Dear High and Low,
The only detail missing from Akira Kurosawa’s High and Low is the use of an intermission. While maybe not quite long enough to earn the break in action that I am admittedly a sucker for with its 2 hour and 23-minute run time, High and Low most certainly earns a brief respite with its story structure and its brilliantly stark contrast between the first and second halves of the film. Like many great filmmakers, Kurosawa not only has the ability to transport me into the lives of those who were strangers prior to my cinematic voyeurism, but also stirs up in me a deeper and more profound love for cinema as a medium, linking itself to other influential works before and after. As much as any film I recall paying close attention to, High and Low brought to mind a smorgasbord of varying films from different directors and eras. Films like Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation (1974), and John Boorman’s Deliverance (1972), each of which cause the audience to ask themselves— how would I react in such a situation? Films like Roman Polanski’s Chinatown (1974)— probably High and Low’s closest film companion— and Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958) for its layered film noir like mystery interwoven within the story’s city— the city becoming a profound character in its own right. And perhaps most intriguing, films like (again) Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho and (again again) Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather (1972) for introducing a captivating protagonist in the first act only to have them take a back seat (or no seat at all) as the film moves out of act one and into act two. We are introduced to Gondo (Toshiro Mifune) amidst a volatile discussion on business with his professional peers in his comfortable and luxurious home— a setting we’ll take comfort in ourselves as viewers, as it serves as an oasis from the heatwave made tangible by Kurosawa and company. Kurosawa smartly allows the audience to observe Gondo’s character through his business philosophy and negotiation prior to being faced with the film’s moral quagmire. Once the conflict is introduced, Kurosawa continues to up the ante with storytelling beats and filmmaking decisions that add layers and intrigue to a fairly straightforward ethical dilemma. Beautiful wide-shots of Gondo’s living room allowing all actors to be seen in a single frame, clever delivery of expository dialogue via a traced phone call recording filling us in on the kidnapper’s demands, and the use of contrast in sound and brightness, urging the audience to hang on every word of dialogue delivered, every phone call that cuts through the deafening silence, and every beam of light shining in through the windows due to lack of sound and light implored throughout, all add tension and intrigue. And despite each of these brilliant filmmaking choices, Kurosawa’s willingness to all but leave this setting and even, to an extent, these characters behind at the film’s halfway point is the decision perhaps most worthy of acknowledgment.
Kurosawa’s clever use of plot advancement, paying off minor details, and subversive information revealing fortunately does not diminish as our time in Gondo’s home does. Take for example the bullet train scene— which is an astounding bit of propulsive visual storytelling— where we learn in real time what the kidnappers plan is and the reasons behind his meticulous demands. Look also to the manner in which we receive law enforcement’s tactics for unwinding the mystery where we see flashbacks of the steps taken by officers describing their efforts in detail to a roomful of coworkers at present time. And perhaps most noteworthy, examine Kurosawa’s decision to reveal the film’s guilty suspect to the audience almost immediately following the film’s transition from moral drama to noir thriller. With such discreet information revealed and length of runtime remaining, the focus shifts from asking who to asking how and why. And that is the key; the questions of how and why become the films DNA, forever attaching themselves to its fortunate viewers. How and specifically why Takeuchi (Tsutomu Yamazaki) takes the actions that he does elevates a story of more than adequate visual and narrative proficiency to one that truly stands tall amongst its peers, even within Kurosawa’s own filmography as accomplished and prestigious as it is. The beautifully patient and meticulously earned meaning of such a great film might be that by the film’s conclusion, we see the humanity of each of the two men opposite one another. Though Takeuchi’s actions and words do not exactly clothe himself in compliment— they in fact are unambiguously wrong and evil— his painfully evident heartache, fear, and remorse prove his humanity. Though Gondo’s own understanding of life’s genuine lasting treasures and practice of moral fortitude— as well as those tasked with recovering his fortune— are challenged, his sympathy for his “enemy” before him is nothing short of a beautifully human moment. Brilliantly showing each man’s reflection on the glass that divides them in the final scene, Kurosawa invites his viewers to look in the mirror— as it were— at their own reflections to ponder how closely our thoughts, actions, and behaviors align with the unimpeachable and immovable reality of the dignity of all human persons.
To High and Low, Mr. Kurosawa, and all who had a hand in the film, thank you.
Sincerely,
movie lovers everywhere
Thanks for reading!
Sources: Letterboxd, IMDb
Film: High and Low
Release Year: 1963
Director: Akira Kurosawa
Production: Kurosawa Production Co., Toho