“Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters” by writer-director Paul Schrader is undoubtedly the most unique biopic ever crafted. Released in 1985, the film tells the true story of the infamous and massively acclaimed Japanese author Yukio Mishima, a complicated man (to the say the least) who evolved from an innocent young boy into a radical political figure, delivering what he believed to be the ultimate sacrifice on November 25, 1970. Yet his story is not told in the conventional “this happened, then this happened, and finally this happened” manner. Instead, the film cuts between black-&-white sequences of Mishima (played masterfully by Ken Ogata) narrating brief excerpts of his life and play-like reenactments of three of his novels to demonstrate how he expressed the most intimate parts of himself through his work.
The reenactments of the novels The Temple of the Golden Pavilion (in Chapter 1: Beauty), Kyoko’s House (in Chapter 2: Art), and Runaway Horses (in Chapter 3: Action) reveal more information about Mishima’s belief system, internal struggles, and contradictions than the moments which follow Mishima in the real world. Over the movie’s first three chapters, the self-insert characters in each book reflect a core principle or struggle of Mishima’s, namely sexual inadequacy, bodily perfection, and fascism (this guy was dangerously out there, but the film never stops to glorify or denounce Mishima — a non-stance stance all biopics should take). During the black-&-white sequences of the real Mishima which interrupt the book reenactments, we see a more minimalist and cold point of view. Thus, for the majority of the film, we know more about Mishima when we don’t actually watch him, which is such a unique concept.
The final chapter, Harmony of Pen and Sword, recounts Mishima’s final day with a singular timeline in color, but without the abstract theater style, thus combining the parallel storylines and balancing the realism of the black-&-white sequences with the emotion of the book sequences. Mishima is forced to face how the world actually perceives him and what his true place is more than ever before during this fourth chapter, leaving the audience pondering whether his final choice gave his life more or less meaning.
Beyond Schrader and Mishima’s exquisite pages, the film also thrives in its visuals and sound. John Bailey’s cinematography is truly one of a kind. His brilliant use of color, specifically contrasting deep blacks with colorful blues, reds, and golden yellows create a dreamlike landscape that captures imagination itself. Of course, his work is amplified by the stellar art direction and production design, which are almost certainly the best I’ve ever seen. The reenactments are staged on purposefully obvious sets with painted-on nature and limited space for the actors to move around in. You can even see the dents, cracks, and creases in the walls, yet the visuals and style are so powerful that it’s impossible not to buy into and appreciate them. There is a strange magic to the sets, possibly because they illustrate the confined space of the mind or simply because they elicit the feeling of a pop-up book.
Then there’s Phillip Glass’s music. Wow. This is one of the greatest scores in cinema history. Stunning, moving, exhilarating, devastating, and majestic all at the same time. I know I sound pretentious in saying that, but trust me, the score is that great. The film would not be as magical or transportive without that booming music elevating it throughout.
Usually I avoid using the word “poetic” to describe movies, but I’ll make an exception for “Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters.” This film accomplishes something no other movie has done before or since, which is the combination of the literature and motion picture mediums into a whole new form of storytelling, one that I struggle to define in a single word.
A+
Wow! What a review..I think I’d like to see the movie now.