Any cursory analysis of classic Japanese cinema will return a number of great filmmakers, but most notably consist of four names of artists who almost single-handedly defined the filmmaking landscape for most of the twentieth century, despite them coming from slightly different generations for the most part. They are Akira Kurosawa, Mikio Naruse, Yasujirō Ozu and Kenji Mizoguchi, who is coincidentally the subject of today’s discussion. Each of these filmmakers shares a few qualities – they worked tirelessly to bring their art to audiences throughout their native land both before and after the Second World War, and they showed different sides of Japanese society through a few different genres, some of them developing a particular tone and style, others being more experimental. Perhaps the one quality that is most interesting between them is how they ended their careers – they all found their swan songs in slightly different eras, and their final films were all wildly different. Yet, there are some common qualities between them – and in the case of Mizoguchi (who was the first of the quartet to pass away), his final film was Street of Shame (Japanese: ), a film that has the quality of being both a very different kind of story, but still one that sheds light on a particular side of Japanese society, one driven by familial values, or in the case of this one, the outright rejection of them in the years following the war that changed the country’s perspective entirely, and set them off on an entirely unexpected trajectory to where they believed they were heading before the conflict that tore it apart. It all adds up into an achingly beautiful, and incredibly powerful, testament of the human spirit, and a truly unforgettable drama that burrows itself into the hearts and minds of every viewer, regardless of our own individual backgrounds.

The story focuses on a group of working-class prostitutes that are making a living on the streets of Tokyo, at a time when the government is becoming more involved in the affairs of its citizens. In their case, they have to grapple with the likelihood that their line of work will be made illegal, forcing them to either continue working and risk being caught for criminal activity, or finding alternative ways of getting by. Femininity in post-war Japan has been a subject that nearly all of the major directors working at the time touched on in some way, each portrayal of the role women play in society being radically different, but still very enriching to our understanding of gender roles. Mizoguchi’s perspective is not on the virginal, doll-like housewives and daughters of affluent men, but rather the more gritty women that make a living for themselves selling their bodies to survive, as apparently there isn’t much place in this version of society for an older woman who has been “tainted” by years of illicit work in shadowy alleyways. Less the fragile flowers, and more the stout-hearted, resilient women that refuse to abide by the constraints of gender, they are intent on fighting for their rights, even if their particular lives aren’t enviable to those looking at how they have chosen to deal with the new challenges facing the country. It’s an interesting way of looking at gender politics, and through filtering this hard-hitting commentary through the perspective of a group of women, the director is able to make some profoundly moving statements while still focusing on the groups that are more marginalized. There isn’t just one way to look at such stories, but Mizoguchi’s precise and earnest approach to elevating the narratives of the voiceless helps Street of Shame be all the more compelling in its central themes.

Street of Shame is anchored by its cast of characters, making this a true ensemble effort. Unlike more conventional dramas of the time, which had one or two protagonists and then a larger supporting cast, Mizoguchi employs a group of performers and gives them equal weight, with the story being divided democratically between them, each one of their stories forming the foundation of the film. This is mainly due to the fact that this film isn’t a singular narrative, but rather takes the form of a tapestry of lives, each one separate and distinct in its own unique message, and united under the common storyline of taking place in a brothel, which harbours these women and allows them to have a safe haven from the world around them. These women vary in age, background and ability, as well as possessing radically different outlooks on life. Yet, something they all share is an insatiable compassion for their fellow human being, which is reflected in the beautiful sense of community that comes about through their professional (and later, personal) relationships with one another. Mizoguchi works extremely well with the cast of actresses – many of which are incredibly prominent Japanese performers – and makes sure to never once portray them as anything other than unflinchingly human. Like another great film from this era, Federico Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria, these women being in a profession that requires them to sell their bodies doesn’t negate their deep, unrequited humanity, and the film becomes less about their line of work, and more about their inner qualities, which drives the narrative and makes it so beautifully compelling.

The style and tone of Street of Shame is quite remarkable – not the intricate melodrama that we’d come to expect from the great Japanese masters at the time, but more of a disquieting, gritty social-realist fable, the film is slightly off-kilter, but in a way that makes perfect sense in the context of the story. Mizoguchi had a very particular way of controlling the tone of his films, creating an atmosphere in which a specific mood is established, and the story follows these emotional beats. The story of a group of sex workers is not one that necessarily lends itself to a powerful drama, but the director understands that this is far more than just a simple slice-of-life tale, but rather a hard-hitting portrait of a country in flux. The director’s camera is fluid and ever-moving, and captures each intimate detail in the lives of these characters, not sparing much time for overly ambitious portrayals of their inner lives, but rather the trials and tribulations of a group of people trying to make a living. Through these characters, we start to see a side of society that is often kept in the shadows – these people are not the embodiment of purity or familial values, and their very existence in a rebellion against the moral principles that their country is based on. The point isn’t justifying their actions as needing to be legal, but rather in finding the humanity in even the most illicit activities. It is perfectly reasonable to consider the daily routine of these women as being less of a choice and more of a necessity, and the film ventures deep into their lives to show it, making sure that it is made abundantly clear that not everyone in post-war Japan was lucky enough to have the stability to endure their existential crises in their beautiful homes, and that some had to endure not only poverty, but also widespread stigmatization for what many considered to be their decision, rather than an industry into which they were forced.

Street of Shame is certainly a tough film to sit through, not because it is poorly-made or conceived without any artistic integrity (in fact, Mizoguchi exemplifies the reasons towards his status as one of his country’s true masters), but rather since the subject matter doesn’t lend itself to the most casual viewing. Going into this film, the prospective viewer should be prepared for something that is a lot more complex than it would appear – not the cut-and-dry realist drama it appears to be, but rather a deeply unsettling portrait of femininity in the post-war era, focusing on a close-knit group of women that simply have no other option than to be bound together for the sake of survival, and forming a strong sisterhood as a result. Beautifully poetic and written with a sincerity that comes from an artist who understands the value of allowing the voices of those on the margins to float to the top, this film is an extraordinary achievement, filled with moments of unrelinquished beauty and a sense of undying devotion to a premise that means even more considerable the compassionate perspective with which it was guided. It might be peculiar to realize this was Mizoguchi’s final film – it lacks the melancholia of the swan songs of some of his contemporaries, and is by all accounts a more callous work – yet, the complexities embedded within the film, and the sense of longing for the days of the past, make this a resoundingly beautiful conclusion to a long, storied career, and a meaningful way to cap off the artistic life of one of the most important figures in cinema history, who helped change it through his incredibly intimate and unflinchingly honest glimpses into the human condition.