The end of World War II heralded a new “Golden Age” for Japanese cinema. Emerging out of the American occupation, the arrival of new directors like Akira Kurosawa and Masaki Kobayashi coincided with the artistic flourishing of pre-war greats like Kenji Mizoguchi and Mikio Naruse. As more auteurs emerged in the Japanese film industry, so did the recognition of Japanese cinema by foreign film festivals, culminating in a long streak of Japanese films competing for the top prizes at prestigious European film festivals like Venice and Cannes throughout the 1950s (Momota, p. 112). However, most of the films recognized, such as Mizoguchi’s three film run of The Life of Oharu, Ugetsu, and Sansho the Bailiff, as well as Kurosawa’s Rashomon, were all set in feudal Japan, making them part of a genre known as jidaigeki, otherwise known as “period dramas” (Momota, p. 113). Whilst images of samurai and ghosts adhered to a more traditional, orientalist view of Japan, the world of gendai-geki, dramas set in contemporary Japan, did not gain as much immediate traction. A film like Yasujiro Ozu’s Tokyo Story, for instance, was considered “too Japanese” by exporters, its resistance to a “lush visual style or exotic appeal” meaning that it was only recognized by Western critics after Ozu’s death, and after a broader critical acceptance of a more meditative style (Desser, p. 3). 

Two filmmakers whose gendai-geki arguably still haven’t been truly appreciated by the Western world are Mizoguchi and Naruse, the former’s praise mainly coming for his masterworks of struggling women in feudal Japan, and the latter having only recently been recognized in the West. Known primarily as “women’s filmmakers”, the pair tended to focus on women in occupations that fall under the umbrella term mizu shobai. Mizu shobai, which translates to “water trade”, refers to jobs that do not offer a fixed salary, but are rather dependent on the employee’s popularity with the customers (Richie). In Mizoguchi and Naruse’s films in particular, these tend to be women who work as prostitutes, bar hostesses, and even geishas. In this essay, I first want to analyze how the presentation of these women illustrates the societal immobility of what film scholar Audie Bock calls “women alone”, women who did not adhere to a traditional family role, but rather tried to sustain themselves alone in a hidebound, patriarchal society (qtd. in Richie), making them “prey to unsavory male advances, false promises, and continuing degradation” (Bock, p. 108). Additionally, I want to compare the depiction of women by Mizoguchi and Naruse, especially in relation to film scholar Catherine Russell’s claim that Mizoguchi’s films only involve “an aesthetic appreciation of women, rather than champion[ing] women’s rights”, and that Naruse was more empathetic in depicting the struggles of women (Russell, p. 54). This essay will attempt to challenge that assertion with nuance, analyzing the care and compassion present in both directors’ depictions of women, whilst recognizing variations between individual films and styles. 

The 1920s were a difficult time for Japan. Various economic crises and the devastating Kanto earthquake of 1923 had fueled discontent amongst the Japanese people. As a result of this growing unease, the government developed new fascistic tendencies, reflected in rapid militarism and increasing imperial ambitions throughout the 1930s. It was in this political climate that a young Kenji Mizoguchi, just starting out as a director for Japan’s first film studio Nikkatsu, converted to Marxism (Wood, p. 228). Having grown up in a poor family, many of Mizoguchi’s early films showcased “a sympathy for the poor that irked the censors”, so much so that he was eventually forced to stop making radical films and even became reluctantly involved in a pro-Manchuria propaganda film (Bock, p. 39). In spite of these restrictions, this early radicalization formed much of Mizoguchi’s social outlook, especially regarding society’s subjugation of women. 1936’s Sisters of the Gion, one of his first directly radical films, tells the story of two geisha sisters. A once high-class occupation that entertained the higher echelons of Japanese society, geishas are female Japanese performers, often trained in music and dance, who mostly wield their unique skill sets to attract wealthy patrons. The two titular sisters, the younger and rebellious Omocha, played by stage actress Isuzu Yamada, and the older and more conservative Umekichi, played by Yoko Umemura, are juxtaposed in a period of transition for the geisha, a crossroads between tradition and modernity. The story, told through Mizoguchi’s signature one scene, one shot technique (the whole film only has 123 shots across its 70 minute runtime), details the struggles of the sisters in the geisha industry (Wood, p. 235). Umekichi is submissive and conformist, giving into the demands of her main patron, Mr. Furusawa, while Omocha, desperate to take advantage of her position, is wily and ambitious, tricking a clothing shop clerk into stealing a kimono for her sister. By the end of the film, however, both sisters find themselves in a worse position than they started, with Umekichi being abandoned by Mr. Furusawa in favor of returning to his wife, and with Omocha being thrown out of a car in a brutal act of revenge by the clerk, possibly crippling her for life. Through his presentation of two opposing sisters, Mizoguchi exemplifies the failure of both conformity and rebellion towards society for women in a Japan that neglected the demimonde of its society. Single women were unable to do anything to break out of the institutions that had subjugated them for centuries. In Sisters of the Gion, the role of the geisha characterizes Mizoguchi’s frustration with Japanese society. His detailed look at the lives of struggling women doesn’t only reveal the unscrupulousness of men, but, in the words of film scholar Robin Wood, it reveals “a socioeconomic system in which everyone - male, female, employer, employee - is ultimately a victim: a world in which there are no “villains” to use as scapegoats, and no uncontaminated heroes” (p. 230). This recognition that the plight and immobility of women was not primarily the fault of individuals, but of the flawed capitalist system of Japan that forced women into the mizu shobai, was a theme that Mizoguchi would explore much later on into his career. The ending of the film most clearly situates it as a radical film in Mizoguchi’s filmography. The final shot shows Omocha bedridden from her injuries, Umekichi dejectedly kneeling beside her. The camera slowly zooms in on Omocha’s bandaged head as she delivers a bitter and harrowing monologue about her occupation, decrying the very need for such an occupation that forces women into positions of vulnerability. Being the first close-up in the entire film, it finally allows the spectator to truly empathize with the character after an entire film of distant long shots, which focus mainly on the oppressive nature of the character’s surroundings rather than attempt to form a personal connection. 

Whilst Mizoguchi would slowly move out of making overtly radical films as his career developed, eventually evolving into his late era “Buddhist phase”, which included his most popular masterpieces like The Life of Oharu and Ugetsu (Wood, p. 228), he would occasionally return to his interest in contemporary women of the mizu shobai. 1948’s Women of the Night, for example, occupies a particularly peculiar role in Mizoguchi’s oeuvre. A tale of three women who are forced into prostitution due to their financial crippling as a result of the war, the film takes place in a bombed out Osaka, showing in great detail the derelict hospitals and seedy side streets that dominated the war-torn city. The film, similarly to Sisters of the Gion, doesn’t put the responsibility of female struggle solely on men, but on the complete destruction and chaos of the city. The protagonist Fusako, played by Japanese star Kinuyo Tanaka, is the object of non-stop suffering throughout the film, losing her husband in the war and losing her infant son to illness due to a failure to pay for vaccinations. In this sense, it is socioeconomic factors that force women into the mizu shobai, not individual men. Interestingly, since this was a film produced during the American occupation, it had to pass through various censors in order to be released (Hirano, p. 5). Women of the Night was greatly supported by the censors, with American Harry Slot particularly happy with its potential to “arouse the public consciousness” (Hirano, p. 164). This public consciousness, however, was not entirely benevolent, as whilst many were sympathetic towards Japan’s pan pan girls (a term for young prostitutes), many were viewed as “promiscuous, immoral women”, and contributed to the public demonizing prostitutes and viewing them as evil (Sato, p. 96). Mizoguchi’s film challenges this assertion, portraying even the cruelty of several prostitutes towards the protagonists as simply being a symptom of a decrepit society. The film ends very much the same way as Sisters of the Gion, a haunting crane shot of Fusako and her sister Natsuko sobbing in a bombed out building, the discordant score echoing the sense of hopelessness permeated throughout the entire film. 

Meanwhile, Mikio Naruse was exploring the issues of post-war women through an angle all of his own. Having grown up in poverty, Naruse was deeply interested in exploring the lives of people at the bottom rung of society. In contrast to someone like Mizoguchi, however, Naruse’s interest also emerged from what scholar Audie Bock calls his view of “life as a crushing fate”, his bleak nihilism seeping into many of his most iconic works. As a result, Naruse frequently focused on the stories of women, believing that understanding their subjugated position in society could “express the claustrophobia and resentment” in which he viewed life through (Bock, p. 101). Working with his favorite actress, Hideko Takamine, who featured in 17 of his films, Naruse made films that were less overtly political than Mizoguchi’s protest films, but rather decided to explore topics of female immobility through emotionally complex character studies, many of which revealed a deep interiority in the neglected women of Japanese society. Flowing, released in 1956 and starring many of Japan’s finest actresses, exemplifies many of the key qualities of Naruse’s oeuvre. The film takes place almost entirely within a geisha house, also known as an okiya, as a family of geishas struggle to adapt to an evolving world and suffer the consequences of economic turmoil. The okiya is viewed through the audience surrogate of the film, the subservient maid Oharu, played by Kinuyo Tanaka. The primary dynamic within the family is that of Isuzu Yamada’s Tsutayako, the head of the geisha house, and Hideko Takamine’s Katsuko, her daughter. Tsutayako tries throughout the film to maintain the high status of her eponymous Tsuta house, training new geishas and attempting to find rich patrons, whilst the younger Katsuko slowly realizes that modern society is catching up to the geisha industry, and seeks to find a way out by learning how to sew. The film rarely includes scenes of significant tension or sorrow like some of Mizoguchi’s films, but rather wallows in the inevitable decline of a once storied institution. The Tsuta House gradually accumulates debt, geishas leave for better opportunities elsewhere, and none of the geishas in training show any promise. Most damning of all, the film toys with the possibility that a group of geishas could sustain an okiya without the aid of men, only to slowly shatter that hope with the bleak reality of debts and legal fees. In this sense, these women alone cannot make it alone without adhering to a patriarchal system. “Without a patron, the house is ultimately doomed to extinction”, Catherine Russell writes in The Cinema of Naruse Mikio: Women and Japanese Modernity, recognizing that in the end, women in the mizu shobai are still reliant on men (p. 304). The ending of the film exemplifies a trademark of Naruse’s narrative mastery. Flowing ends very much how it starts, with the young Fujiko being taught how to sing and dance to the samisen, an instrument commonly used by geishas. The okiya is still operational, but its future is ambiguous. Naruse’s endings are often contemplative in their lack of narrative finality. Called “life-goes-on” endings by critics, the endings reflect the Japanese concept of mono no aware, or “the transience of things”, a solemn recognition of the vicissitudes of life and the need to pull through whatever comes one’s way (Richie).

As the geisha profession slowly became obsolete, Naruse moved his attention to an evolved, Westernized form of the geisha, the bar hostess. 1960’s When a Woman Ascends the Stairs, regarded as Naruse’s masterpiece, sees the director move the women of the mizu shobai firmly into modernity. The story centers around Keiko, again played by frequent Naruse collaborator Hideko Takamine, who is a bar hostess working the Ginza district of Tokyo, a popular nightlife and entertainment area. A widow just entering her thirties, Keiko, often called mama-san to indicate her authority amongst the other hostesses, struggles to navigate a complex web of family issues, economic struggles, and impossible relationships with married men. The film instantly bears the marks of a modern, space age design, the abstract styled opening titles, the glitzy glamour of the nighttime exteriors, and the jazzy, muzak sounding score all serve to situate the film firmly in a Westernized Japan. However, the showy locations only serve as veneers for an occupation that still leaves women vulnerable to manipulation and financial exploitation (Russell, p. 130). In contrast to other films, Keiko spends the first half of the film trying to succeed on her own, attempting to borrow money to start her own bar, before many realities begin to hit her at once. Her brother needs money for bail, her nephew is sick from polio, and a man, Mr. Sekine, who promises to marry her, turns out to be a fraud. Up until the final act of the film, Keiko is characteristic of many of Naruse’s women, remaining resilient in the face of hardship (Russell, p. 101). However, she finally breaks due to stress, getting drunk and resisting the advances of bar patrons. Naruse shows that even a character as naturally reserved as Keiko can experience unbridled outbursts against a system that subjugates “women alone”. Even when she is eventually entertained with the possibility of finding love and a way out of the bar business, it is tragically taken away from her. Near the end of the film, a drunken Keiko is taken home by Mr. Fujisaki, a businessman who Keiko is in love with. Mr. Fujisaki proceeds to profess his love for Keiko and forces himself on her as she resists, before a cut of Keiko dropping a glass is cut with a shot of the next morning. The film does not explicitly paint this scene as assault, with Keiko pretending like the whole thing never happened and continuing to profess her love for Mr. Fujisaki, but this scene can be interpreted as Keiko’s tacit acceptance of such an assault as just another inevitability of her job. Naruse shoots only Keiko’s face as she tearfully recounts a sad dream about her late husband, allowing the spectator to truly empathize with Keiko’s deep emotional pain. Her pain does not subside even after her dream, with her being rejected by Mr. Fujisaki due to his commitment to his wife and being forced to reject the bitter and malevolent advances of the bar owner Komatsu. The ending of the film finds Keiko alone, just how she started, ascending the stairs to work as a bar hostess once again, haunted by the ritual that has rendered her immobile for so long. Things have not changed, but they are much more heartbreaking now that Keiko is aware of the possibility of escape, but is never able to grasp it. The ending of When a Woman Ascends the Stairs exemplifies a “life-goes-on” ending, succinctly summarized by Audie Bock as she writes: “There are no happy endings for Naruse, but there are incredibly enlightened defeats” (p. 118).

Having established how depicting women in the mizu shobai allowed Mizoguchi and Naruse to criticize Japanese social structures, it is also essential to understand how they are portrayed by each director. In Japanese, the word “feminist” does not have the same connotation as it does in English. Rather than signifying someone who champions female rights, it rather refers to “a man who is indulgent toward women; a worshipper of women” (qtd. in Bock, p. 40). This certainly fits many aspects of Mizoguchi’s character. He neglected many of the women in his life, including his sister Suzu, who had cared for him growing up, and his first wife, whom he promptly abandoned after she was institutionalized. He even discouraged Kinuyo Tanaka, one of his frequent collaborators, from directing her own feature film, leading to a breakdown in their relationship (Bock, p. 40). Many of his films position women as simply victims of suffering, such the eponymous protagonist in The Life of Oharu an Tobei’s wife Ohama in Ugetsu, both characters coincidentally played by Tanaka. As Russell puts it: “His women are beautiful in their self-sacrifice and their suffering, and his viewer may be moved to tears at the injustice of their plight, but neither social change nor transformation are presented as options” (p. 54). 

However, this view of Mizoguchi’s filmmaking is limited. Whilst many of his late career period dramas eschew female interiority for tear jerking suffering, his gendai-geki, particularly those that explore the struggles of women of the mizu shobai, showcase a remarkable humanism and empathy. His final film, the radical 1956 release Street of Shame, is arguably his most compassionate work. Detailing the lives of five prostitutes in a Tokyo brothel, the film goes to great extents to humanize the prostitutes, detailing their complex struggles and broken relationships. One of the most striking scenes of the entire film, and arguably of Mizoguchi’s entire filmography, occurs around an hour in. Mickey, a prostitute who is presented as being more Westernized and modern than the other more traditional women in the brothel, is confronted by her father, who feels shame in regards to Mickey’s profession and encourages her to come home. His reasoning is confusing, remarking on the need for a woman in the house after the death of Mickey’s mother. Mickey responds by chastising her father for his selfish and hedonistic actions, eventually forcing him out of the room. In contrast to the long shots and the impersonal sets of Sisters of the Gion, the scene is primarily shot in medium over the shoulder shots, giving an intimacy to a deeply pained exchange. Much of Street of Shame is more intimately shot than Mizoguchi’s other works, representing an emphasis on the subjective struggles of women rather than broader societal criticisms. 

However, this view of Mizoguchi’s filmmaking is limited. Whilst many of his late career period dramas eschew female interiority for tear jerking suffering, his gendai-geki, particularly those that explore the struggles of women of the mizu shobai, showcase a remarkable humanism and empathy. His final film, the radical 1956 release Street of Shame, is arguably his most compassionate work. Detailing the lives of five prostitutes in a Tokyo brothel, the film goes to great extents to humanize the prostitutes, detailing their complex struggles and broken relationships. One of the most striking scenes of the entire film, and arguably of Mizoguchi’s entire filmography, occurs around an hour in. Mickey, a prostitute who is presented as being more Westernized and modern than the other more traditional women in the brothel, is confronted by her father, who feels shame in regards to Mickey’s profession and encourages her to come home. His reasoning is confusing, remarking on the need for a woman in the house after the death of Mickey’s mother. Mickey responds by chastising her father for his selfish and hedonistic actions, eventually forcing him out of the room. In contrast to the long shots and the impersonal sets of Sisters of the Gion, the scene is primarily shot in medium over the shoulder shots, giving an intimacy to a deeply pained exchange. Much of Street of Shame is more intimately shot than Mizoguchi’s other works, representing an emphasis on the subjective struggles of women rather than broader societal criticisms. 

However, it is not a stretch to say that Naruse harnessed the power of subjective filmmaking far more than Mizoguchi. Throughout his filmography, Naruse favoured extremely bare camera work, preferring “conversations shot in medium and close shots to catch the nuances of every eye movement, every slight momentary frown” to more flashy, visually striking filmmaking (Bock, p. 113). This emphasis on facial expression and subtle movement is seen all throughout Hideko Takamine’s performance in When a Woman Ascends the Stairs, where her hand gestures and facial changes when interacting with bar customers illustrate a combination of sadness, bitterness, and acceptance. In addition, the film utilizes infrequent but nonetheless impactful narration, Keiko’s inner monologue ringing out as she stresses about the immorality of the bar hostess industry. Naruse places the spectator firmly inside the head of Keiko, allowing them to truly view the world of the mizu shobai through the eyes of an unwilling participant, breaking through a flimsy veneer of respectability. 

Much like Ozu’s Tokyo Story, the gendai-geki of Mizoguchi and Naruse were considered too Japanese for foreign audiences when they were first released (Bock, p. 101). Whilst Western attention for these was slowly garnered over time, as well as an understanding of their capability to connect to a global audience, these films still tackle a social situation unique to Japan, both then and now. The exploration of the women of the mizu shobai allowed directors not only to make radical statements condemning the patriarchal structure of Japan, but also to create truly humanist depictions of neglected women, women whose stories were rarely seen by the eyes of the West or even in Japan. In a scene in When a Woman Ascends the Stairs, Hideko Takamine, as the internal voice of Keiko, provides a voiceover over the shimmering neon lights of Ginza. “Women working in the Ginza fought desperately for survival”, she states bluntly before determinedly saying: “It was a battle I couldn’t afford to lose”. Despite the relentless disappointments and blows the women of these films take, they are headstrong in their resilience and united in their camaraderie. While their status as “feminist filmmakers” may be contentious by modern standards, there is no doubt that Mizoguchi and Naruse gave a voice to the voiceless, imbuing the golden age of Japanese cinema with a perfect marriage of social protest and emotional depth.