Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters

October 15, 2019

mishimaWhen one character in Yukio Mishima’s story Runaway Horses tells the fanatical hero that there is no such thing as purity, the hero replies, “Purity is possible if you turn your life into a line of poetry written with a splash of blood.”

The scene, recreated in Paul Schrader’s strange film biography of Mishima, captures the essence of Mishima’s life and death. The writer, who disemboweled himself in a ritualistic suicide in 1970, found that words were not enough – he tried to make his life a part of his art, by merging his intellectual powers with bloody  action. In his final act, at least, he succeeded.

Schrader’s Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters, which he co-wrote with his brother Leonard Schrader, is not really much of a biography. We don’t learn a lot about the facts of Mishima’s life. What Schrader is really interested in is the issue of art and action, and how the artist can affect the world, or how he can’t, through the act of creating.

The film is divided into four distinct sections, all of which contain scenes from Mishima’s life (shot in black-and-white) and scenes from the day of the suicide. The first three sections each contain one of Mishima’s stories, dramatized in bold, stylized colors.

Fragments from Mishima’s actual biography – his childhood, his mid-life obsession with bodybuilding, his increasing devotion to the traditional samurai ethic and emperor worship – echo the scenes from his novels. Obviously, Schrader wants the fiction to rebound off the real life, and for the most part, it does. Sometimes Schrader’s points are too bluntly drawn; he’s not known for his light touch.

But the individual stories, designed by art director Eiko Ishioka, are strikingly mounted and eerily colored. John Bailey – who also worked with Schrader on American Gigolo and Cat People – photographed, and catches some haunting images. There’s one scene of a man running toward his death, with muted green grass and blazing red bushes, that doesn’t quite look like anything you’ve ever seen.

The mesmerizing music, by Philip Glass, doesn’t try to ape Japanese forms, but it’s odd-enough sounding to fit almost any culture or period. In fact, Schrader may be guilty of relying a bit too much on the music for dramatic effect.

Mishima is played with authentic obsession by Ken Ogata. And Schrader knows something about obsession. This is, after all, the guy who wrote Taxi Driver. Even with Schrader’s sometimes heavy touch, that identification gives Mishima its propulsion.

You’ve got to admit that the sheer fact of its existence is impressive. Who in their right mind is going to subsidize an American film about a Japanese writer with an all-Japanese cast (speaking Japanese, except for the narration in the English version, which is spoken by Roy Scheider) – especially when the hero commits suicide in the end?

Schrader got some help from his friends George Lucas and Francis Coppola, who are credited as executive producers. Even with their names above the title, the film will have tough time enticing audiences. But, if it’s sometimes fuzzy-headed, it’s also very compelling. After the movie, you may find yourself, as I did, intrigued enough to check out a novel by Mishima, which suggests that the film has accomplished at least part of its mission.

First published in the Herald, September 1985

My enthusiasm for the film is stronger now, in my memory, than in this review. At the very least the movie is an amazing objet d’art, thanks to the people mentioned. Almost 35 years later, Schrader’s career, even with some rough patches, is impressive.


The Last Temptation of Christ

March 20, 2013

lasttemptationFinally. After weeks of controversy, most of it generated by people who hadn’t seen the movie, The Last Temptation of Christ has opened. People who like to think for themselves can now make up their own minds.

The controversy surrounding this tale of Christ has sparked picket lines and shouting matches. Church leader Donald Wildmon and Last Temptation director Martin Scorsese debated on “Nightline.” A band of fundamentalists offered Universal Pictures $10 million to buy the movie and destroy it. And protests at the house of Universal president Lew Wasserman took on an ugly anti-Semitic tone.

All of which brings to mind the line from Hannah and Her Sisters: “If Jesus came to Earth today and saw what was being done in his name, he would never stop throwing up.” So much fuss and nonsense over such an entirely well-intentioned enterprise.

The Last Temptation of Christ is a long-cherished project for Scorsese who, along with screenwriter Paul Schrader, has adapted the speculative novel by Nikos Kazantzakis. It is a thoughtful, serious film about the struggle between flesh and spirit, and emphasizes the human anguish and dimensions of Jesus (it does not, contrary to rumor, deny the notion of Jesus’ divinity).

The opening and closing sections of the film are the most intriguing. In the first reel, we find Jesus as a carpenter who hears voices and is disturbed by his Chosen status. The middle, more familiar section of the film shows the Jesus of the Gospels, accepting his role as Messiah, enduring the temptations in the desert, gathering his disciples, and performing miracles.

The final portion of the film is a fantasia during the crucifixion, as Satan leads Jesus on a tour of what his life might be if he chooses to live only as a man—complete with marriage, children, and a sexual life. There is no explicit precedent for this in the Gospels, but it’s a legitimate extension of the idea of temptation, and it actually heightens the concept of the sacrifice of Jesus; if there weren’t any temptation, it wouldn’t be a sacrifice.

The Last Temptation runs on for two hours and 40 minutes. It’s a stark-looking movie (Scorsese made the film on the amazingly small budget of $6.5 million, in Morocco) and Scorsese aims for none of the grandiose effects that we know and love from Cecil B. DeMille biblical pictures. The actors speak in everyday American accents, the dialogue itself is without the usual King James poetry.

Much of it is engrossing. The theological debate within the film becomes a bit murky and inarticulate at times; the film never seems to find the specific argument it wants to put forward, but perhaps that was the intention.

A lot of the debate is between Jesus, played by Willem Dafoe (the Christlike sergeant in Platoon) and Judas (played by Scorsese favorite Harvey Keitel). In this version, Jesus virtually orders Judas to betray him, and noting Judas’s anguish, says that “God gave me the easier job.”

Mary Magdalene is played with considerable sensuality by a tattooed Barbara Hershey; Andre Gregory is arresting as John the Baptist; Harry Dean Stanton does a touching cameo as Saul, later Paul; and David Bowie is a patrician Pontius Pilate.

Scorsese says he has been wanting to film this story for the better part of two decades, but it seems to me in many ways he’s been making it all along. There is tortured Christian allegory in Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, and Raging Bull, and those films actually deal with faith and redemption in more alive, forceful terms than this new film. It isn’t Scorsese’s best movie, but The Last Temptation isn’t glib blasphemy, either.

First published in the Herald, August 1988

We certainly haven’t gotten any more enlightened since then; you can imagine what would happen to this movie is someone tried to make it now. I think I’d like it more today myself, but I haven’t watched it stem-to-stern in a while (saw the parts with Harry Dean Stanton a couple of years ago and was really stirred). The casting of Keitel is one of those strokes that at first seems puzzling, and eventually feels inspired.


Light of Day

February 3, 2012

Paul Schrader’s new film Light of Day presents a tangle of themes and possibilities: there’s the vitality of the rock ‘n’ roll bar scene, the emotional toll of a parent’s death, the anger of an irresponsible young unwed mother, the confusion of a kid trying to hold his family together.

Schrader’s an ambitious fellow (he made American Gigolo and Mishima, and wrote Taxi Driver). The trouble with this tangle of ideas is that it remains in its confused condition throughout the film. On some basic level, Schrader doesn’t seem to have decided what the focus of the film is to be, and it never does lock into a groove.

The first few scenes contain some useful shorthand. Under the thundering title tune, we meet a grungy Cleveland bar band rehearsing; their hangout, a dive called the Euclid, is wonderfully realized, down to the wooden Indian over the bar. Joe (Michael J. Fox) and his sister Patty (Joan Jett) front the band with considerable conviction. Sensible Joe supplements his income working in a factory where they make trays embossed with the British royal family; fiery Patty just wants to be a singer and have a life of music.

A couple of scenes later, they drive to their parents’ house, along with Patty’s illegitimate son. The visit does not go well. The religious magazines on the coffee table don’t turn the kids on; Dad (Jason Miller) shlumps in the corner and shrugs, “I can’t complain,” to every question; and Mom (Gena Rowlands) opens the conversation with, “So, how are the roads?” (Patty, looking over her shoulder into the street: “How are the roads?“)

But Schrader’s narrative soon wanders. For a while the band hits the road, then pulls back; Patty leaves her child with Joe when she tours with a metal band; Joe loses his job at the plant, and tries his hand at songwriting.

Even the thread of rock ‘n’ roll, which ought to hold the film together, gets lost. The muddle of this movie suggests that Schrader wanted to cover too much ground at once.

The crucial problem is with Joe’s character. He’s heroically trying to keep everything from falling apart, yet he’s so generous and long-suffering that he becomes a little irritating after a while. Michael J. Fox, who’s to be lauded for choosing a serious film such as this to follow Back to the Future, clearly doesn’t have a handle on the character; he winds up staring gloomily off into space much of the time.

That, I think, is less his fault than a fundamental flaw in the script’s conception of him. With the main character a blank, Light of Day never finds its center.

Schrader’s best stroke is the casting of rocker Joan Jett as the troubled sister, who can find meaning only in the throb of music. Jett doesn’t exactly give a performance (this is her first acting experience), but she comes across with an unpolished truthfulness; her look and voice seem eerily accurate for this character.

Oh yeah, the Springsteen story—when Schrader wrote this movie some years ago, he called it Born in the U.S.A. He tried to interest Bruce Springsteen in the project, but Bruce was most interested in the title, which he appropriated for a monster song and album.

Schrader couldn’t use his original title anymore, so Springsteen wrote him a new one—and a new song to go with it. Unfortunately, the song is likely to have a longer life than the movie.

First published in the Herald, February 1987

I guess that last line is accurate, as the movie isn’t out on DVD. Springsteen’s song is awesome, a simple three-chord beast that became an epic work-out for his live shows (and it’s all the better because it sort of sounds like something a bar band might come up with in an inspired moment). The movie’s got a nice final sequence with the song; I wonder if the rest of it holds up at all.