to tack on a reassuring ending. No killer is allowed to go free. No adulterer could live happily ever after. And yet the way the code is carried out here is so cynical and twisted that the audience might not derive the correct moral lesson.

The world is filled with men eager to prove how clever they are, but one who is extremely clever but barely lets it show is a rarity. 

Don Quixote Notes (End of Part 1)

The first half of Don Quixote ended in a brawl, very much reminiscent of a farce in a climactic scene. In fact, there is quite a bit of drama elements in the novel. In particular, the middle part of the novel consists of several loosely connected romantic plots, and the characters of these stories all converge at the inn to resolve these love entanglements. Only one of the interloping stories, presented as a written manuscript about a love triangle in Florence, is not connected with the characters in the narrative. 

One could therefore argue that Cervantes was in fact a dramatist/playwright at heart. He probably started writing the novel because of a lack of success in playwriting and stuffed the novel with plays and stories rotting in his drawers. 

The romantic plots in Don Quixote have been largely ignored now, despite their bulk in the novel. Critics focus entirely on the scattered parts of Don Quixote's ironic adventures and failures. The trials and tribulations of Cardenio and Lucinda, Dorotea and Don Fernando, the captive and the Moorish woman, and various other happy and sad lovers are rarely mentioned, as they are so detached from Don Quixote's story. I think it's a shame. Dorotea is a very interesting and well-drawn character, even if there are some elements in her story that may feel disturbing to modern readers. She is intelligent, resourceful, courageous, and charming that reminds me of Portia in The Merchant of Venice. Given the limitation of the era and the authors, Dorotea and Portia cannot be assigned a better end than a pretty questionable marriage, which cannot be helped. 

At least in the first half of the novel, Cervantes does not have a lot of sympathy for Don Quixote. This is reflected in not only the shepherd boy's complaint but also the endless fights that he initiated with others and gets roundly pounded in consequence. The writing mixes some pretty brutal violence with laughter, which might have been a fad on stage at that time. In the more peaceful and heavily policed modern era, brawls no longer seem so hilarious, but we still like to watch simulated violence on screen, including me. 

On to the second part!