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Melodrama, Tears,
and Life of Oharu
By JONATHAN FROME
Many of Mizoguchi's films portray suffering women, but Life of Oharu
(1952) may surpass all his others in the depth of suffering portrayed.
The film features a young woman, Oharu, who is the daughter of an
Imperial samurai. After a brief relationship with a lower class
man, her family is exiled from the Imperial court. This event starts
a series of misfortunes which, through many episodes, push her down
the social ladder and track her moral descent. Ultimately, in her
old age, she is reduced to a pathetic, elderly beggar. The film's
tone straightforwardly reflects its subject matter: it is quite
sad to watch Oharu systematically destroyed and left with no sense
of a brighter future. Yet, other films have portrayed similarly
tragic events but fail to move their audience. In this paper, I
will discuss various theories of how a film's narrative structure
can affect its ability to generate sadness, and analyze how Oharu
arranges its narration in a particularly effective manner towards
this end.
Melodrama and Tears
Why do we find melodramas moving? How do melodramas make us cry?
In his well-known article "Melodrama and Tears," Steve Neale argues
that melodramas' ability to generate sadness is fundamentally based
in the relationship between the narrative point-of-view of the characters
and the audience. To make his point, Neale borrows from Franco Moretti's
theory of moving literature. Moretti's theory attempts to describe
the mechanism by which moving literature causes tears. According
to Neale:
[Moretti's] thesis is that particularly moving moments in such
stories are the product of a structure in which the point of view
of one of the characters comes to coincide with the point of view
of the reader as established by the narrative. A character's mistaken
perception, or lack of knowledge, is rectified in accordance with
the reader's prior understanding and judgment. (7)
Thus, the narrative establishes a primary point of view, which
Moretti also calls "unquestionable" and "neutral," that is distinct
from a character's subjective point of view. When the two points-of-view
are reconciled, an event which Moretti calls agnition, sadness
is generated. The agnition, however, only generates pathos under
certain conditions. Moretti states that the agnition is moving when
it comes "too late," that is, when "change is impossible" (162).
Why? Because the audience wants a happy event, but when the agnition
comes too late, they realize that time is irreversible and they
are powerless to change the story. These realizations generate their
sadness.
Thus, on Neale's view, the viewer of a melodrama knows something
that the character doesn't. When the character learns the key information
(and their point of view thus reconciles with the viewer's), the
agnition takes place and sadness is generated. Neale modifies Moretti's
conditions, arguing that films can still be moving even if agnition
occurs in time to generate a happy outcome, as long as there is
a delay that creates the possibility of failure. And "the longer
there is delay, the more we are likely to cry, because the powerlessness
of our position will be intensified, whatever the outcome of events,
'happy' or 'sad', too late or just in time" (12). Neale uses All
That Heaven Allows (1955) as an example. At the end, although
Cary Scott and Ron Kirby have suffered a costly delay in their relationship
that generates tears, it is not too late for them to have a relationship
(11). We should note, however, that many different things can cause
tears, and the concept is thus poor for discussing how films generate
emotions. We can cry tears of joy as well as tears of sorrow, and
Neale himself describes an ending of delayed but successful agnition
as both happy and sad (11). Thus, it is more fruitful to discuss
sadness rather than tears. Returning to Neale's example, it is clear
that All That Heaven Allows would be sadder if in fact Ron
had died from his fall, and Cary came to learn of his death after
deciding to reunite with him once and for all. Her agnition would
then truly be too late. When the delay is costly but coupled with
a happy reconciliation, we get the happy/sad mix Neale refers to.
When the delay is truly too late, and the cost is the impossibility
of change, we get the sadness of Moretti's examples. The cost of
being too late is greater than the cost of delay, and, accordingly,
the sadness is greater.
There are some problems, however, with attributing sadness to
this structure as Neale describes it. First, it seems inadequate
to base sadness solely on a reconciliation of the character's subjective
point of view with the viewer's point of view, because such a moment
may happen without the viewer's knowledge. That is, it may be the
case that the film does not portray the moment when the character
comes to learn what the viewer knows. If the viewer does not know
of the agnition, it cannot generate sadness in the viewer. Consider
Letter From an Unknown Woman (1948). Neale states that "Stefan
indeed comes to realize who Lisa is and to know of her love too
late..." (10). Yet the moment of Stefan's realization is not clearly
portrayed. Despite Neale's reference to the montage of shots of
Lisa from Stefan's point of view near the end of the film (10),
Stefan's realization does not come during the montage. He learns
of Lisa's love early in the letter, and he surely connects it to
the woman he recently met at the opera while he is reading that
section of the letter rather than in an epiphany afterwards. Yet,
when the viewer does understand that Stefan has had this realization,
the film generates sadness. Neale might modify the argument to read,
"a structure in which the reader learns that the point of view of
one of the characters comes to coincide with the point of view of
the reader..."
Second, the discrepancy in points of view must involve the reader
understanding an impending bad outcome for the character that the
character fails to understand until the agnition. It is not just agnition,
but agnition about something negative that generates sadness. If we
know that the character has just learned that he has unknowingly killed
a loved one, that agnition can be moving. If, on the other hand, we
know that someone has entered a room to help a character, and the
character doesn't know it until he turns around, the agnition when
he does turn will not generate tears because the character's mistaken
perception has no negative consequences. Similarly, if we learn something
that is bad for the character, but we don't realize that it is bad,
only that it occurred, when the character learns of it, there will
be no sadness even if the other conditions are met.
Yet even with these qualifications, Neale's notion that agnition
is what fundamentally underlies sadness in films is unsatisfying.
In Letter From an Unknown Woman, the tears generated by the
film do not start at the moment of Stefan's realization. The movie
is quite sad before this moment. Or consider Stella Dallas
(1937). This film contains an example that fits Neale's description
of agnition very well. In the scene when Stella overhears Laurel's
friends discussing Stella's embarrassing appearance at the country
club, we learn that Stella's point of view has changed to match
our primary view of the event. Surely, however, the final scene
of Stella watching her daughter marry is more moving. Yet this moving
final scene has a structure somewhat opposite from that described
by Neale. Stella knows before we do of her intended sacrifice; we
learn it only as we see her enact it. Neale's formulation, which
requires that the viewer know the situation before the character,
fails to explain why this scene is so moving.
Sadness in Life of Oharu
To further explore the question of what generates sadness
in films, let us return to Mizoguchi's Life of Oharu, an
extremely moving film about a woman who experiences a social and
moral descent throughout her life. Is Oharu a melodrama? Although
episodic, the film can be seen as a melodrama in the modern sense:
a tale associated with heightened emotion, family, and domesticity.
The protagonist, Oharu, is a member of a favored imperial family
who is exiled because she falls in love with a man below her station.
Each episode in the film tracks her descent into progressively lower
social roles: from an imperial daughter, to a royal concubine, to
a high-class courtesan, to a servant for a local magistrate, to
a shop girl, to a potential nun, to a woman on the run with a thief,
to a prostitute, to a beggar.
It is difficult to attribute the film's most moving moments to
an agnition structure. In the film, the viewer's point of view is
very closely tied to Oharu's. Generally, we know what she knows.
Through the film, in fact, there are only ten times that we learn
of plot developments before Oharu, and few of them meet Neale's
description. Five times, we learn something that Oharu will learn
momentarily. When the imperial guards come into the hotel early
in the film, and catch Oharu and her forbidden love Katsunoke, we
see them before she does. We see the merchant Hishiya, who recognizes
Oharu as a Shimabara courtesan, before Oharu enters the room. Oharu's
mother visits her near the end of the film after Oharu collapses
in the temple. We see her mother approach the house while Oharu
is still inside. Yet none of these examples meet Neale's description
because we don't know the meaning of these characters' arrivals
until Oharu herself does.
In the second episode, in which Oharu is a royal courtesan, we
learn that Oharu is going to be exiled from Lord Matsudaira's estate
before she does. Yet this case fails to meet Neale's structure because
we never see Oharu learn the news. We merely see her arrive back
home. Thus, there is no depicted agnition to generate sadness.
The longest delay between Oharu's knowledge and ours concerns
Isobe, Lord Matsudaira's elderly servant charged with finding the
Lord a mistress. We learn of his search long before Oharu does.
When Isobe finds her, we are not sad because there is no implied
bad outcome - Oharu's chance to become a high-status concubine is
at least potentially positive. Similarly, we see one of Kahei's
servants smooth his hair before seeing Oharu, suggesting his attraction
for her. When she later learns of his attraction, the event is not
sad.
Twice, we do diverge from Oharu's point of view regarding significant
events, but in both cases the primary narration misleads us. When,
early in the film, Oharu talks to Lord Kikuoji about a suitor, she
walks off screen left and he off screen right. Katsunoke, eavesdropping,
looks left to Oharu and then runs off screen right. Two shots later,
he returns from the right and tells Oharu that Lord Kikuoji has
arranged a meeting with her. The screen directions strongly imply
that Katsunoke has just come from a conversation with Lord Kikuoji,
and Oharu hasn't seen where Katsunoke just ran. Yet our priviledged
knowledge of Katsunoke's position is misleading, because (as we
learn later) he lied about Lord Kikuoji arranging a meeting. He
had concocted a ruse to get Oharu alone so he could discuss his
love letter. Later in the film, at the Shimabara courtesan house,
we see the counterfeiter arrive outside Oharu's knowledge. This
event is similarly misleading, because we witness him lying to others
about how he has been saving money for twenty years. Thus, in neither
case does the primary narration give us reliable facts that Oharu
later discovers.
There are two cases where we do know of an impending bad outcome
for Oharu that she is unaware of, and we see her learn of these
facts. The best example of Neale's structure concerns Katsunoke's
last words before being executed. We hear him passionately plea
for the value of true love, and selflessly tell Oharu to marry someone
else. When we see Oharu suddenly forced to deal with this information,
and attempt suicide, the sadness is heightened by our knowledge
of the letter. The second time we witness her agnition is when we
see Oharu's father begin to amass debts after Oharu bears Lord Matsudaira's
heir. She only learns of the debts after being exiled from Matsudaira's
estate. The delayed knowledge heightens the impact of her return.
We know that she will not only have to deal with the shame and poverty
of exile, but the difficulty of her family's debts. Here, agnition
could be said to cause or contribute to the sadness.
Revisiting Moretti
Yet in a film with so many very sad events, the structure Neale
describes fails to explain the impact of the great majority. I don't
believe, however, that Moretti's thesis is disproven by these examples,
because I think that Neale has misread Moretti's thesis. For Neale,
in a melodrama, sadness is generated by agnition, which he describes
as a particular type of dramatic irony (the audience knows something
the character doesn't). In agnition, the dramatic irony ends in
a specifically timed way: the character learns something that the
audience already knows. On Neale's description, the audience's point
of view doesn't change, the character's changes to meet the audience's
(or the primary) point of view.
This doesn't match my reading of Moretti's conditions for tears:
"it is clear how the present state of things should be changed -
and that this change is impossible" (162). Moretti doesn't mention
character's point of view at all. Moretti is talking only about
things being clear to the audience. Moretti says that moving moments
occur when a "'moving' sentence modifies the point of view that
had directed our reading, organizing its expectations and judgments..."
(159). That is, the audience has a point of view that organizes
their expectations, and the sentence modifies the audience's point
of view.
The misreading occurs, I believe, because of a key difference
between literature (which is the object of Moretti's study) and
film. According to Moretti, a written story can hold the reader
in a character's subjective point of view for many pages. It is
rare in a film to be seeing the story fully through a subjective
viewpoint for a sustained time (Lady in the Lake (1947) being
a rare counter-example).
Neale quotes Moretti's article as saying: "The moving sentence
dissipates Sir Everard's mistaken perception....by a short circuit
that definitively re-establishes the original 'truth'" (8). Neale
elides the key phrase: "(which, for a number of pages, is also the
one through which the reader is forced to follow events)" (160).
Moretti's thesis is that the audience has a certain point of view
established early in the narrative, which is temporarily put aside
when reading through a character's subjective point of view. When
the subjective point of view is forced to accord with the primary
point of view (i.e., Moretti's notion of the "neutral" point of
view), the reader is reminded of the earlier-established primary
point of view, and is moved. One reason Neale may have misread Moretti
is that in Moretti's examples, he cites sentences in which characters'
points of view reconcile to the main point of view of the narration.
The change in the characters' points of view, however, are not important
in themselves, they are only important in that they remind the reader
of the objective point of view of the narration, which contains
facts suggesting sad outcomes that the reader is powerless to prevent.
When reading through the point of view of an unknowing character,
the reader (presumably) does not focus on these negative facts.
When the point of view changes in the written story, the reader
is reminded of these facts. Moretti's original intent explains why
Neale's notion of agnition fails to explain certain types of sadness
in film.
Moretti's specific mechanism may explain moving literature better
than film, but Moretti's actual thesis can be useful if instead
of focusing on primary and subjective points of view per se, we
look at his claim that tears are generated by knowing how things
should be and knowing that this outcome is impossible. Combining
this idea with the idea that a sudden change is needed to generate
tears, we might say that Life of Oharu generates sadness
by repeatedly offering the possibility that things will be improved
for Oharu, and then suddenly reminding us that these hopes will
not materialize. It is not as important when the character realizes
such things in relation to the viewer; what is important is merely
when the viewer realizes the potentials and the actual sad outcomes.
Obviously, having Oharu fail to achieve her goals is only sad if we
want her to achieve them, or, in other words, if we think her achieving
her goals is the way "things should be." If she were a villain, by
contrast, we might be glad that she fails. Very briefly, the film
encourages us to sympathize with Oharu in two ways. First, as already
noted, we see almost all plot information in accordance with her knowledge.
Using Murray Smith's terms, we are thus aligned with her (142). Further,
we are sympathetic with Oharu's moral traits. Smith calls this allegiance
(188). Oharu, at least initially, stands for true love, dignity, individuality,
and beauty. Although I cannot speak for the film's initial Japanese
audience, these traits seem generally admirable or heroic. According
to Smith, these factors encourage the audience to want Oharu to achieve
her goals. Although she loses these traits as the film progresses,
we are by that point already committed to her as a character.
The film thus sets up a primary narration in which we want Oharu
to succeed. Yet the primary narration also suggests that Oharu cannot
improve her lot and will inevitably decline. We know this because
in the beginning of the film it is established that she was once
of good standing but has eventually become a prostitute. The film's
episodic structure allows her to try to succeed but repeatedly fail.
When we see an opportunity for Oharu to maintain or improve her
status during the film, we may for a time focus on her opportunity
rather than thinking about her inevitable failure. This operation
is akin to, in Moretti's theory, reading within a subjective point
of view. Our realization comes when Oharu's hopes are dashed, and
we are reminded of the primary fact that she will fail. At these
moments, the film generates sadness.
The film's circular flashback structure cleverly begins not at
the end of the film, but just before the last episode. This structure
limits our knowledge about the outcome of the film, regardless of
whether we realize during the film that there is significant plot
development after the opening framing segment. Near the end of the
film, when Oharu's mother tells her that Oharu's son wants her to
come live at the Matsudaira estate, we no longer know whether Oharu
will succeed or fail. When our hope that she will be saved is dashed,
the film reaches its saddest moments. This episode is particularly
poignant because Oharu was initially exiled simply because the Lord
was too fond of her. Now, after that exile has led to her downfall,
her own son rejects her.
Having Oharu's descent evenly distributed across so many episodes,
and having each episode just a little worse then the last is a highly
formal structure. Part of the pleasure of the film is seeing how
slight variations in the episodes can accomplish the same task of
taking Oharu down just slightly, while successfully engaging us
with characterization and the possibility of her success. If instead
of alternating opportunity and failure, the film offered unceasing
failure, it would not be nearly as sad. |
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