Sengoku Period, Japan. Fifteenth century.
The lines between the human world and the spirit world are blurred. In the backdrop of this ghost story is a violent war, one without end or mercy.
Genjuro is led by Lady Wakasa and her servant. They are a silent procession through the fields of overgrown weeds. Their path leads to the underworld.
Lady Wakasa refuses to remove her veil. She is as mysterious as an orb of light, or as the white rabbit that Alice follows down into the rabbit hole.
The door is blown open into Kutsuki Manor, another dimension.
The servants of Kutsuki Manor illuminate the rooms and hallways with silent elegance, their movements completely in synch. They appear out of nowhere and promptly disappear into the bowels of the house, never to be seen again.
Perhaps this surreal scene--one that could have been made with mirrors or illusions--is already a warning sign.
Lady Wakasa appears: merely a black specter, a faceless ghost that glides towards the viewer. The soft candle light illuminates Genjuro, our human protagonist, but it continues to hide her in shadow.
And when Lady Wakasa is finally brought into the light...
She is pale and beautiful, ethereal, her silk kimono glowing in the candlelight. Truly, a noblewoman who exudes elegance with each slow step. We are forced to wait for her, to hold our breaths at her reveal.
Her painted face, though beautiful, is stiff. Her expression--from an unsettlingly blank face to a ghoulish grin--forms slowly, as if she remembered only to do so at the last moment. As if it were practiced, like a mask she puts on to calm down her guest and reassure him of her humanity.
Lady Wakasa takes Genjuro's hand, and thus begins her seduction of him.
She always holds him tenderly, always embraces him, always looks upon him softly with great adoration.
They are promptly married, but Genjuro never once mentions his wife and son back home.
Their embrace clasped so tightly together as if they are two heads connected to one body
Lady Wakasa pouncing on him, trapping him in place, refusing to let go
Their faces caught in pure ecstasy or marital bliss--the rest of the war-torn world and Genjuro's old life is forgotten.
Genjuro returns to the town to buy some fabric for his new wife. The town is lively and fast-paced, full of all sorts of people: merchants, priests, samurai, everyday citizens. The scene is viewed from above, and it's like peering into a living dollhouse: the carefully designed setpieces and characters move around like in a tableau.
Genjuro is reminded that he has a family and another life waiting for him back home. He doesn't belong here, not with Lady Wakasa, and not in the spirit world.
When he returns, now blessed and with new armor (quite like Tobei's new armor, but this time it's a solution rather than a problem) written on his skin, there are consequences.
Genjuro lies facedown on the tatami mats, his clothes torn from his back.
A revelation: Lady Wakasa and her servant are both dead.
But even ghosts can feel anger and grief.
Even ghosts want to be loved.
Genjuro escapes with his life, and wakes up in the burnt ashes of the Katsuki Manor.
Now, he has to face the reality of the human world and all of its suffering.
Ohama's figure is lost and forlorn, surrounded by overgrown grass. Once, she had her husband, her extended family, and her home, but now she has nothing, not even her dignity.
But in the end, Ohama and her husband Tobei are reunited and reconciled. They hate what has become of them, and they return to their old lives, realizing that it's only worth it if they have each other.
Tobei throws away his delusions of grandeur after realizing what Ohama has suffered because of it.
When Genjuro returns home, he greets his wife Miyagi and his son...
Only to discover that even Miyagi is dead. She was a specter.
He resumes his old life as a potter with his son at his side.
The boy runs up to his mother's grave and offers her food, his figure tiny and tragic, representative of the consequences of his parents' war.
Ugetsu is a cinematic fable, a masterpiece of visuals. Kenji Mizoguchi arranges each scene like a diorama lush with details. The atmosphere and emotions are expressively revealed through the actors' gestures and faces.
The main messages--don't be greedy, be satisfied with what you have, be a good and dutiful family member, and remain ethical in war--seem too fairytale-like, but it's much more powerful when you realize that this film was released in 1953.
To reconcile a nation through the brokenness and guilt of post-World War II Japan, perhaps Mizoguchi thought it was necessary to look back deep into history and make an allegory using a fantastical tale. Human misery and hope, no matter in what shape they come, are universal.
