Two scenes from ‘The Masseurs and a Woman’

I’ll be looking here at two scenes from The Masseurs and a Woman, which contain ample evidence of the skill, intelligence and fluidity of Shimizu’s film-making. First, the opening. As the film begins, Toku and Fuku are making their way along a country road to the resort village, canes in hand, but walking at a confident pace, evidently familiar with the route. The camera retreats as they advance, keeping the same pace, almost as if it, and we, were walking alongside them―except that, if that were the case, we’d be facing the wrong way, unable to see in front of us. Toku extols the beautiful view (“It’s as if we could see!”), turning his head to the side as if he really were looking at it. Wonderfully, we are as reliant as Toku on the power of imagination, because the camera retains its focus on the walkers, keeping the beautiful view off-screen. We can infer, however, that there is indeed a view to be seen precisely at the spot Toku imagines one, because we can see that the road has a sheer drop at the side; moments later, as the two continue ahead, trees rise up on the same side, blocking any view into the valley below. Toku isn’t simply letting his imagination run wild; he knows when splendid scenery lies before him, and he isn’t going to let the small fact of his blindness prevent him from appreciating it. The two men’s blindness is apparent as soon as the film begins, but any sense of pity we (as sighted viewers) might feel for their condition is quickly nipped in the bud, as it is plain that two men are more than capable of looking after themselves. The old cliché about blind people compensating for their disability by developing their other senses to a heightened degree seems to be making another appearance. Subtly, however, Shimizu suggests that the two men’s abilities are not quite equal, and the difference has a bearing on their personalities. We can see this in the way they walk, for that of Toku is just a little bit more assured. His cane, extended straight in front of him, occasionally taps the ground, but you get the impression that Toku would manage pretty well without it. Fuku, meanwhile, uses his cane somewhat more tentatively, holding it closer to his body, sometimes bringing it around to his side in a small curving motion, and tapping the ground more often. He’s almost always fractionally behind his companion. Their conversation confirms the visual impression. Fuku wonders how many people they’ve passed; Toku knows the answer, taking pleasure in the fact that they’re able to overtake sighted people. Fuku remarks regretfully that he bumped into a few animals, which Toku blames on his carelessness. Both men express a certain degree of resentment towards the sighted society that may act kindly towards them, but which will readily kick them into a ditch. Toku’s resentment, however, is keener, the result, perhaps, of longer experience; he takes on the role of mentor to Fuku, advising him to rely on neither people nor his cane. Suddenly Toku stops his companion, and challenges him to guess how many children are approaching. The camera stops, too―but not immediately, as if it takes a moment for it to realize that the two men have stopped, and waits for them to continue. The viewer can’t see the children, and has been given no indication of their presence; while Toku and Fuku stand listening, only then do we begin to hear, very faintly, their voices―our hearing lags behind Toku’s superior senses. Shimizu cuts for the first time to a closer, stationary shot of the two men listening intently. Eight kids, says Fuku; eight and a half, says Toku, sure that there’s a baby among them. Another cut, back to Toku and Fuku advancing, the camera reversing; sure enough, eight children, one with a baby tied to its back, walk from behind the camera and pass the two masseurs. Fuku may be good, but Toku is something else.

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Having displayed the acuity of his ears, Toku next makes use of his nose, halting Fuku abruptly. Again, the camera stops to wait; Fuku, thinking there’s danger ahead, wields his cane like a sword, while Toku, with an expression of disgust, uses his cane to point down in front of him at something the viewer can’t see. Fuku by now has realized what’s wrong; there’s a bad smell, and as they veer to sides, the camera too resumes its journey, and we now see a pile of horse dung in the middle of the road. Fuku’s sense of smell is good, but were in not for Toku, he’d have stepped right into the dung. The viewer can’t smell anything; what’s more, looking backwards, we can’t see the dung either, until Toku and Fuku have successfully passed it. The camera does not veer to the side with them, but keeps to the middle of the road, so that we get shit on our shoes. Cunningly, Shimizu has set this up with a series of subtle shot changes. Before they stop to listen to the approaching kids, we see the masseurs either in full shot, or with only their feet cut off at the bottom of the screen. When the two men stop to listen intently, the camera gets closer, just above waist height, prompting us to look and listen more intently. When the camera starts moving again, all of the men’s bodies are again visible, only this time the camera is slightly further away, allowing us to see the children pass. Toku and Fuku stop again, turning their heads back in the direction of the children; there’s another cut, and now we see them from above the knees only. When they, and the camera, start moving again, the shot remains the same, so that we can’t see the horse shit at our feet. The same shot is maintained until the two of them stop when Toku catches a whiff; when they proceed cautiously, the camera pulls back to show their full bodies again, and to reveal the shit we’ve just stepped in.

This full-body shot is a brief one; there’s then a cut to a shot with the camera around waist-level (the reason for this will be apparent later). Fuku complains that he’s tired and wants to slow down, but Toku insists that they press on in order to reach their destination before nightfall. When his friend objects that travelling in the dark is hardly a problem for them, Toku reveals the real reason for his haste: a competitive desire to arrive ahead of a group of students who earlier passed them by. Fuku is sceptical, but Toku is adamant that he can do it, that his blindness is no handicap. Again, we are gently made to appreciate the differences in character between the two: Fuku is the more demure and circumspect of the pair, while Toku is more combative, determined to prove himself against sighted people, to demonstrate that he is every bit their equal. Toku, the film suggests, is someone frustrated by the constraints of his employment, which forces him to play the part of servant, something alien to his nature. It is his seeing customers who hold social power over him; it is their society that all but forces him into working as a masseur, to accept the role that rigid tradition, seeing him only as a blind man and nothing else, would thrust upon him. Fuku may be reconciled to his lot, but Toku aims to break free of it, and so strides ahead of his colleague, vowing, as he does so, to beat the students to the resort. Here there’s a cut, and the camera once more shows the pair in a full-body shot, the two of them walking silently, Toku at the front. What we can see, and the two of them can’t, is that there is a large rock in the road, and Toku is heading straight for it. Cutting to mid-shot for the conversation about overtaking the students has enabled Shimizu to point our attention to the rock in the foreground when he then cuts to long-shot, which would not have been so noticeable had the whole conversation been filmed in long-shot. It’s something of a reversal of the situation with the horse dung; the viewer, with the privilege of sight (over which, the director, nonetheless, exerts control) is able to know what lies ahead (which, for the viewer, is also behind)*, while Toku cannot. We watch as Toku stumbles, his cry as he falls frightening Fuku into wielding his cane as a weapon, just as he did when Toku’s nose detected the smell of horse manure. For all their independence and abilities, neither man is invulnerable. While Toku scrambles to right himself, a horse-drawn carriage passes them by, enabling Toku to regain something of his dignity by displaying his olfactory expertise in being able to tell from the lingering scent of perfume that a lady from Tokyo is on board the carriage. The focus then switches to the passengers, as we see Michiho, Shintaro and Kenichi looking back in the direction of the masseurs as the driver explains who they are. A fade-out marks the end of the scene, which has lasted five minutes.

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The second scene I want to examine is my favorite in the film, and one of the most magical two minutes of cinema I know. We see Michiho walk down the street towards the camera, evidently watching something that’s going on in front of her. A cut reveals the object of her interest: Toku, in long-shot, bumping into a pair of bathers. He is on his way to Michiho’s hotel, where he is supposed to give her a massage. The collision with the bathers is an unusual mistake for him (the carelessness of the bathers notwithstanding), perhaps suggesting that his senses have become compromised by his developing feelings for Michiho, or even that they are affected by his being unknowingly observed by her. Shimizu cuts back to the observer, a slight smile on her face; she turns away and retreats, then looks back and stops. As Michiho turns her body around so that she is facing Toku again, there is a change of shot so that the camera is behind her. Both characters are now visible in long-shot, Michiho at screen left, Toku walking towards the camera at screen right. As he passes her, she turns her body so that she is always looking at him. He stops, sniffs the air, detecting her scent. He turns back towards her, and there’s a close-up of his face as he turns. At first it seems as if his face is going to ‘look’ directly at Michiho (and the camera), but instead his head keeps turning until it’s facing downwards―abashed, confused, frustrated―we can’t tell. Shimizu cuts back to Michiho, smiling more broadly now, as she slowly backs away while so that she keeps looking at him. Shimizu keeps cutting back and forth between Michiho and an increasingly confused Toku, the former slowly moving away from the masseur, frequently stopping and looking back at him. Michiho keeps leading him forwards in this manner, until, at around the same spot where Toku earlier bumped into the bathers, she almost bumps into four masseurs (including Fuku). Toku continues to follow Michiho, until he passes the other masseurs, stops, and turns towards them. Not wishing to be detained, and anxious to catch up with Michiho, he continues turning so that he is back facing the camera (a 360° turn), but he still isn’t decided, and starts turning again towards Fuku and the other masseurs. This time, while he turns, the camera briefly switches as well, so that it is on the other side of Toku, before switching back to show Toku facing screen left, at an angle of approximately 90° relative to both the other masseurs and to the direction taken by Michiho. As Fuku approaches him, Toku turns away, then back towards Fuku, and finally once again towards where Michiho wandered off. The scene ends, and there’s a cut to show Michiho at the river, looking around her as if to check whether Toku has been able to follow.

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This marvellous scene, played for the most part in a haunting silence (apart from a few eerie notes from a flute-like instrument at the beginning, and some dialogue between Toku and Fuku at the end), is a kind of teasingly erotic dance, with the camera as a third dancer, along with Toku and Michiho. Shimizu superbly choreographs both Michiho’s playful, faintly cruel seductiveness and Toku’s helpless, bewildered desire,** placing the viewer, through the camera reversals, alternately in the position of seduced and seducer, eroticizing both male and female characters. Michiho and Toku can’t have the same experience of eroticism, of course. Michiho, as a sighted character, can see the handsome Toku as the viewer can see him, whereas Toku can only imagine Michiho’s visual beauty. As an object of desire, he experiences her through sound, touch and smell―here only through smell, which is denied to the viewer. That this desire is an unfamiliar feeling for Toku is suggested by his uncharacteristically confused dealings with physical space―a hesitant and uncertain gait, halting, turning around. As a masseur, he would have been expected to deny himself any erotic desire, for the expectation that any such desire would not be expressed is what allowed blind masseurs to handle exposed flesh. His familiar environment is male, blind and celibate, hence perhaps his indecision on meeting his fellow masseurs: should he stick to the life he has known for years, a life that seems to dissatisfy him, a life he has been more or less compelled to lead, but which for all that offers the compensations of homosocial camaraderie and regular travel? Or should he break free from his designated role and explore the new sensation of desire, with all the risks of failure and humiliation involved? For her part, as a woman, Michiho too is constrained by a rigid patriarchal society (we don’t discover her story until the end), and her flirtation with Toku, a man who intrigues her even though she doesn’t seem to seriously entertain the prospect of romance, is enlivened by the thrill of transgression. But trying to unpack this little scene like this still doesn’t get to the core of what makes it so special, for, in the end, the greater part of its delicacy and mysteriousness resist explanation; as much can be said of the film as a whole.

*The rock lies slightly to the side of the road, unlike the horse shit, so we’re not put in the position of having stumbled over it as we are made to tread in the horse shit.

** His helplessness and bewilderment accentuated by his white jacket, which makes him look especially innocent. In case the contrast between naïve male and worldly, seductive female sounds misogynistic, it is part of the film’s success that it portrays Michiho not as a clichéd vamp, but as a complex and sympathetic human.

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3 thoughts on “Two scenes from ‘The Masseurs and a Woman’

  1. The flute-like instrument is a shakuhachi – a bamboo flute.

    The soundtracks for our shows feature a lot of shakuhachi playing – Clive Bell who composes and plays the music is one of the go-to shakuhachi players in the UK and he plays in a lot of Japanese classical music ensembles as well as on Harry Potter film scores.

    There was an article in the Guardian about how South Korea could be the model for post-Brexit Britain to follow.

    When we were there I did think it was a vision of a potential future – lots of low-paid people working all the hours God sends to pay off their monthly mobile phone bills.

    I’m currently engaged in re-re-reading Raymond Queneau’s novels. Always a treat.

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  2. I’ve probably posted this link to you before but it’s always a treat

    I found an interview with the Quay brthers where they say that they met him and that it’s seems unlikely that The Overcoat will be ever finished – it’s already taken 30+ years.

    Having been subsidised by the state he was left stranded when Glasnost came in and finding money since has proved impossible. His composer and cameraman have since died and he’s heartbroken about it all.

    A great shame we won’t get to see anything but YouTube clips as it’s completely absorbing to watch despite the fact that virtually nothing happens in terms of drama. The technique is mind-boggling – flat drawings on different layers of glass with the camera looking down on it all.

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  3. Sorry for the late reply. Are you sure that the flute featured in the film is a shakuhachi and not one of the several other bamboo flutes from Japan? I know the shakuhachi is the most popular of them, so it would not be unlikely.

    Just read that Guardian article you mentioned; I missed it the first time round. The author seems not to be very familiar with South Korea. Most people here would be astonished at his rosy picture of the Korean economy. As you say, people work very long hours here, though most of the money goes towards the astronomical rent rather than phone bills. Also, if people have elderly parents who are not well off, they may be making payments to them as well; the country has an appalling number of old people in poverty.

    Sad news about Norshteyn. Wikipedia says that the project is still ongoing, but I can’t say that I have much hope that it will be completed.

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