I had mixed emotions watching this film, especially with the Israeli bombing of Gaza as a backdrop. I wondered if I would be able to handle an Israeli film in the circumstances, especially perhaps one that purported to be ‘liberal’.
There is certainly a good deal of pleasure to be had from the film. It is well acted, nicely shot (albeit on Super 16mm with some fairly iffy inserts of documentary footage, so best suited to smaller screens) and full of interesting ideas and narrative possibilities. I enjoyed almost all of the film, but felt ultimately frustrated.
(There are some SPOILERS in what follows – if you don’t like to know any aspects of the plot before seeing the film, don’t read on.)
The plot sees a Palestinian widow in her forties (Salma) symbolically living slap bang on the so-called ‘Green Line’ that separates the West Bank (nominally under the control of the Palestinian National Authority, but in practice occupied and subject to Israeli force) from Israel. The widow’s lemon grove of fifty trees lies between her house and the new home of the Israeli Defence Minister and his wife Mira (who chose the house). His secret service agents decree that the lemon grove must be uprooted as it is a threat to the minister’s security (and, by extension, the security of the State of Israel). As if to ram home the symbolism, the minister is named Israel Navon and since he is in charge of security, the possibilities of a parable are obvious. The widow not surprisingly objects to losing her grove even though the powerful men of her community suggest that her loss is nothing compared to what many others have lost and continue to lose at the hands of the Israelis.
The main problem with the film is that it appears to combine at least three different narratives which in turn draw upon at least three genres. First, it appears that we may be being offered a familiar neo-realist story about a woman fighting for her legal rights as she finds a lawyer and then follows the case through the courts. This narrative is based on all too common events and it was stories about Palestinians fighting their way through Israeli courts that prompted the original idea for the film. Mostly, the losses are houses and access to olive groves or grazing land but the ‘bittersweetness’ of the lemon helps the parable.
However, in a supporting narrative, the widow (played by the stunning Hiam Abbas, so good in The Visitor) gradually moves towards a close and potentially sexual liaison with the young lawyer that she hires. Such a liaison inevitably brings the possibility of community disapproval and I was reminded of the classic Hollywood melodrama All That Heaven Allows (dir Douglas Sirk 1955) and its virtual remake by Rainer Werner Fassbinder as Fear Eats the Soul (Germany 1974). As in those films, the melodrama draws in the widow’s children, although they are far less concerned about their mother’s behaviour than in the Hollywood model – indeed their lack of concern/interest is the point. The melodrama also allows the filmmakers to include a number of ‘excessive’ sequences in which the general realist tone is replaced with something more expressive utilising sound effects and lighting. (The film’s title is picked up in the title song, ‘Lemon Tree’, which I remember from the Peter, Paul and Mary version in the 1960s: “Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet but the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat”. I can’t find out who sings the two main lines in the film, but you can hear them on the Israeli website.)
The third strand of the film is a form of satire on the Israeli media and political system. I found this quite difficult to follow in terms of what it was actually saying. My reading was that this was a liberal critique which nonetheless absolved the Israeli authorities of responsibility for what happened to the widow. It would be unfair to suggest that these three different strands are not connected and the main connection is via the two women, Salma and Mira (two mothers), who never speak to each other but who nonetheless exchange looks and understanding across the Green Line. This could be argued to be a classic instance of displacing the potentially national political narrative onto a ‘personal human interest story’.
In fact, the overall political situation is picked up in the two other narratives. The lawyer makes sure that the journey through the courts catches the attention of the international press and this in turn links to his own role in the melodrama (as a student in Russia with a small daughter still in Moscow). This also links to the general discourse about the Israeli media agencies which are pursuing the Defence Minister via his gradually disintegrating marriage. So, lots of connections – but also quite a few plot holes. For instance, Salma has two daughters according to various conversations, but we only see one – where is the other? More importantly, there is an ‘attack’ on the minister’s house which conveniently supports his case and also leads to troops invading Salma’s house. But we never hear what kind of attack or who was responsible – was it a set-up by the minister and/or the security forces? Are we supposed to work that out for ourselves?
On the plus side (at least for me) the film does not have a conventional happy ending. In this sense the director can claim to be offering a ‘realistic’ view of an impossible situation. I desperately want the widow to ‘win’, but of course the Palestinians face a no-win situation and the strongest condemnation of Israeli policy towards the occupation of Palestinian lands that the film can muster is Mira’s comment to a journalist that there are ‘no limits’ to what Israeli society will seek to do to maintain its position (or words to that effect – I can’t remember the exact line). On reflection that is quite a strong allusion to make.
I realise that there is a danger of appearing hypocritical in reviewing this film vis-a-vis our earlier discussion of Waltz With Bashir. We objected to that film’s exclusion of the voices of the Lebanese that were treated as simply ‘other’ by the Israeli soldiers. Lemon Tree offers a voice to Palestinians on at least the same level as the Israelis. It takes us into Ramallah and a 1948 refugee settlement and also shows us the difficulties Palestinians face in crossing the Green Line and getting into Jerusalem, all of which carries a sense of authenticity (even though for audiences unfamiliar with the realities of life in the occupied territories, it’s still only a partial view). Added to this, there certainly is an attempt to introduce some of the long-running issues facing Palestinians into each of the three narrative strands – the stresses of exile and migration, the spiritual bonds of land passed down through generations which are so casually broken by the ‘imperatives of Israeli military policy’, the attack on Palestinian agricultural methods and the contrast with the agricultural prowess of Israeli kibbutzim etc. I acknowledge all of this, but I think that by focusing more closely on one specific story, some of these issues might have been explored with more impact and we might have learned more about Salma (or Mira – I found her to be an interesting character who could have carried a more detailed narrative).
In institutional terms the film is a co-production with familiar partners in France and Germany. Director and co-writer Eran Riklis is an Israeli who has also lived in Brazil, Canada and the US and who studied at the National Film School in the UK. His previous films have covered similar territory and include The Syrian Bride (2004) focusing on the Druze community in the Golan Heights. Riklis was interviewed in Der Spiegel when Lemon Tree was shown at the Berlin Film Festival in January 2008 and he makes a spirited and convincing case for his approach. Perhaps I haven’t emphasised enough how carefully the film avoids making the main characters into symbolic types – and how much humour there is in many of the scenes. Riklis has an absurdist eye and he recognises how ridiculous some of the situations are – ridiculous but also frightening. Having walked under the ‘goon towers’ of the Israeli occupiers on the West Bank and waited to get through checkpoints I have some idea of what it might be like, but still no real feeling for what it’s like to live with them day in and day out. The hideous ‘separation wall’ appears in the film and Riklis uses the image very well. I was eventually able to discover that the co-writer of Lemon Tree (and The Syrian Bride) an Israeli-Arab woman, Suha Arraf, who trained at the Tel Aviv Film School and who one day hopes to direct a feature. I hope she does and I look forward to seeing it.
Lemon Tree has been released in the UK by a new distributor Unanimous Pictures (which also released The Visitor). At least we are now getting the opportunity to see these Israeli films (The Syrian Bride was not released in the UK) and I’m certainly grateful. I think I need to see more, if only to get my head around how to approach such an ideological minefield. I did feel frustrated watching the film, but the more I think about it the more I recognise the skill of the filmmakers and the potential for the film to entertain audiences and perhaps get them to think. I certainly urge more people to see it and to engage with the issues.
The Israeli website for the film includes a statement by the director and further background information.
Mizoguchi Kenji (1898-1956)
“The comparisons are as inevitable as they are unfashionable,” wrote James Quandt, introducing the centenary retrospective of the films of Kenji Mizoguchi. “Mizoguchi is cinema’s Shakespeare, its Bach or Beethoven, its Rembrandt, Titian or Picasso.” If this remains a minority opinion, it’s not because others have tried him and found him wanting. Mizoguchi is either admired or ignored. If he is, as I believe, the greatest of Japanese directors, then he has eluded general recognition as such only through unpropitious circumstances. (http://www.sensesofcinema.com/contents/directors/02/mizoguchi.html)
So begins Alexander Jacoby’s impassioned presentation on Mizoguchi in Senses of Cinema’s ‘Great Directors’ series. As he suggests, Mizoguchi became the focus for cinephiles in Europe in the 1950s (including the critics at Cahiers du Cinéma) whilst Kurosawa was the more popular arthouse choice in America (and Ozu would later become the film theorist’s choice).
In his career of some 36 years, Mizoguchi directed more than 90 films. Many of the early silents and some of the wartime sound films have been lost, but the international success of his late films did allow some of the earlier works to get a showing outside Japan. Mizoguchi was famous for films in which women were given leading roles. Some of these were historical dramas (jidaigeki), some were contemporary ‘social problem’ pictures or melodramas (gendaigeki). All were on the side of the women, exposing their maltreatment in Japanese society (female suffrage was not achieved until 1946 under the Allied Occupation) and empowering them through artistic representation. There are varying critical viewpoints on the extent to which Mizoguchi could be classified as a ‘feminist’ director. Some critics have suggested that he exploited the suffering of his heroines (and of his actresses, with whom he was tyrannical in the search for perfection). But there is no dispute that women are invariably at the centre of his films.
Mizoguchi’s remarkable success internationally with the early 1950s films was partly to do with a familiarity in the West with the idea of a ‘woman’s picture’/melodrama and partly a recognition of a strong cinema aesthetic, which although ‘exotic’ and ‘Japanese’ was also visually striking. Robin Wood (1976) offers a view of Mizoguchi as demonstrating a style that has affinities to European directors as diverse as Max Ophüls and Roberto Rossellini and features strong diagonals in the compositions The famous later films featured fluid and extensive tracking shots as well as distinctive compositions that drew on traditional Japanese painting styles (although like Kurosawa, he had studied Western painting). In his earlier films the camera is sometimes less mobile and the arrangement of characters in the frame and the editing seems to ‘break the rules’ of Western continuity editing (see Gallagher 2001). In the 1940s, some Western critics suggested an affinity to the long take, plan séquence style of Jean Renoir. (Plan séquence means carefully choreographing a whole scene involving actions by characters and camera movements within a single take.) The opening shots of The Lady of Musashino certainly resemble the Renoir of The River (France/India 1950). Richie (2001: 81) dismisses The Lady of Musashino as ‘static’ and therefore not ‘modern’. Is he right?
The Lady of Musashino
This film dates from the period immediately before Mizoguchi was in effect ‘introduced’ to the West through the Venice Film Festival (The Life of Oharu, Mizoguchi’s next film in 1952 won the International Award at Venice). It is one of a trio of ‘bourgeois melodramas’ that Mizoguchi directed between 1949 and 1952, but the only one of the three to have become available in the UK (the others are A Portrait of Madame Yuki (1950) and Miss Oyu (1951)).
The Lady of Musashino is remarkable for a number of reasons (even though it is not one of Mizoguchi’s widely discussed films). First is the seemingly simple and perhaps even abrupt editing and mise en scène. Some scenes are very short and major changes in the central character’s life are documented very quickly (the abruptness of death and funerals for instance). This would have been seen in Japan as a straight genre film, albeit at the ‘quality’ end of the market. The audience at the time would have picked up quickly on the important changes in social mores and the implications in the behaviour of family members, but we might have more of a problem in assessing the importance of the narrative information we are offered.
This leads to the question of thematics and the context of production. The film is contemporary for its period and traces what happens to a middle class woman over the years from the latter stages of the war in 1944-5 up to the present (i.e. 1951). This is the period of the Occupation (which ended in 1952), when Japanese people were recovering from the shame of defeat, trying to rebuild their lives and starting to come to terms with the new ‘democratic’ Japan and the promise of ‘modernisation’ and economic recovery.
As a relatively well-off woman, Michiko, the ‘Lady from Musashino’ (a small city to the west of Tokyo, since the 1960s part of the outer suburbs of the metropolis) does not have to scrabble for a living like many working class Japanese, but she does have to face the dilemma of choosing between her obligations to her parents and other traditional Japanese customs and the rather different attractions (and problems) of ‘modernity’. The latter are attractive to both her husband, Tadao (who is normally referred to by his family name Akiyama) and Tomiko, the wife of her cousin Eiji.
Michiko’s family relationships are at the centre of the narrative. At the start of the film she returns from a bombed-out Tokyo to her family home with its house, land and servants. Her father is concerned that she maintain the family name (Miyaji) and he refers to her ‘samurai blood’ which helps her to stand the bombing. He doesn’t trust Akiyama who happily admits that he is of peasant stock, which is why he is happy to run away from the bombing. Akiyama has become a Professor at Tokyo University and he is so eager to see the ‘stupid war’ over that he earns a rebuke from Michiko’s father: “Do you want to see Japan defeated?”
Michiko’s cousin Eiji Ono owns a munitions factory and he will survive the war, but her father’s brother is a Chief of Staff who must commit hari-kari with the defeat. It is his son, Tsutomu, who carries the family name of Miyaji. Tsutomu returns in 1947 from POW camp in Singapore and enrols at the university. Michiko must follow her father’s teachings, but she finds herself torn between her husband, a moderniser who teaches Stendahl and espouses adultery as ‘freedom’, and Tsutomu, who yearns for the solitude of Musashino, but finds himself trapped in the Americanised world of post-war Tokyo. The ending of the film confirms that the struggles over ‘modernity’ and tradition’ are not simple, nor should characters be seen as wholly ‘good’ or ‘bad’, based on their attitudes.
What lifts the film above the general level of well-made genre films is Mizoguchi’s direction, particularly his direction of his familiar star actress Kinuyo Tanaka (1910-1977). Ms Tanaka began her career at 14 and made a total of 117 films, including 15 with Mizoguchi, starting in 1940. (She later went on to direct six features in the 1950s and 1960s, according to IMDB becoming the first woman to direct in Japan. She also worked for Ozu.) In a useful essay on Tanaka and Mizoguchi, Chika Kinoshita refers to the way in which Mizoguchi ‘realises’ relationships on screen:
Mizoguchi’s films are almost always about women. It is, however, arguable that Mizoguchi strongly gravitates not toward women’s beauty or their sorrows but toward women in social relations, and in particular to hierarchical power relations between the sexes. Mizoguchi’s view is succinctly illustrated in a 1952 interview: “In the first place, I have long thought that after Communism solves the problems of class, male-female problems would remain.” Here his reference to Communism, though seemingly casual, reveals that he considered the male-female relation to be something like class relations, i.e., a historically specific hierarchical system that serves as mode of exploitation. Sato [Tadao] accurately points out Mizoguchi’s profound obsession with “the high/low positions in human relations” and maintains:
In Mizoguchi, even a state of love between a man and a woman is under the sway of hierarchy. Or, for Mizoguchi, the most desirable form of romantic relationships might have been a picture of holding down under him someone noble at whom he used to look up . . . He recognised that every human relation inevitably takes shape as either the act of looking up or that of looking down, even in romantic relationships. [Sato, Tadao. Mizoguchi Kenji no sekai (Tokyo: Chikuma-shobou, 1982)]
Sato’s observation is helpful in mapping out hierarchical power/romantic relations in the Mizoguchian world. In effect, modern romantic love, which theoretically bases itself on human equality in bourgeois society, is what his films often eulogise as an abstract ideal, but rarely realise in a concrete form.
(‘Choreography of desire: analysing Kinuyo Tanaka’s acting in Mizoguchi’s films’ by Chika Kinoshita Uploaded 1 December 2001)
Donald Richie (2001) A Hundred Years of Japanese Film, Tokyo, London and New York: Kodansha International
Robin Wood (1976) Personal Views: Explorations in Film, London: Gordon Fraser
Tag Gallagher (2001) ’Mizoguchi and Freedom’ http://www.latrobe.edu.au/screeningthepast/firstrelease/fr1201/tgfr13b.htm
Alexander Jakoby (2002) Profile of Mizoguchi
Gary Morris (1998) Profile of Mizoguchi
Tim Smedley (2003) Review
Roy Stafford 18/10/04