Ishiro Honda. Steve RyfleЧитать онлайн книгу.
the night. Several of Honda’s early films would reach an emotional climax with a suicide or self-sacrifice, and Noe’s tragedy is among the most heartrending. Interestingly, Honda and editor Koichi Iwashita—the man who had introduced Honda to his wife some years earlier—strongly disagreed about the suicide scene, which was longer in Honda’s original cut. Iwashita had seniority over the new director and insisted on shortening the ending, despite Honda’s objections that the audience would be confused.8 And in fact, some reviewers complained that Noe’s death scene was ambiguous. Honda recalled feeling “upset, frustrated, and bitter resentment.”9
Even if he was not a demonstrably spiritual man, The Blue Pearl reveals Honda’s knowledge of Shinto, the indigenous religion with ties to Japanese values and history. A core belief is that all natural phenomena—people, mountains, trees, the ocean, and so on—are inhabited by kami (gods), thus deference to nature and the environment are of utmost importance. The Blue Pearl’s elder villagers speak of Ryujin-sama, their sea god, warning the younger generation to respect the ocean and maintain their traditional way of life. Noe and the other ama pay respects and cleanse their spirits in water-purification rituals, a Shinto practice, to appease Ryujin-sama and bring a healthy pearl harvest. Still, Honda straddles a delicate line between criticizing and defending feudalistic customs. Nishida openly mocks the old superstitions, saying their true purpose is to preserve the local way of life by instilling the ama divers with a sense of obligation. “You shouldn’t mock the sea,” Noe warns him. “Leave the ocean alone.”
Honda (far left) with actresses Yukiko Shimazaki and Yuriko Hamada, and cameraman Tadashi Iimura, on location for The Blue Pearl.Courtesy of Honda Film Inc.
Performances by the cast of veterans and newcomers are inconsistent, on account of both Honda’s inexperience with actors and his hands-off approach to directing them. The standout is Shimazaki, who essentially gives two performances. In the first half of the film, Noe is radiant and full of life as she falls for Nishida; in the second half, she is distraught and inconsolable as the lovers are scorned and separated. Shimazaki was a relative newcomer, while leading man Ryo Ikebe, in his early thirties, was an established Toho heartthrob with throngs of female fans, box-office appeal, and the ability to play men younger than himself. Ikebe initially joined Toho as a screenwriter trainee but switched to acting at age twenty-three; and during the 1940s and 1950s, he worked with many of Japan’s best directors, such as Naruse, Sugie, Ichikawa, and Toyoda. Honda would get better results from Ikebe later in An Echo Calls You (1959), but here the actor lacks charisma, especially compared to the seemingly effortless performance of Shimura, with whom he shares several scenes. Shimura was already a fixture in Akira Kurosawa’s company, playing the woodcutter in Rashomon and the alcoholic doctor in Drunken Angel. He would now also become an occasional yet supremely important member of the nascent Honda family of actors. Hamada plays Riu without much subtlety, as a cackling, brash femme fatale who chews ample scenery.
Prior to its August 3, 1951, release, The Blue Pearl was welcomed by a trio of familiar well-wishers. A Toho Studios newsletter featured testimonials from Honda’s mentor Yamamoto, as well as the other two members of the Three Crows, Kurosawa and Taniguchi. All were pleased their friend had persevered. “Some people may have had doubts, saying, ‘Honda-kun may not be able to return to work in the film world again,’” wrote Yamamoto. “I must say that the arrival of this newcomer, who is an opposite personality to Kurosawa-kun, is a great asset to the film industry.”
Kurosawa, in his testimonial, said he wasn’t sure what to expect from his friend.
“Ino-san came up under Yama-san, just like Sen-chan and I did,” Kurosawa wrote. “We were like three brothers. And of these three brothers, Ino-san was the quietest. He was always just calmly listening to us debate. That’s why, when we heard that Ino-san was finally striking out on his own, it made both Sen-chan and me a little worried, because we had no idea what Ino-san was thinking. We were clueless about what kind of work he was capable of doing.
“But one day, he paid me a visit and said, ‘I want to do this.’ When he let me read his screenplay, it made me completely happy. We were mere fools for worrying. Ino-san had been quietly and steadily building himself in his own way. And Ino-san’s world is so fresh, pure and innocent. I was so ecstatic and praised him for his work. But all Ino-san said was, ‘Stop, you are [embarrassing me].’ This is the kind of guy Ishiro Honda is.” Taniguchi, meanwhile, took a tongue-in-cheek approach to praising his friend’s debut, likening Honda to an upstart rival who must be eliminated.
The Blue Pearl was one of the first studio feature films shot in the Ise-Shima region, and one of the first to feature actual ama divers.10 Honda would return to the area for the Odo Island sequences in Godzilla and parts of the final battle in Mothra vs. Godzilla.
Reviews were mostly favorable. Much praise was given to the film’s technical merits, not only the breakthroughs in underwater filming but also Iimura’s camera work, the extensive location shooting, and strides in sound recording. Like Kurosawa’s Rashomon (1950), The Blue Pearl featured extensive dialogue recording on location, reducing the need for postdubbing; one reviewer called it “a test case for audio recording in film.” Many reviewers noted Honda’s long journey to the director’s chair and gave him high marks for an ambitious, if not completely successful film, while looking forward to his next.
“[Honda] is a person with strong moral fiber and determination,” wrote a Nagoya Times critic. “His great technique, a fresh and clean sensibility, and attention to detail are refreshing.”
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There were stretches during the Occupation when work was infrequent. Honda spent time reconnecting with his family and bonding with his children, particularly Ryuji. Having been away at war when his son was born, Honda had trouble relating to the boy at first, but in time they grew closer. On free days, Honda would take the children, and sometimes their friends too, on outings to the Tama River, where they’d play games on the banks. In those days, the neighborhoods of Tokyo’s Seijo Ward were home to numerous American families. Many of Ryuji and Takako’s friends were American kids, and the Hondas would socialize with their parents. As the family would later recall, there was no talk of the war, no feeling of enemies reconciled—just neighbors.
“There was a family of a high-ranked commissioned officer that lived in Seijo, and I was close friends with their kids,” remembered Ryuji. “They spoke English, and I spoke Japanese; when we’d play together the languages would be mixed up, Japanese and English. Once a month, they brought us a big cardboard box full of Levi’s jeans and T-shirts and Double Bubble gum and chocolates and things. Those families were there to try to communicate with the Japanese.
“And one day, they disappeared. They had left.”
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When the Occupation officially ended in April 1952, Toho was still recuperating from the devastating effects of the strikes, struggling to regain its footing and produce new films. For this reason, Honda’s second film, The Skin of the South, originated outside the studio system. The film was produced by Saburo Nosaka, who had previously worked for Toho Educational Film Division but left to form an independent outfit, Thursday Productions. Nosaka bankrolled the project with funds from private investors, primarily Shigeru Mizuno, a wealthy paper company owner and ex-member of Japan’s communist party. Nosaka produced the film under his company banner, hired Honda to write and direct it, and struck a distribution agreement with Toho, which desperately needed new product to exhibit in its cinemas. “I accepted this film because the studio was still a mess,” Honda later recalled. Shot mostly on location and outdoors, this film finds the young director again treading the line between nonfiction and fiction, combining documentary elements and a veneration of nature with human drama. The Skin of the South was the first true collaboration, on a small scale, between Honda and special-effects man Tsuburaya, who, working uncredited, created a miniature-scale