The Great Movies III

I didn't find myself laughing, but I watched in fascination. I don't love the Glasses character with the intensity I reserve for Buster and the Little Tramp. But I was there with him every inch of the way up that building, and I shared the physical joy of his triumph at the top. I could understand why Lloyd outgrossed Chaplin and Keaton in the 192os: not because he was funnier or more poignant, but because he was merely mortal and their characters were from another plane of existence. Lloyd is a real man climbing a building. Keaton, as he stands just exactly where a building will not crush him, is an instrument of cosmic fate. And Chaplin is a visitor to our universe from the one that exists in his mind.

While Chaplin and Keaton seemed to float on waves of inspiration and invention, "Lloyd knew that he didn't know what he was doing," Kerr wrote, "and detested himself for it.... In due time, Lloyd acquired skills that were superb of their kind. But they were acquired skills. He got no gift from the gods." Perhaps that is what makes him special: he is determined to be a great silent comedian, and succeeds by experimentation, courage, and will. His films are about his triumph over their making.

Now I can test that theory. I have all the rest of Harold Lloyd still ahead of me. I would rather have all of Keaton or all of Chaplin, and yet I am pleased to have Lloyd still to explore. In a way that later films could never duplicate, silent films, especially comedies, have a documentary level beneath their fictions: they're often shot on real locations and use the locations, and the backgrounds are often unrehearsed and real. Into this actual universe steps a character who for reasons of his own will do extraordinary things.

Born in 1893, Lloyd began as an extra by mingling with a crowd of other extras returning from their lunch break. He met another extra named Hal Roach, later to become a giant among early producers, and was assigned by Roach to be a comedian. He made dozens of shorts before finding his rhythm and footing. He worked steadily to establish his character, had no time for Chaplin's perfectionism, had a better head for business than the dreamy Keaton.

He saved his money, preserved his films, kept them out of release for decades, was unconcerned when his legacy seemed to be falling behind those of the other two geniuses. His granddaughter Suzanne is now supervising the re-release of films that were never lost, never threatened with decay or destruction, and essentially look as fresh as the day they were premiered. It is like going to new movies that happen to have been made eighty years ago.

he tension in Samurai Rebellion is generated by deep passions imprisoned within a rigid social order. The words and movements of the characters are dictated to the smallest detail by the codes of the time, but their emotions defy the codes. They move formally; their costumes denote their rank and function; they bow to authority, accept their places without question, and maintain ceremonial distances from one another. The story involves a marriage of true love, but the husband and wife are never seen to touch each other.

The visual strategy of the film reflects the rules of its world. The opening shots show architectural details, all parallel lines or sharp angles, no curves. It is the year 1725, in the Tokugawa Dynasty, which from 1603 to 1868 enforced a period of peace that depended on absolute obedience to authority. The story takes place in a remote district where Lord Matsudaira enforces his whims on all those beneath him.

We meet the Sasahara household. We see its master, Isaburo (Toshiro Mifune), in an opening scene with his best friend, Tatewaki (Tatsuya Nakadai). More precisely, we see his sword, its point and then its blade, and then the focus shifts to show his fierce eyes behind it, and then shifts to the blade again. They stand in a field before a straw man, which Isaburo cuts in two with one blow. They are testing swords. Walking back home, they talk of their boredom, and Isaburo notes he has been "henpecked for twenty years."

Yes, this samurai warrior, said to be the deadliest swordsman of his clan, lives unhappily under the thumb of his wife. The film is so concerned with family life that in Japan it was released in 1967 as Rebellion: Receive the Wfe. This title was intended, says the critic Donald Richie, to attract women moviegoers who traditionally avoided samurai films. In America, the film was retitled Samurai Rebellion, to attract martial arts fans. In the mind of its director, Masaki Kobayashi, its only title was Rebellion.