Scene Analysis: Sansho the Baliff – “Anju’s Descent”

See Clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eh9quT-m7Sk

One of the most haunting scenes of Sansho the Baliff is Anju’s quiet descent into the water, her mother’s lament consecrating this tragic act of sacrifice.  It is an eerie (and moving) moment in the story, as her drowning partially safeguards her brother’s escape while sparing her from a life of slavery.  But this hardly diminishes the scene’s tragedy; if anything it epitomizes the essence of her mother’s song, which I will describe in more detail later.  I will analyze this portion of the film to best of my ability, despite the limitations of the clip I will use.  Due to some complications with the scene recording tools, I will be unable show the entirety of the scene.  However, this Youtube clip posted by “Reehan Miah” (username) covers what I primarily wanted to focus on.  I will briefly describe what happens beforehand and then focus on this moment in particular.

 First, a quick recap.  Zushio and Anju have heard about their mother for the first time since their imprisonment through the song of a newly arrived servant girl.  After the two head off into the wilderness on an errand, they purportedly hear their mother’s calls and decide to escape.  However, Anju decides to stay so that she can distract the guards.  Zushio carries off the sick servant-woman they were supposed to abandon, and runs into the woods.  After waiting, the guards go to check if he is still there, and finding him gone, one man sounds the alarm while the others alert Sansho to Zushio’s disappearance.   This leads to one inconsistency in the film’s framework.  Immediately after Sansho commands that his men go searching, Anju and another servant-woman are suddenly left alone.  It’s unclear why this would have happened, but it lets Anju announce her plan.  The servant-woman offers to have herself tied up so that she may mislead the guards when they return.  Meanwhile Anju goes down to the waters’ edge, and after the servant-woman is left alone, we see her walk through the gate to see if Anju is still there.  By this point the clip covers the rest of the content.  After a bow of gratitude and the removal of her sandals, Anju steps into the pond.  The servant-woman kneels in prayer, shaking as the scene ends, cutting away to the disturbed waters. 

Despite the short duration of this clip, Mizoguchi’s dedication to balance in the mise-en-scene is clear.  Every shot of this sequence (5 in total) has a framework very similar to each other, particularly in their focus on an individual.  The first shot observes the servant-woman walking through the gate to see Anju.  She’s obviously the subject, given her tendency to be in the center of the frame.  The lighting also makes her consistently distinguishable from the scenery (even when she walks behind the posts), and it’s especially the case when she appears in the middle of the entrance.  (The light also neatly catches her face, but we’ve already covered this in class).  But even though she is the focus of the shot, it in no way diminishes the detail of her surroundings.  And the texturing of the scenery is not its only notable feature.  It also gives the shot a real sense of spatial depth, providing reference points like the tree, the gate, the woman, and the trees beyond.  The “layered-ness” of the mise-en-scene establishes a clear objects in the area without obscuring all of them from view.  The frame is balanced in its filled arrangement without detracting from what the viewer should be focused on.

The same principles can be applied to the next shot.  Bamboo in the foreground establishes the distance between us (or the camera’s position) and Anju down on the bank.  The other trees even out the frame while the murky water or fog settles the backdrop.  It’s an eerie setting, appropriate for the mother’s lament.  Anju almost appears to fade away into the mist and become one with her natural surroundings, as if she is already departing this world (I’ll address the spiritual implications later).  In technical terms, though we can still distinguish her (thanks to the subtle lighting advantages of black and white film), compared to the servant-woman, Anju blends in a great deal more.  It is enough so that we can see through the leaves her bow, taking off the sandals, and first steps into the water.

The third shot, like the second, is one of the most sublime.  All we see is Anju’s proceeding step by step into the pond, until the water comes above her waist.  It almost looks like a sort of diorama; the surrounding brush acts as a frame itself leading into the open space of water, designating a path for Anju to follow.  The ripples she causes also nicely fill up the shot as she moves deeper and deeper while their naturally occurring symmetry lends to its picturesque qualities.  It’s meditative and soothing, compounded by her mother’s song, making the scene’s tone all the more bittersweet.  (Note: It’s also worth mentioning when we see the water’s surface, its only movement is created by Anju.  I’m inclined to then call it a pond, which is not too far off from the marsh described in Mori Ogai’s original version of the story.)

The major technical aspects of Mizoguchi’s style found this scene are covered by the first three shots.  Though the last two are just as visually arresting, they do not necessarily display anything new in the ways of technique (their content is addressed below).  Lighting, spatial distancing, noticeable characters and detailed scenery with a clear emphasis on whom or what the audience should be focused on are just some of his consistently used methods.  But sound is just as important to this film as is the frame.  It actually might be considered the cornerstone of this scene, given its thematic and tonal quality.

Until we hear the mother’s song, the scene is initially silent save for the thrum of nature permeating the background.  Or perhaps it is noise inadvertently produced by the used filming technology.  I’m not entirely sure.  It doesn’t sound nearly organic enough; the faint buzz of static possibly obscures some of the sound tracks’ subtle intricacies, or this might be due to the video clip I’m using.  It also depends on the volume setting.  According to my speakers, if it loud enough to hear the servant’s footsteps (the only other present sound), this background noise is unavoidable.  One could almost interpret the sound as mimicking running water, almost comparable to a waterfall.  But if the water was still, that would seem relatively out of place.  It is unlikely then the sound is entirely meant to symbolize nature, but it’s there nonetheless.  On the other hand, perhaps there is supposed to be only silence asides from the footsteps, adding to the scene’s mournful atmosphere of quiet reverence.

And then we hear the mother’s song.  Here are its lyrics:

“Zushio, how I long for you

Isn’t life torture?

Anju, how I long for you

Isn’t life torture? X 4”

God, it’s beautifully tragic.  Or is it tragically beautiful?  I’ll leave that to the opinions of the beholder.   Yet it sets the tone for the entire scene.  Even though this sense of loss and longing can be presented through just the action on screen, the lament personifies these feelings through song.  The reality of Anju’s and Zushio’s life of slavery, their loss of their mother, their glimmer of hope in learning her music, and Anju’s decision to take her own life to preserve her brother’s sets establishes the anguish of this scene. “Anju, Zushio, How I long for you” completes it.  In some ways the song becomes a commentary and reaction to these on-screen events.  It’s no mistake that we hear the line “Anju, how I long for you” as she takes her first steps into the water.  “Isn’t life torture?” addresses the cruelty of the world that drives each person into their tormenting circumstances.  Anju is probably the best example of this.  Meanwhile the servant-woman, upon seeing Anju’s decision, falls to her knees, prays, and shakes with grief.  The song and not only makes pain tangibly visceral; it becomes a profoundly empathic response.  In other words the audience is supposed to become the servant-woman, believing and experiencing her grief as she does.  It’s a response that sanctifies this moment as her bubbles gradually fade away.  If it sounds like I am suggesting that there are some spiritual elements at work here, you wouldn’t be wrong.  I’ll address that in my final section.  But it does raise one technical question about the song: is the mother’s lament diegetic or non-diegetic?  Or, in simpler terms, is the song in this scene an actual part of Sansho the Baliff‘s world, or does it exist as an outside feature solely for audience’s benefit?

It’s worth asking given the implications.  If it exists only as a musical track intended for the audience, then we can leave it as a manifestation of the character’s feelings, though this certainly wouldn’t diminish its importance.  However, there are grounds to pose the question.  Earlier when Zushio and Anju were gathering supplies, Anju purportedly hears their mother calling them (we hear this in the background).  Of course this would be physically impossible; though several scenes beforehand we see their mother calling out their names across the ocean, there’s no way this could actually happen.  But despite the ambiguity surrounding whether Anju and Zushio hear their mother, because it is implied, that suggests that there is a spiritual component to world.  This is on top of their dedication to Buddhist principles and their family talisman, so it would not sound entirely out of place.  This question becomes all the more relevant when Anju descends into the pond.  The exchange of bows between her and the servant-woman on hand exists as a deep, meaningful gesture of respect and sacrifice, but it also adds an air of sacredness to their scene.  When the woman goes down on her knees, it could be just as much a position of fervent prayer or blessing, acknowledging the importance and sanctity of Anju’s actions.  Moreover, when Anju appears to fade into the background, she effectively becomes one with nature, compounded by the fact that she is drowning of all things.  That the scene is one of sacrificial suicide already lends to the otherworldliness of the scene.  I’m not entirely sure myself what the implications are if this scene dabbles in the world beyond, or how this affects interpretations of the film as a whole. There doesn’t appear to be any clear answer (as is the case with many things spiritual), but given that this is an arguably crucial aspect about this scene, I thought it deserved some mention.

Overall, this scene encompasses some the technical features of Sansho the Baliff as well as its thematic elements.  Anju’s descent is one that carries the heavy weight of sacrifice and grief, complemented and exemplified through her mother’s song.  Spiritual debates aside, it’s a moving farewell to a character whose time on-screen is all too brief.  I know I’m writing all of this from a biased perspective, but seriously; it’s a beautiful 1 minute and 48 seconds.