A Tale of Sorrow and Sadness

It’s fair to say that Radiance’s The Rapacious Jailbreaker was helping me out of my cinematic funk, but still cinema-brain wasn’t quite firing when it came to watching new films. When it came to A Tale of Sorrow and Sadness (1977) maybe part of this was I knew I had a ticket to see it at a matinee showing at the Prince Charles, so better to take the chance to see it for the first time on the big screen. Go big (screen) or go home (viewing). Literally.  

A young golfer, Reiko (Yoko Shiraki) is convinced by her boyfriend, Miyake (Yoshio Harada), to turn pro so that she can become the famous face of a fashion company, in opposition to their competitor that is importing foreign sports talent. Success isn’t always as rosy as it could be as her life takes much darker turns as fame bites. 

Seijun Suzuki’s comeback film after a decade of being blackballed after winning a lawsuit for wrongful dismissal, A Tale of Sorrow and Sadness is definitely a Suzuki film. Visually, his flourishes are frequently present, his framing, his express denial of reality and disconnection of scenes are abundant; this is emphasised and at its best in the final scene: the composition such that it is colour coded, filmed almost as a tableaux like he would take to its extreme in Pistol Opera, but by the time A Tale of Sorrow and Sadness finished I felt frustrated. Some films languish in obscurity for a reason, A Tale of Sorrow and Sadness is not that film, but it’s nowhere near as strong as his follow-up work Zigeunerweisen and some parts I struggled with. I admit in advance there is good reason for this, which I’ll touch on later and I realise that it’s something I personally struggle with in any story.  

Interestingly, the Prince Charles stated the genre as being ‘crime and romance’, but it’s clearly a satire and one that gets darker and darker as it goes along. Reiko is a young woman who is manipulated, used by almost everyone in which she could place her trust, finds minor stardom but fails to find much in the way of happiness. The satire takes swipes at the advertising industry, at male manipulation (including her boyfriend) and the effect of stardom on those in the public; jealousy, petty spite all the way through to downright open, seething malice. Reiko here is a likeable character but as the film progresses, she becomes less of one, subsumed by the film and its events. One main event especially, the hit and run of her jealous neighbour, Kayo (Kyoko Enami), who starts to blackmail her, takes over her life and emotionally and physically brutalises Reiko.  

Now here is my problem: blackmail. As soon as it enters any story my hackles go up because I frequently struggle to believe the circumstances (this is not helped in the narrative by the blackmail occurring in Reiko’s own home that Kayo has somehow entered – ok, we know Suzuki does not care about reality but it added to my sense of disbelief). As Kayo and her blackmail come to bear, the film’s title becomes manifest and Reiko becomes like a doll, pushed about, struggling to tell anyone including her boyfriend, who is more interested in sex with her and profiting from Reiko's success. I think if anything I felt angry for Reiko and also struggled to believe her sudden doll-like acquiescence. It would be fair to say as a character she is manipulated, having her volition stripped from her already by the advertising firm, by Miyake, but never to the awful extent that occurs under Kayo’s cruel gaze. Considering Kayo invades Reiko’s house and the one person Reiko cares about, her much younger brother, why does she not do something to rid herself of this woman for his sake? Something about it never sat right with me, and here the screenplay is more interested in sorrow and sadness, in the cruelty of satire and so I felt the film’s sudden tonal change and descent into Kayo infused vindictiveness was too much of a shift, it so sidelines Reiko as a character it becomes frustrating, almost tiresome at times.  

When considering the satire, the story could have opted instead to go more deeply into some aspects that are never fully touched upon and fleshed out, such as the fan we always see clutching flowers. He’s close enough to the foreground to seem like a character we should notice, but never present enough to be meaningful, instead it opting to go full bore on Kayo. 

That said, Reiko’s younger brother has some stunning scenes with a young girl he fancies, and which may be the young brother’s flights of fancy, an escape from the reality of having his home invaded and sister absent. In typical Suzuki fashion they may also be real, may be intentionally disconnected from the rest of the world for just this reason – showing normalcy, albeit a romantic view of normalcy. They are lovely moments. Not just how these moments are shot but how they are interjected into the film, during some of the worst of Kayo’s malice they provide necessary relief. Kayo is so utterly inhumane, almost unhuman, as a viewer there needs to be respite and because Reiko will not stand up for herself, her brother provides this. 

Equally good is Yoshio Harada as Miyake. He’s a bit of a bastard but he also does care for Reiko more than most; the film is often at its best when he’s in it. He has a gruffly magnetic screen presence, where he doesn’t need to do much other than be on screen to be interesting. This is hardly a surprise and feels to an extent a foreshadowing of the type of character he would go on to play, but imbued with more depth, in Zigeunerweisen. 

Kyoko Enami as Kayo, truthfully, is properly awful in her role but she is awful in that she plays a malicious, insecure suburban housewife beautifully. She can both skip between houses giving away Reiko’s autographs and scream with malice about her a minute later. I just wish the film had not quite gone so far with her part of the story, but for those that feel it more than me, will likely enjoy her full-on performance. 

In those moments of Suzuki visual composition, the film shines but the satire does grate after a time. That said I feel like I need to watch the film again, to see if knowing the blackmail element in advance if I might feel differently, but this is not classic Seijun Suzuki. Nevertheless if making A Tale of Sorrow and Sadness allowed him back to make his Taisho Trilogy, really, we cannot complain.