Kanji Watanabe is a widowed government section head near retirement who is informed he has stomach cancer and not long to live. After a period of high-life and introspection he resolves he must do something meaningful with the precious time remaining to him.
The premise of Ikiru (which translates in English as "to live") is an old and clichéd idea; the plot is nominally derived from Leo Tolstoy's The Death Of Ivan Ilyich, but probably a thousand other stories. What distinguishes it, and what makes it still as relevant as ever, is the depiction of Watanabe as someone drab and ordinary, with whom we can all relate. When he is faced with the horror of his own mortality he looks back over his work, his family, his contribution to society, and he can find nothing he has done which made any difference. He has slept through life, keeping his head down, following whatever path was the simplest and easiest, either afraid of or indifferent to the possibilities around him. Kurosawa's amazing gift is to present the story of a man painfully similar to ourselves, living in an all-too familiar world where almost everybody is either bland or corrupt, and yet somehow still produce a gripping, profound and intensely moving drama. Shimura is remarkable in the lead, his body bent by the weight of his predicament, his eyes shining with fear and regret as he searches for truth and clarity in an unfeeling world. His outcast status is beautifully encapsulated in the scene where he sings an old song, Gondola No Uta, and those around him move back in fear, lest they somehow catch his affliction. Kurosawa isn't telling us to pity this man - he's saying we are all this man, and everything we do, in our lives, in our work, in our relations with others, affects us and everyone around us. We must all face our own mortality at some point, and consider what account of our deeds we can give. The supreme irony is the lengthy wake sequence, in which Watanabe's colleagues initially downplay his role in the building of the playground, then gradually confess their admiration, then pledge that they will follow his example - only to carry on in the same thoughtless way, doomed to repeat his mistakes. The movie is full of wonderful shots (the shell-shocked Watanabe hearing no sounds on the busy street, the incongruous toy bunny between him and Toyo at the restaurant, the water reflected on his face when he is revived on the building site, many others) which subtly emphasise his plight, as does Fumio Hayasaka's mournful score. Written by the great team of Shinobu Hashimoto, Hideo Oguni and Kurosawa, who (along with another frequent collaborator, Ryuzo Kikushima) wrote fifteen films together, nearly all classics of Japanese cinema. Ikiru is a picture of great humanity; without simplification or sentimentality it tells a story of hope in a world where the greatest enemies are conformity and inaction. Kurosawa shows us that everyone can make a difference - the choice is up to us.
The premise of Ikiru (which translates in English as "to live") is an old and clichéd idea; the plot is nominally derived from Leo Tolstoy's The Death Of Ivan Ilyich, but probably a thousand other stories. What distinguishes it, and what makes it still as relevant as ever, is the depiction of Watanabe as someone drab and ordinary, with whom we can all relate. When he is faced with the horror of his own mortality he looks back over his work, his family, his contribution to society, and he can find nothing he has done which made any difference. He has slept through life, keeping his head down, following whatever path was the simplest and easiest, either afraid of or indifferent to the possibilities around him. Kurosawa's amazing gift is to present the story of a man painfully similar to ourselves, living in an all-too familiar world where almost everybody is either bland or corrupt, and yet somehow still produce a gripping, profound and intensely moving drama. Shimura is remarkable in the lead, his body bent by the weight of his predicament, his eyes shining with fear and regret as he searches for truth and clarity in an unfeeling world. His outcast status is beautifully encapsulated in the scene where he sings an old song, Gondola No Uta, and those around him move back in fear, lest they somehow catch his affliction. Kurosawa isn't telling us to pity this man - he's saying we are all this man, and everything we do, in our lives, in our work, in our relations with others, affects us and everyone around us. We must all face our own mortality at some point, and consider what account of our deeds we can give. The supreme irony is the lengthy wake sequence, in which Watanabe's colleagues initially downplay his role in the building of the playground, then gradually confess their admiration, then pledge that they will follow his example - only to carry on in the same thoughtless way, doomed to repeat his mistakes. The movie is full of wonderful shots (the shell-shocked Watanabe hearing no sounds on the busy street, the incongruous toy bunny between him and Toyo at the restaurant, the water reflected on his face when he is revived on the building site, many others) which subtly emphasise his plight, as does Fumio Hayasaka's mournful score. Written by the great team of Shinobu Hashimoto, Hideo Oguni and Kurosawa, who (along with another frequent collaborator, Ryuzo Kikushima) wrote fifteen films together, nearly all classics of Japanese cinema. Ikiru is a picture of great humanity; without simplification or sentimentality it tells a story of hope in a world where the greatest enemies are conformity and inaction. Kurosawa shows us that everyone can make a difference - the choice is up to us.