Akira Kurosawa
Rashomon

"Rashomon" (temple of the god Rasho) is a film from 1950, shot in black and white, directed by the master Akira Kurosawa, masterfully interpreted by a dirty and vile Toshiro Mifune. The film, shot with few resources, faced considerable difficulty in distribution both domestically and internationally; it was the victory of the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival in 1951 that consecrated its success and brought Kurosawa and Mifune to international prominence.

In feudal Japan, where violence and abuse are commonplace, three characters (a woodcutter, a traveler, and a monk) find shelter from the rain under the same roof. The three begin to discuss a bloody incident: a samurai, wandering through the woods with his wife, is brutally attacked and killed by an outlaw and the wife is raped by him. The incident is narrated through four testimonies: the monk reports to the present the three versions provided at the trial by the bandit (Mifune), the samurai's wife, and the spirit of the samurai (called forth by a medium), while the woodcutter, finally claiming to have been an eyewitness, directly recounts his version. None of the depositions turn out to be the same as the others, leaving the "truth" undetermined.

The film, based on a story by Akutagawa, primarily deals with the themes of subjectivity, the multiplicity of reality, and the impossibility of the existence of a single, indisputable truth. The complexity of the truth is not the only central topic of the work, which also addresses the concepts of hypocrisy of men, lies, and mystification. Each testimony has the characteristics of the person recounting them, or rather, the peculiarities that the narrators would like to have: the boastful and pretentious brigand emphasizes his deeds as a fearless and fierce man, just as the woman and the spirit of the deceased samurai weave a tale that new light. Even the voice of the samurai from beyond the grave is not particularly convincing; neither death nor the afterlife grants the certainty of truth. The last testimony, that of the woodcutter, who has nothing to gain or lose in this story, seems to be the most plausible version (perhaps simpler people can grasp the less distorted truth?), but, amidst so much confusion, it is not possible to completely believe any of them. Just as trust in men is sadly questioned, the cry of a newborn is heard: a call of hope or just a cry of pain for selfish and corrupt humanity?

"Rashomon" through itself not only deals with tangible truth (addressed in the plot) but plays with the viewer by simultaneously enacting the relativity of narration and thus of cinema. It is interesting to note that the framing is rarely "subjective," but the camera captures the characters, giving the impression of an "objective" and faithful account of the facts. This adherence to the real is, however, contradicted by the multiple versions provided at the trial by the witnesses, who often speak looking at the camera, as if, in addition to the judges, they were also lying to the viewers. Even cinema and its images lie (a comparison with the poetics of Italian Neorealism, in search of something seemingly opposite, would be interesting), and often, what we see with our eyes is not reality, as we are led to believe, but a clever artifice.

The film, which opened the doors of the Western world to one of the greatest directors of all time (I would almost define him as "the hero of two worlds"), was also the springboard in his homeland for Kurosawa and is rightly considered one of his masterpieces today. Never trivial, rhetorical, or predictable, "Rashomon" encourages deep reflection on the truth, on "others," and, above all, reminds us not to trust even ourselves too much.