d a i s u k e m i ya o

The Aesthetics of

Shadow
Lighting and Japanese Cinema
The AesTheTics of

s​ h A d o w
Lighting and Japanese Cinema

D a i s u k e ​ M i ya o

Duke​University​Press

Durham​and​London 2013
©​2013​Duke​University​Press
All​rights​reserved
Printed​in​the​United​States​of​America​on​acid-​free​paper​♾
Designed​by​Heather​Hensley
Typeset​in​Arno​Pro​by​Tseng​Information​Systems,​Inc.
Library​of​Congress​Cataloging-​in-​Publication​Data​appear​
on​the​last​printed​page​of​this​book.
For Dica
Contents

Acknowledgments​ ix

IntroductIon
What​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW? ​ 1

​1.​Lighting​anD​capitaList-​i nDustriaL​
MoDernity: ​Shochiku and Hollywood​ 15

​2.​fLashes​of​the​sWorD​anD​the​star:​
Shochiku and Jidaigeki​ 67

​3.​street​fiLMs:​ Shochiku and Germany​ 119

​4.​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW:​
Shochiku, Toho, and Japan​ 173

conclusIon
the​cineMatography​of​MiyagaWa​kazuo ​ 255

notes​ 283

BIBlIogrAphy​ 329

Index​ 365
AC k n ow l e d g m e n t s

I​am​eternally​grateful​to​the​late​Robert​Sklar,​my​mentor.​I​had​
countless​joyful​moments​with​him​when​we​talked​about​films​
and​ books.​ With​ his​ generosity,​ patience,​ and​ continuous​ en-
couragement,​I​have​been​able​to​transform​myself​from​a​naïve​
student​from​ Japan​who​knew​very​little​ about​ the​practice​of​
cinema​studies​into​a​little​more​articulate​film​historian.​Thank​
you​so​very​much,​Professor​Sklar.
​ I​owe​so​much​to​the​big​heart​of​the​late​Keiko​I.​McDonald.​
It​was​my​great​pleasure​to​report​the​progress​of​my​research​to​
her​at​annual​conferences.​Our​meetings​were​always​after​her​
daily​ten-​mile​run,​and​she​always​amazed​me​with​her​positive​
energy.​I​am​sorry​that​I​did​not​have​a​chance​to​run​the​historic​
Hayward​Field​with​Keiko-​sensei,​who​was​a​University​of​Ore-
gon​alumna.
​ Special​thanks​go​to​Ken​Wissoker​of​Duke​University​Press.​
Ken​was​the​very​first​person​who​listened​to​my​initial​rough​
idea​about​writing​a​transnational​history​of​cinematic​lighting.​
It​was​in​Chicago​in​2007​when​my​book​on​Sessue​Hayakawa​
came​out.​He​has​been​enthusiastic​about​this​project​ever​since​
and​guided​me​through​a​long​and​winding​road.​This​book​is​a​
collaboration​between​Ken​and​me.
​ As​my​project​involved​extensive​research​both​in​the​United​
States​ and​ Japan,​ I​ have​ been​ very​ fortunate​ to​ be​ assisted​ by​
many​institutions.​I​thank​above​all​Charles​Silver​at​the​Museum​
of​Modern​Art,​Film​Study​Center​in​New​York;​Okajima​Hisa-
shi,​Okada​Hidenori,​Tochigi​Akira,​Irie​Yoshiro,​and​Itakura​Fumiaki​at​the​
National​Film​Center,​the​National​Museum​of​Modern​Art,​Tokyo;​Wachi​
Yukiko,​Fukuda​Atsuko,​and​staff​members​at​Kawakita​Memorial​Film​In-
stitute;​Moriwaki​Kiyotaka​at​the​Museum​of​Kyoto;​Yasui​Yoshio​at​Kobe​
Planet​Eiga​Shiryokan;​Barbara​Hall​at​the​Margaret​Herrick​Library​of​the​
Center​for​Motion​Picture​Study;​Mona​Nagai​and​Jason​Sanders​at​the​
Pacific​Film​Archive;​John​Mhiripiri​at​the​Anthology​Film​Archive;​and​
staff​members​at​the​University​of​Oregon​Knight​Library’s​Interlibrary​
Loan​Office.​I​have​also​benefited​greatly​from​my​visits​to​the​New​York​
Public​Library​for​Performing​Arts,​ucLa​Department​of​Special​Collec-
tions,​Tsubouchi​Memorial​Theater​Museum​at​Waseda​University,​the​Na-
tional​Diet​Library,​and​Shochiku​Otani​Library.
​ An​acLs/ssrc/neh​Fellowship,​Center​for​the​Study​of​Women​in​
Society​Research​Grant,​Oregon​Humanities​Center​Research​Fellowship,​
Richard​A.​Bray​Faculty​Fellowship,​and​other​internal​research​grants​at​
the​University​of​Oregon​provided​me​with​precious​time​and​funding​to​
complete​this​book.
​ Kotani​Eiichi,​Kurita​Toyomichi,​Miyagawa​Jiro,​Okada​Mariko,​Wakao​
Ayako,​and​Yoshida​Kiju​shared​precious​stories​of​Japanese​filmmaking​
with​me.
​ I​am​deeply​grateful​to​Steven​Brown,​Rebecca​Fowler,​Hideaki​Fujiki,​
Tom​Gunning,​Elise​Hansen,​Abé​Markus​Nornes,​and​Yomota​Inuhiko,​
who​kindly​read​sections​of​this​book​at​various​stages​and​gave​me​valu-
able​comments​and​encouragements.
​ Cheers​to​Kathleen​Karlyn,​Mike​Aronson,​Priscilla​Peña​Ovalle,​San-
gita​Gopal,​Katharina​Lowe,​Kate​Mondloch,​Audra​Mahoney,​and​the​fac-
ulty​and​the​staff​of​the​Cinema​Studies​Program​at​the​University​of​Ore-
gon.​I​am​honored​to​share​the​love​of​cinema​with​you.
​ Among​ many​ friends,​ colleagues,​ and​ mentors​ on​ both​ sides​ of​ the​
Pacific​who​have​provided​invaluable​professional​and​emotional​support,​
I​would​like​to​particularly​thank​Charles​Affron,​Dudley​Andrew,​Chris​
Arnold,​ Keri​ Aronson,​ Kathryn​ Barton,​ Jennifer​ M.​ Bean,​ Betty​ Chen,​
Stephen​Durrant,​Maram​Epstein,​Robert​Felsing,​Funatsu​Akiko,​Aaron​
Gerow,​ Carol​ Gluck,​ Frances​ Guerin,​ Heidi​ Johnson,​ Patrick​ Keating,​
Chika​Kinoshita,​Hiroshi​Kitamura,​Colleen​Laird,​Tom​LaMarre,​Jean​Ma,​
Matsudo​Makoto​(Pinewood​Company),​Matsui​Jun​(Heibonsha),​Shan-
non​McLachlan,​Mizuno​Sachiko,​Shogan​Naidoo​and​the​yMca​marathon​

x  acknoWLeDgMents
group​in​Eugene​(for​keeping​me​fit​physically​and​mentally),​Miwako​Oki-
gami,​Ota​Yoneo​(Toy​Film​Project),​Misa​Oyama,​Augusta​Lee​Palmer,​
Michael​ Raine,​ Donald​ Richie,​ Saito​ Ayako,​ Tze-​lan​ Sang,​ Miryam​ Sas,​
Shibata​Motoyuki,​Irina​Shport,​William​G.​Simon,​Ben​Singer,​Takeuchi​
Shigehiro​(Eiga​shiryo​no​kobeya),​Alan​Tansman,​Patrick​Terry,​Noboru​
Tomonari,​ Mitsuyo​ Wada-​Marciano,​ Akiko​ and​ Glynne​ Walley,​ Kristen​
Whissel,​Linda​Williams,​Mari​Yoshihara,​Mitsuhiro​Yoshimoto,​and​Zhang​
Zhen.
​ Leigh​Barnwell​and​Liz​Smith​at​Duke​University​Press​have​patiently​
guided​me​through​the​book’s​editorial​and​production​processes.
​ I​also​thank​enthusiastic​audiences​of​my​talks​at​the​University​of​Cali-
fornia,​Berkeley;​Carleton​College;​the​University​of​Maryland;​Stanford​
University;​the​Association​for​Asian​Studies;​Kinema​Club;​and​the​So-
ciety​for​Cinema​and​Media​Studies.
​ I​would​like​to​sincerely​thank​Nishimura​Taro,​Matsumoto​Toshio,​Ta-
tsumi​Takayuki,​and​the​faculty​of​letters​at​Keio​University,​and​Notoji​
Masako,​Kunishige​Junji,​and​the​faculty​of​American​studies​at​the​Uni-
versity​of​Tokyo,​Komaba,​for​their​tremendous​kindness.
​ I​ am​ very​ grateful​ to​ my​ parents,​ Miyao​ Shunsuke​ and​ Masami,​ for​
always​believing​in​me,​and​to​my​parents-​in-​law,​Akagi​Sadao​and​Kimiko.
​ Lastly,​very,​very​special​thanks​go​to​the​loves​of​my​life:​Yoko,​Dica​
(who​is​at​Rainbow​Bridge),​Dot,​and​Hoku.​Without​you,​I​will​be​lost​in​
the​shadow.​With​you,​I​can​be​bright​and​cheerful.

acknoWLeDgMents  xi
IntroductIon

What​is​the​aesthetics​ ​
of​shaDoW?

“‘The​aesthetics​of​shadow’​[kage no bigaku]​that​Japanese​people​
created​over​a​long​period​of​time​throughout​long​years​stays​
deep​inside​of​ourselves​no​matter​how​much​social​tendencies​
change.​We​want​to​bring​out​‘the​aesthetics​of​shadow’​from​its​
hidden​place,​understand​it​correctly,​and​do​our​best​to​create​
Japanese​cinema.”​So​wrote​Yoshino​Nobutaka,​a​production​de-
signer​at​Shochiku,​one​of​the​major​film​companies​in​Japan,​in​
the​journal​Eiga Shomei​in​1979.1​Cinema​is​a​medium​of​light​and​
shadow.​Cinema​does​not​exist​without​the​electrical​light​beam​
that​passes​through​the​celluloid​strip​to​throw​a​shadow​image​
onto​a​screen​before​a​viewer.2​Even​before​the​process​of​pro-
jection,​the​production​of​moving​photographic​images​is​a​con-
struction​in​light​and​shadow.​Even​digital​cameras​need​light​to​
input​information​to​be​transformed​into​data.​It​is​therefore​no​
surprise​that​the​Japanese​production​designer​particularly​noted​
lighting​in​Japanese​cinema.​What​attracts​me​in​Yoshino’s​words,​
though,​is​his​strong​emphasis​on​shadow.​What​is​“the​aesthet-
ics​of​shadow”​that​he​believed​to​be​very​important​in​Japanese​
cinema?
​ In​ fact,​ Yoshino’s​ claim​ faithfully​ replicated​ the​ well-​known​
writing​ by​ renowned​ novelist​ Tanizaki​ Jun’ichiro,​ In Praise of
Shadows​(“Inei​raisan,”​December​1933–January​1934).​In​his​dis-
cussion​of​Japanese​architecture,​Tanizaki​writes,​“Ultimately,​it​
is​the​magic​of​shadows.​Were​the​shadows​to​be​banished​from​the​cor-
ners,​the​alcove​[in​a​Japanese​room]​would​in​that​instant​revert​to​mere​
void.​This​was​the​genius​of​our​[Japanese]​ancestors—that​by​cutting​off​
the​light​from​this​empty​space​they​imparted​to​the​world​of​shadows​that​
formed​there​a​quality​of​mystery​and​depth​superior​to​that​of​any​wall​
painting​or​ornament.”3​In Praise of Shadows​has​been​one​of​the​most​influ-
ential​writings​that​explain​Japanese​aesthetics.​In​1940,​quoting​Tanizaki’s​
discussion​ extensively,​ Midorikawa​ Michio,​ the​ head​ of​ the​ Nipponese​
Society​for​Cinematographers​(Nihon​Eiga​Kameraman​Kyokai),​stated,​
“We​should​observe​the​beauty​of​shadows,​which​appears​gracefully​in​
the​harmony​of​[Japanese]​ architecture​ and​lights.”4​Midorikawa​ urged​
cinematographers​in​Japan​to​use​lighting​that​would​achieve​“the​beauty​
of​shadows.”​For​instance,​the​Nipponese​Society​for​Cinematographers​
decided​on​The Battle of Kawanakajima​(Kawanakajima kassen,​Kinugasa​
Teinosuke,​1941),​a​war​film​set​in​sixteenth-​century​Japan,​as​having​the​
best​cinematography​for​a​dramatic​film​of​the​year​mainly​because​of​“the​
attraction​of​black​that​fills​the​entire​film.”5​The​notion​that​Yoshino​called​
“the​aesthetics​of​shadow”​had​already​been​widely​shared​among​Japanese​
cinematographers​by​the​early​1940s.
​ Curiously,​however,​the​expressivity​of​shadows​had​not​been​empha-
sized​in​the​dominant​mode​of​film​lighting​in​Japan​before​Tanizaki​wrote​
In Praise of Shadows.​The​slogan​in​the​first​decades​of​filmmaking​in​Japan​
was​“Clarity​first,​story​second”​(Ichi nuke, ni suji),​which​Makino​Shozo,​
“the​father​of​Japanese​cinema,”​had​introduced​in​the​1910s.6​As​the​term​
nuke​(clarity)​suggests,​what​early​Japanese​filmmakers​emphasized​was​
not​the​beauty​of​darkness,​but​brightness​that​would​make​images​visible​
even​in​worn-​out​prints​screened​at​theaters​not​equipped​with​bright​light​
bulbs​ for​ projection.​ Shochiku​ inherited​ such​ an​ emphasis​ on​ clarity​ in​
lighting​ when​ they​ adopted​ their​ slogan​ “Bright​ and​ cheerful​ Shochiku​
cinema”​(akaruku tanoshi Shochiku eiga)​in​the​1920s.
​ More​curiously,​when​Tanizaki​wrote​In Praise of Shadows​and​Japanese​
cinematographers​widely​agreed​with​him​about​the​beauty​of​shadows,​
Japan​ was​ leading​ the​ world​ in​ the​ vogue​ of​ neon​ signs.7​ The​ apprecia-
tion​of​shadow​emerged​in​the​midst​of​a​flourishing​culture​of​electrical​
light.​The​acclaimed​Hollywood​filmmaker​Josef​von​Sternberg​was​very​
impressed​by​the​coexistence​between​light​and​shadow​in​Japan​when​he​
visited​in​1936.​Emphasizing​in​particular​the​simultaneous​thriving​of​light​

2  introDuction
and​shadow,​Sternberg​related​his​fascination​with​the​Japanese​landscape​
to​Ono​Shichiro,​a​reporter​for​the​newly​established​Nihon Eiga​journal:
The​entertainment​districts​in​Japan​are​good,​especially​at​night.​The​
lines​of​various​objects​rise​to​the​surface​in​colorful​neon​and​all​other​
things​are​mysteriously​hidden​in​darkness.​.​.​.​Japanese​landscape​is​as​
monochrome​as​ink​paintings,​but​the​colors​in​the​entertainment​dis-
tricts​are​gaudily​gorgeous.​There​is​a​street​vendor​selling​exotic​autumn​
insects​right​in​front​of​an​American-​style​jazz​café.​Corn​is​being​bar-
becued​right​next​to​ice​cream​being​sold​at​an​American-​style​parlor.​
Wearing​geta​[wooden​clogs]​on​her​bare​feet,​a​woman​with​a​Japanese​
hairstyle​walks​along​that​street.​It​is​a​superb​mysterious​view​that​com-
bines​old​and​new​cultures.​If​I​photograph​this,​it​must​be​Technicolor.8
Sternberg​was​arguably​the​filmmaker​most​respected​by​Japanese​cinema-
tographers​in​the​early​to​mid-​1930s.​This​respect​was​a​result​of​the​cine-
matography​in​those​films​of​Sternberg’s​that​made​a​star​of​Marlene​Diet-
rich​in​Hollywood.​As​stated​in​his​autobiography,​Sternberg’s​theory​of​
cinematic​lighting​resided​in​a​creative​contrast​between​light​and​shadow.​
In​a​chapter​entirely​devoted​to​explaining​his​thoughts​on​cinematic​light-
ing,​Sternberg​confidently​stated,​“Each​light​furnishes​its​own​shadow,​and​
where​a​shadow​is​seen​there​must​be​a​light.​Shadow​is​mystery​and​light​
is​clarity.​Shadow​conceals,​light​reveals.​(To​know​what​to​reveal​and​what​
to​conceal​and​in​what​degree​and​how​to​do​this​is​all​there​is​to​art.)​A​
shadow​is​as​important​in​photography​as​the​light.​One​cannot​exist​with-
out​the​other.”9​The​coexistence​between​light​and​shadow​that​he​empha-
sized​here​corresponded​to​his​response​to​the​Japanese​landscape​in​1936.
​ Contrary​to​Sternberg’s​emphasis​on​the​innate​balance​between​light​
and​shadow​in​cinematic​lighting,​what​Japanese​cinematographers​and​
critics​ who​ specialized​ in​ film​ technologies​ particularly​ noted​ was​ his​
“crafty​ emphasis​ on​ shadows,”​ according​ to​ the​ cinematographer​ Miura​
Mitsuo,​who​had​witnessed​Sternberg’s​filmmaking​in​Hollywood​in​1928​
and​had​photographed​The Battle of Kawanakajima​in​1941.10​The​critic​Takii​
Koji​ selected​ Sternberg’s​ Shanghai Express​ and​ Blonde Venus​ as​ the​ best​
American​ films​ of​ 1932​ in​ terms​ of​ cinematography.​ In​ particular,​ Takii​
praised​the​cinematographic​achievement​in​“low-​key​tones”​that​“enhance​
the​atmosphere​and​express​the​drama.”11​Focusing​on​the​distinctive​use​of​
shadows​in​these​films,​Takii​claimed,​“The​low-​key​lighting​is​the​highest​

What​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW?  3
achievement​of​photographic​technique.​.​.​.​It​is​not​simply​about​invisible​
darkness.”12
​ Why​ did​ Tanizaki​ and​ Japanese​ cinematographers​ start​ emphasizing​
shadows​in​the​1930s​when​Japan​was​in​the​midst​of​the​flourishing​culture​
of​electric​light?​Why​did​they​need​the​concept​if​the​dominant​mode​of​
Japanese​filmmaking​since​the​1910s​had​been​brightness​in​lighting?​Were​
there​no​attempts​to​challenge​the​“clarity​first”​slogan​by​way​of​shadow​
before​the​1930s?​Or​did​the​switch​occur​in​an​unprecedented​manner?​
What​were​the​sociopolitical,​economic,​or​cultural​contexts​behind​this​
tendency​to​value​shadows​highly?​Why​did​Tanizaki​and​Japanese​cinema-
tographers​need​to​stress​the​significance​of​shadows​in​the​name​of​Japa-
nese​culture?​Was​there​anything​they​needed​to​defend​or​justify?​And​
how​was​the​appreciation​of​shadow​naturalized​as​the​essence​of​Japanese​
cultural​identity,​as​seen​in​Yoshino’s​claim,​if​it​did​not​appear​until​the​
1930s?
​ In​this​ book,​ I​ bring​ out​“‘the​ aesthetics​ of​shadow’​from​ its​hidden​
place”​and​find​a​way​to​“understand​it​correctly.”​You​will​read​how​and​
why​the​notion​that​Yoshino​called​“the​aesthetics​of​shadow”​was​formu-
lated​in​the​history​of​Japanese​cinema.​To​be​more​specific,​I​tell​a​story​
about​the​tension-​ridden​process​of​how​technologies​of​lighting​devel-
oped​and​how​discourses​on​lighting​were​constructed​in​the​formative​
decades​of​cinema​in​Japan.​My​story​often​crosses​national​borders​be-
cause​the​discussion​of​“the​aesthetics​of​shadow”​in​such​close​connection​
with​Japanese​cultural​tradition​must​have​been​a​result​of​complicated​
international​or​transnational​conflicts​over​lighting​technologies.​In​this​
sense,​I​narrate​a​transnational​“history​of​entanglement​that​traces​actual​
interconnections”​of​films,​film​technologies,​filmmakers,​and​film​criticism​
around​light​and​shadow,​to​use​the​film​scholar​Miriam​Hansen’s​terms.13
​ This​book​is​a​recasting​of​Japanese​film​history​through​the​trope​of​
light​and​shadow.14​Lighting​has​played​a​significant​role​not​only​in​distin-
guishing​the​styles​of​Japanese​film​from​those​of​American​and​European​
film,​but​also​in​identifying,​or​inventing,​a​coherent​Japanese​cultural​tra-
dition.​Implicitly​or​explicitly,​such​questions​as​what is Japanese cinema?,​
what roles should cinema play in Japanese society?,​and​what is Japanese?​have​
been​examined​in​the​practice​and​discourse​of​lighting​techniques​and​
technologies.​How​could​the​light​and​lighting​be​used​as​a​lens​for​insight​
into​Japanese​identity?​How​were​cinematography​and​lighting​practiced,​

4  introDuction
conceptualized,​and​theorized​in​the​heterogeneous​fields​of​Japanese​film?​
I​argue​that​lighting​technology​in​cinema​has​been​structured​by​the​con-
flicts​ of​ modernity​ in​ Japan,​ including​ the​ struggles​ over​ how​ to​ define​
cinema,​subjectivity,​and​nationhood.15
​ I​discuss​the​unique​history​of​Japanese​cinema​but​I​do​not​presup-
pose​an​ahistorically​unified​Japaneseness.​Influenced​by​structuralist​and​
poststructuralist​theory,​the​film​theorist​Noël​Burch​insists​on​“the​Japa-
nese​difference,​in​both​Heian​literature​and​modern​film​practice.”16​Even​
though​Burch​emphasizes​the​“presence of the context”​in​Japanese​cultural​
production,​what​he​seems​to​suggest​is​the​presence​of​the​historically​
unchanging​tradition​of​intertextuality,​ in​which​texts​do​not​hide​their​
reference​to​other​texts.17​According​to​Burch,​Japanese​cinema​is​“presen-
tational”​because​ it​relies​on​Japanese​ tradition,​ the​fundamental​ Other​
to​that​of​the​West,​while​the​Western​counterpart​has​“representational”​
conventions,​in​which​the​process​of​cultural​production​is​supposed​to​be​
hidden.18​There​is​no​doubt​that​Japanese​cinema​is​intertextual.​Lighting​is​
clear​evidence​of​this,​especially​when​Shochiku,​one​of​the​major​film​com-
panies,​standardized​its​product​at​its​film​studio​and​referred​to​Kabuki-​
style​lighting.​However,​that​was​not​the​result​of​an​unchanging​presence​
of​Japanese​tradition​but​rather​of​a​socioeconomic​choice​made​for​local​
needs—invention​ of​ tradition​ in​ the​ process​ of​ modernization.​ When​ I​
argue​that​a​certain​cinematic​style​was​deployed​in​a​Japanese​manner,​I​
make​the​case​within​the​historical​context​of​Japanese​​modernity.
​ Even​though​the​focus​of​this​book​is​on​Japanese​cinema,​I​situate​Japa-
nese​cinema​within​the​broader​fields​of​transnational​film​history.​Taka-
mura​Kurataro,​the​former​head​of​the​Nipponese​Society​for​Cinematog-
raphers,​once​wrote​that​the​essence​of​filmmaking​was​“how​to​control​
broad​and​diverse​technological​maneuvers​from​photographing​(stabiliz-
ing​light​from​lenses​onto​films)​to​projection​(exhibiting​images​recorded​
on​film​onto​screens​by​using​lights).”19​Takamura’s​claim​indicates​that​
technological​and​artistic​“maneuvers”​of​light​do​not​presuppose​any​cul-
tural​or​national​conflict​in​nature.​Experiments​with​technological​lighting​
in​cinema​should​be​located​within​the​transnational​discursive​and​prac-
tical​network​of​a​preoccupation​with​and​representation​of​technological​
modernity.
​ At​the​same​time,​in​Japanese​reality,​cinematic​lighting​has​historically​
been​stabilized​and​exhibited​in​close​relation​to​Japan’s​cultural​and​na-

What​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW?  5
tional​identity​politics.20​Japanese​filmmaking​has​been​an​international​af-
fair.​After​1897,​when​Konishi​Camera​Store​purchased​a​Baxter​and​Wray​
camera​from​the​United​Kingdom​and​Asano​Shiro​became​the​first​Japa-
nese​cinematographer​who​used​the​camera​and​photographed​landscapes​
of​Nihonbashi​and​Asakusa​of​Tokyo,​Japanese​film​companies​imported​
most​ of​ the​ cameras,​ lighting​ equipment,​ projectors,​ and​ raw​ film​ from​
Europe​and​the​United​States.21​All​of​those​imported​materials​were​con-
tinuously​in​short​supply.​In​1919,​the​pioneer​cinematographer​Edamasa​
Yoshiro​ insisted,​ “Both​ directors​ and​ cinematographers​ know​ very​ well​
that​it​is​impossible​to​have​good​results​in​filmmaking​with​weak​beams​of​
light.​.​.​.​[However,]​currently,​equipment​for​using​artificial​lighting​is​not​
complete.​We​cannot​help​depending​only​on​the​sunlight.​It​is​the​most​
urgent​issue​for​us​to​have​proper​equipment​for​artificial​lighting.”22
​ There​has​historically​been​an​unequal​geopolitical​relationship,​or​an​
imbalance​ of​ power,​ between​ Japan​ and​ the​ United​ States.​ There​ is​ no​
doubt​that​Hollywood​has​played​a​ubiquitous​role​in​the​development​
of​lighting​technology​in​Japan.​Yet​the​relationship​between​Hollywood​
and​ Japanese​ cinema​ has​ not​ simply​ been​ a​ binary​ opposition​ between​
the​ production​ and​ distribution​ center​ and​ periphery,​ between​ cultural​
dominance​and​resistance,​or​between​global​and​local.​The​film​scholar​
David​Bordwell​claims​that​all​the​world’s​mass-​market​cinemas​might​have​
been​based​on​the​standard​continuity​style​pioneered​by​classical​Holly-
wood,​ as​ the​ ground​ against​ which​ the​ stylistic​ accomplishments​ of​ in-
digenous​filmmakers​can​be​analyzed.23​But,​as​Miriam​Hansen​suggests,​
that​does​not​make​the​world’s​mass-​market​cinemas​“simply​variants​of​a​
dominant​style.”24​Hansen​argues,​“If​filmmakers​in​China​and​Japan​con-
fronted​Hollywood​hegemony​in​both​its​enabling​and​destructive​effects,​
their​efforts​to​forge​idioms​of​their​own​were​crucially​inflected​by​a​larger​
vernacular-​modernist​culture​at once​cosmopolitan​and​local.”25
​ Bearing​in​mind​such​tension​in​the​geopolitical​perspective​between​
a​transnationality​and​a​nationality,​I​draw​on​the​historian​Harry​Haroo-
tunian’s​concept​of​“co-​eval​modernity,”​which​suggests​the​narrative​of​
modernity​in​Japan​to​be​“contemporaneity​yet​the​possibility​of​differ-
ence,”​without​ignoring​the​complex​global​power​relations.26​Harootunian​
regards​a​“doubling”​as​“a​unique​emblem​of​Japan’s​modern​experience”;​
fascination​with​the​new​uncertainty​and​fixation​of​such​temporality​and​
resistance​to​the​culture​of​capitalism;​or​“the​recognition​of​a​vast​field​

6  introDuction
of​economic​and​cultural​unevenness​that​it​[doubling]​sought​to​resolve,​
overcome,​ and​ even​ repress.”27​ Following​ Harootunian’s​ idea​ of​ a​ dou-
bling,​this​book​regards​the​idea​of​Japanese​modernity​as​fragmentary​and​
provisional,​in​which​kindaishugi​(the​ideology​of​modernization,​industri-
alization,​rationalization,​and​scientific​progress,​modeled​upon​the​West)​
and​modanizumu​(discourses​of​newness​in​everyday​life​and​materials​of​
consumer​culture)​existed​in​an​ambivalent​manner.
​ The​ aesthetics​ of​ shadow​ emerged​ in​ a​ process​ of​ transnational​ and​
cross-​cultural​ negotiation​ in​ Japanese​ modernity.​ When​ I​ use​ the​ term​
negotiation,​I​have​Stuart​Hall’s​influential​essay​“Encoding/Decoding”​in​
mind.​Hall​proposes​three​decoding​strategies​in​practices​of​reading​and​
making​sense​of​cultural​texts.28​Negotiated​reading​is​more​ambivalent​
than​dominant​reading,​which​would​presume​no​active​intervention​at​all​
on​the​part​of​the​decoder,​or​oppositional​reading,​which​would​assume​no​
identification​at​all​with​the​structures​of​interpellation​of​the​text.​As​the​
film​scholar​Judith​Mayne​suggests,​while​the​model​of​negotiation​“posits​
both​the​activity​of​the​reader/viewer​and​the​heterogeneity​of​the​differ-
ent​elements​of​social​formations”​and​“conceives​of​a​variety​of​reading,”​
there​is​“a​tendency”​in​cultural​studies​of​regarding​such​heterogeneity​
and​activity​as​an​indication​of​“a​resistance​to​dominant​ideology.”29​Such​
a​tendency​eventually​maintains​the​binary​structure​between​the​domi-
nant​versus​the​oppositional.​I​do​not​consider​the​notion​of​negotiation​
to​be​a​form​of​resistance.​I​am​more​concerned​about​historically​spe-
cific​struggles​and​conflicts​among​groups​of​people.​Some​of​them​could​
be​in​politically​or​economically​dominant​positions​and​others​in​recep-
tive​ones,​but​such​relationships​were​by​no​means​unchanging.​An​audi-
ence​of​a​popular​star​could​be​extremely​passive​to​the​presumed​ideal​
of​capitalist​ideology​and​tremendously​active​at​the​same​time.​Such​an​
audience​ could​ be​ cooperative​ in​ reinforcing​ the​dominant​ ideology​ by​
not​passively​but​consciously​participating​in​the​construction​of​the​star’s​
official​ image.​ Simultaneously,​ his​ or​ her​ perception—or​ the​ affect—of​
the​onscreen​image​of​the​star​was​direct​and​physical​and​diminished​the​
distance​between​the​actor​and​himself​or​herself.​To​me,​the​notion​of​
negotiation​grasps​such​simultaneity,​coexistence,​and​dialogism​without​
ignoring​the​power​relations—global​power​relations—among​groups​of​
people.​Negotiation​is​not​limited​to​the​issue​of​spectatorial​positions​but​
those​of​industrial​production,​social​criticism,​and​cultural​tradition.

What​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW?  7
​ With​such​a​notion​of​negotiation​in​mind,​I​describe​the​historical​pro-
cess​of​how​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​has​been​invented,​developed,​natu-
ralized,​and​publicized​in​the​discourse​of​modernity​in​Japan.​My​focus​
on​lighting​technologies​and​techniques​in​the​history​of​Japanese​cinema​
illustrates​the​following:
​ 1.​The​struggles​over​the​definition​of​cinema​for​the​masses,​within​the​
capitalist-​industrial​modernization​of​Shochiku,​between​the​classical​
style​of​Kabuki​and​Hollywood.
​ 2.​The​conflicts​in​shaping​new​(especially​female)​spectatorial​subjec-
tivity​within​that​capitalist-​industrial​modernity,​along​with​the​emer-
gence​of​a​new​genre​of​period​drama,​and​a​new​star,​arguably​the​
most​ popular​ star​ in​ Japanese​ film​ history,​ Hayashi​ Chojiro​ (later​
Hasegawa​Kazuo),​whose​films​were​a​specifically​sensorial-​affective​
form.
​ 3.​The​ambivalent​relationship​between​the​new​forms​of​social​rela-
tions—primacy​of​vision,​to​be​specific—and​cinema​as​a​new​visual​
medium.
​ 4.​The​attempt​of​conceptualizing​cultural​authenticity​in​the​struggles​
between​ the​ ceaseless​ fascination​ with​ the​ novel​ technologies​ of​
Hollywood​lighting​and​the​defense​of​cultural​spirit​(bunka seishin).
Chapter​1​is​a​historical​analysis​of​the​formation​of​the​film​industry​and​
mode​of​production​from​1910​through​the​1920s​from​the​perspective​of​
light.​As​a​result​of​World​War​I,​Japan​was​transformed​into​an​indus-
trial​ power.​ Especially​ during​ the​ reconstruction​ from​ the​ Great​ Kanto​
Earthquake​of​1923,​Tokyo​became​a​large​industrial​center,​recruiting​its​
labor​force​from​the​countryside,​as​well​as​center​of​mass​consumption.​
Shochiku,​the​company​that​originally​owned​and​operated​Kabuki​the-
aters,​entered​the​film​business​in​1920​and​established​itself​in​the​midst​
of​such​developing​modern​life.​The​protagonist​of​this​chapter​is​cine-
matographer​Henry​Kotani,​who​started​his​career​in​Hollywood​around​
1915​and​returned​to​Japan​to​join​Shochiku​Company’s​Kamata​studio​in​
1920​but​was​fired​a​few​years​later.​In​the​clash​of​lighting​techniques​be-
tween​Kotani​and​Shochiku,​we​can​observe​the​struggling​experience​of​
capitalist-​industrial​modernity​and​modernization​in​Japan.​I​argue​that​
lighting​was​conceived​by​Japanese​filmmakers​and​critics​in​relation​to​
Hollywood​cinema​and​Japanese​theatrical​conventions​during​the​forma-

8  introDuction
tive​years​of​the​film​industry.​The​key​terms​are​visibility​and​expressivity.​
Comparison​is​made​between​Kotani’s​still-​extant​Hollywood​and​Japa-
nese​works,​along​with​criticism​of​his​and​other​Japanese-​made​films​of​
the​period.​Comparison​between​Sternberg’s​Docks of New York​(1928)​and​
its​Japanese​adaptation,​First Step Ashore​(Joriku daiippo,​Shimazu​Yasu-
jiro,​1932)​demonstrates​that​Shochiku’s​filmmaking​priority​was​not​the​
expressivity​ of​ lighting,​ no​ matter​ how​ highly​ Sternberg’s​ lighting​ tech-
niques​were​regarded​by​Japanese​cinematographers​at​that​time.​Shochiku​
Kamata​films,​from​a​perspective​of​lighting,​achieved​dominant​status​in​
Japanese​filmmaking​during​the​period​of​modern​life​not​because​of​the​
imitation​of​Hollywood​but​because​of​the​capitalist​tactics​that​effectively​
combined​rationalized​production​processes,​the​star​system,​and​conven-
tionalized​theatrical​style.
​ Chapter​ 2​ historically​ combines​ genre​ studies,​ star​ studies,​ and​
spectatorship​studies​by​way​of​the​practice​of​lighting.​The​main​focuses​
are​on​jidaigeki​(period​drama),​the​unique​genre​of​Japanese​cinema​that​
was​rapidly​popularized​in​the​latter​half​of​the​1920s,​and​Hayashi​Chojiro,​
the​most​popular​male​star​in​Japan​from​the​late​1920s​until​the​1940s.​In​
the​late​1920s,​jidaigeki​challenged​the​prevailing​dominance​of​the​Sho-
chiku​Kamata​film​through​spectacular​sword-​fighting​scenes.​Jidaigeki​in-
corporated​lighting​and​technology​in​a​distinctive​manner.​The​flash​of​
the​sword​was​the​definitive​element​of​the​new​genre.​In​order​to​achieve​
the​flash​in​an​expressive​manner,​jidaigeki​mixed​Hollywood​style​with​an-
other​theatrical​convention​in​Japan,​shinkokugeki​(new​national​theater),​
which​was​notable​for​sword​fights​that​were​more​realistic​than​Kabuki.​In​
other​words,​a​localized​product​of​Hollywood​(Shochiku​Kamata​films)​
was​ challenged​ by​ another​ localized​ product​ of​ Hollywood​ (jidaigeki).​
Making​things​more​complicated,​Shochiku​challenged​back​at​jidaigeki​
with​ its​ brand​ new​ star,​ Hayashi​ Chojiro.​ Shochiku’s​ counterattack​ was​
achieved​by​its​own​innovative​lighting​techniques—“movable​light,”​ono-
bashi​(extension),​ and​nagashi-me​(sensual​sidelong​glance)—that​ were​
exclusively​ invented​ for​ Hayashi​ by​ craftily​ combining​ the​ Hollywood-​
style​ three-​point​ lighting​ with​ Kabuki​ techniques.​ With​ the​ flash​ of​ the​
star—his​face​and​eyes,​in​particular—Shochiku​eventually​won​the​fight​
against​the​flash​of​the​sword​and​succeeded​in​maintaining​its​financial​
and​stylistic​dominance​in​the​Japanese​film​industry​at​least​until​the​late​
1930s.​Moreover,​with​Hayashi’s​stardom,​a​film​fan​culture​that​targeted​

What​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW?  9
the​female​audience​was​born.​Hayashi’s​stardom​also​marked​the​emer-
gence​of​a​modern​viewing​subject​in​Japanese​cinema​who​actively​par-
ticipated​in​consuming​products​prepared​and​publicized​by​a​capitalist​
industry.​Hayashi​fans​were​physically​susceptible​to​the​effect​of​cinema​
as​a​modern​technology,​but​they​were​simultaneously​conscious​that​they​
were​consumers​of​the​star​image.
​ Through​ investigating​ the​ social​ demographics​ of​ the​ American​ city​
and​ the​ audiences​ of​ melodrama,​ the​ film​ historian​ Ben​ Singer​ shows​
that​ the​ urban​ working​ class​ and​ the​ white-​collar​ lower​ middle​ class—
both​products​of​modern​capitalism’s​great​bureaucratic​expansion—were​
the​ main​ participatory​ spectators​ and​ consumers​ of​ the​ “manufactured​
stimulus”​offered​by​sensational​amusements​such​as​melodrama​on​stage​
and​screen.30​Both​the​sword​fighting​in​jidaigeki​and​the​physicality​of​
Hayashi​Chojiro​offered​such​a​manufactured​stimulus.​Specific​lighting​
schemes​played​a​significant​role​in​both​cases​and​enhanced​sensation​of​
the​amusements.​While​visibility​was​crucial​to​the​construction​of​narra-
tive​clarity​and​brightness​in​the​dominant​mode​of​filmmaking​in​Japan​
in​the​early​decades​of​the​twentieth​century​and​was​standardized​in​Sho-
chiku​Kamata​films,​jidaigeki​emphasized​the​spectacular​visual​delight​of​
the​sword​in​motion.​If​the​sword​in​jidaigeki​amplified​the​discourse​of​
lighting​in​Japanese​cinema,​it​was​also​the​lighting​that​deprived​jidaigeki​
of​the​initial​shock.​Because​of​a​new​lighting​scheme,​jidaigeki​was​trans-
formed​into​a​glamorous​attraction​of​a​star—a​different​type​of​manufac-
tured​stimulus.​The​flash​of​the​sword​was​a​contested​field​in​the​Japanese​
film​culture​of​the​late​1920s.
​ Chapter​3​is​a​close​textual​analysis​of​two​critically​successful​films,​
which​I​call​“street​films,”​and​I​discuss​the​use​of​lighting​in​them​in​terms​
of​social​criticism​and​aesthetic​modernism.​One​is​Crossways​(Jujiro,​a.k.a.​
Crossroads​ and​ Shadows of the Yoshiwara),​ a​ jidaigeki​ film​ from​ 1928​ di-
rected​by​Kinugasa​Teinosuke,​and​the​other​is​That Night’s Wife​(Sono yo
no tsuma),​a​contemporary​crime​melodrama​from​1930​directed​by​Ozu​
Yasujiro.​Burch​highly​rates​That Night’s Wife​in​his​groundbreaking​work​
on​Japanese​cinema,​To the Distant Observer: Form and Meaning in the Japa-
nese Cinema​(1979),​as​“fascinating​evidence​of​the​impact​which​Ameri-
can​films​and​Western​culture​had,​not​only​upon​Ozu​but​upon​a​sizable​
portion​of​the​Japanese​middle​and​lower​middle​classes.”31​Crossways​has​
often​been​regarded​as​an​imitation​of​German​expressionist​film.​Yet​by​

10  introDuction
closely​examining​lighting​in​these​two​films,​this​chapter​focuses​less​on​
explication​of​the​relation​of​influence​or​impact​between​East​and​West​
and​more​on​the​depiction​of​what​the​literary​critic​Thomas​LaMarre​calls​
the​“cinematic​materiality”​that​is​“dynamic.”32​LaMarre​has​raised​insight-
ful​questions​regarding​this​dichotomy​between​Japan​and​the​West:​“Does​
the​use​of​a​Western​form​or​medium​(cinema)​in​Japan​force​Japan​into​
Western​development​and​history?​Or​do​Japanese​traditions​transform​
Western​cinema?​Does​cinema​‘westernize’​Japan,​or​does​Japan​‘japan-
ify’​cinema?”​LaMarre​argues​that​the​problem​with​such​questions​is​that​
they​suppose​an​insurmountable​contradiction​or​incommensurable​dif-
ference​ between​ Westernization​ and​ “Japanization.”33​ According​ to​ La-
Marre,​though,​modernity,​“as​the​condensation​of​a​number​of​different​
processes​and​histories,​is​not​a​linear​process​within​the​West​or​in​rela-
tion​to​the​West.”34​LaMarre​argues​that​the​dynamic​materiality​of​cinema​
can​ open​ up​ new​ and​ constantly​ divergent​ “unperceived​ modes​ of​ sen-
sory​perception​and​experience,​thereby​suggesting​a​different​organiza-
tion​of​daily​life.”35​The​materiality​enhanced​by​the​lighting​in​Crossways​
and​That Night’s Wife​deviates​from​the​simple​dichotomy​of​East/West​
or​the​geopolitical​hierarchy​and​structural​hegemony​of​center/periphery​
and​places​itself​in​the​sensory​network​of​global​film​culture.​In​particu-
lar,​these​two​films​are​representatives​of​the​coevally​modern​phenome-
non​of​street​films,​in​which​the​city​is​the​protagonist​that​captures​the​
rhythms​and​tone​of​modern​life:​cinema​revisualizes​the​modern​techno-
logical​world.36​My​textual​analysis​is​less​in​an​interpretive​manner​of​a​
narrative​structure​and​more​in​a​closely​observatory​way​to​capture​subtle​
nuances​and​functions​of​light​and​shadow.​Lighting​in​these​street​films​
offers​insightful​visions​into​the​reconfigurations​of​urban​space,​the​effect​
of​sociopolitical​and​socioeconomic​power​relations,​and​the​discourse​on​
the​sense​of​vision​from​the​late​1920s​to​early​1930s.​In​this​manner,​despite​
being​produced​within​Shochiku’s​commercial​strategy,​these​two​films​in-
ternally​challenged,​or​diversified,​the​dominant​modes​of​film​production​
that​corresponded​to​the​company’s​slogan,​“Bright​and​cheerful​Shochiku​
cinema.”
​ Chapter​4​is​a​comprehensive​discourse​analysis​on​cinematic​lighting​
from​the​late​1930s​to​1945.​A​“discursive​history​of​cinema”​is​proposed​by​
the​film​scholar​Aaron​Gerow.37​In​his​proposal,​Gerow​asks​these​ques-
tions:​“Who​spoke,​and​with​what​authority?​Where​or​in​what​socioeco-

What​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW?  11
nomic​conditions​was​cinematic​discourse​being​spoken,​and​to​whom​was​
it​directed?​What​relations​of​power​were​imbricated​in​the​relations​be-
tween​discourses?​What​were​statements​being​made​against,​ and​what​
was​their​concrete​political​import?​What​was​assumed​or​left​unsaid​in​
these​enunciations?​How​were​they​articulating​not​just​cinema​but​also​
those​whom​discourse​was​speaking​of​and​the​modern​culture​they​inhab-
ited?”38​Dealing​with​most​of​these​questions,​I​focus​on​how​and​why​the​
aesthetics​of​shadow,​arguably​the​most​significant​manifestation​on​light-
ing​in​Japanese​cinema,​emerged​in​the​late​1930s​to​1940s.​In​these​peri-
ods​we​can​observe​an​obvious​change​in​the​appearance​of​popular​films,​
most​notably​in​the​star​vehicles​of​Hasegawa​Kazuo​(formerly​known​as​
Hayashi​Chojiro)​produced​at​the​newly​established​Toho​studio​and​in​the​
criticism​on​cinematic​lighting​in​film​magazines.
​ In​the​mid-​to​late​1930s,​Japanese​aesthetics​was​widely​discussed​in​the​
context​of​Japanese​imperialist​war​efforts.​The​aesthetics​of​shadow,​which​
appreciated​darkness​in​Japanese​architecture​and​landscape​in​opposition​
to​electricity​and​bright​lighting​in​Western​culture,​emerged​within​this​
trend.​Filmmakers​and​critics​started​to​discuss​a​shift​to​realism​and​the​
integration​of​a​documentary​style​in​cinematography.​However,​I​argue​
that​the​emergence​of​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​was​in​fact​an​embodiment​
of​an​ambivalent​attitude​toward​technologies​of​cinema.​It​was​a​compli-
cated​mix​of​adoration​of​the​Hollywood-​style​low-​key​lighting​and​despair​
about​the​limited​material​conditions​in​Japan.​It​was​an​attempt​to​justify​
the​conflict​in​the​name​of​documentary​and​Japanese​cultural​tradition​
under​certain​historical​and​material​conditions.​Using​the​lens​of​lighting​
and​technology,​I​bring​out​a​new​light​on​the​historical​discourses​on​Japa-
nese​aesthetics​and​the​invention​of​Japanese​cultural​tradition.
​ The​film​historian​Abé​Mark​Nornes​describes​the​contradictory​con-
ditions​in​Japanese​society​and​cinema​of​this​period.​On​one​hand,​the​
“gradual​militarization​of​film​culture​is​undeniable,”​given​that​cinema​is​
such​a​capital-​intensive​and​collaborative​form​of​art.39​On​the​other​hand,​
Nornes​suggests,​“all​the​way​up​to​World​War​II,​one​can​find​plenty​of​
jazzy,​colorful​advertisements​for​Hollywood​films​next​to​deadly​serious​
celebrations​of​war​heroics​[on​the​pages​of​film​magazines].​Examined​
from​ this​ perspective,​ this​ so-​called​ dark​ valley​ in​ Japanese​ history​ was​
also​an​exciting​time​for​filmmaking​that​had​more​to​do​with​the​thrill​of​
modernity​than​with​the​war​in​China.”40​The​discursive​tendency​of​the​

12  introDuction
aesthetics​of​shadow​was​meant​to​synthesize​these​apparently​contradic-
tory​trends.​The​ostensible​goal​was​to​highly​value​the​Japanese​spirit​that​
should​be​represented​in​Japanese​aesthetics.​Yet​the​hidden​motive​behind​
that​goal​was​a​desperate​search​for​ways​to​overcome​material​and​techno-
logical​limitations​and​to​accomplish​spectacles​that​would​equal​the​glam-
our​of​Hollywood​cinema—in​a​different​but​equally​gripping​manner.​If​I​
use​LaMarre’s​terms,​this​was​“a​form​of​colonial​ambivalence,​a​structure​
of​disavowal​and​displacement,​which​entails​a​repeating,​reprising,​or​re-
directing​of​Western​hierarchies​based​on​whiteness,​sex​appeal,​and​in-
dustriousness.”41​Such​terms​as​the attraction of blackness​or​beauty of dark-
ness​were​invented​and​conceptualized​in​close​relation​to​documentary​
and​realism​to​conceal​but​simultaneously​imply​the​aspiration​for​more​
glamour.​Compared​to​the​key​terms​of​chapter​1,​which​are​visibility​versus​
expressivity,​those​in​this​chapter​would​be​invisibility​equals​expressivity.
​ As​a​case​study​of​such​an​ambivalently​dialogic​relationship​between​
Hollywood​and​Japan,​I​closely​analyze​the​work​of​the​cinematographer​
Harry​Mimura,​a​former​colleague​of​the​cinematographer​Gregg​Toland​
in​ Hollywood.​ I​ conduct​ comparative​ analyses​ of​ films​ and​ discourses​
on​lighting,​not​presupposing​the​binary​contrasts​between​Western​and​
non-​Western​ cinema​ or​ the​ Hollywood​ dominant—because​ I​ believe​
it​is​impossible​to​distinguish​them​clearly​in​any​way—but​to​examine​
the​conditions​of​Japanese​cinema​that​were​rife​with​what​Gerow​calls​
“contradictions”​and​“crisscrossed​by​transnational​vectors.”42
​ This​book​concludes​with​an​auteurist​analysis,​but​with​a​little​twist.​I​
do​not​concentrate​on​the​work​of​a​great​director​but​that​of​a​cinematog-
rapher,​one​who​worked​with​such​famous​directors​as​Kurosawa​Akira,​
Mizoguchi​Kenji,​and​Ozu​Yasujiro,​who​have​been​regarded​as​auteurs​by​
critics​and​historians.​This​chapter​is​a​challenge​to​the​entrenched​model​
of​the​canonized​auteur,​or​master​director,​especially​prevalent​in​Japanese​
film​studies.43​Most​academic​works​on​Japanese​cinema​have​focused​on​
either​a​historical​survey​of​popular​films​or​canonized​auteur​directors.​
The​assumption​of​auteur​theory​is​that​films​directed​by​a​particular​auteur​
can​be​analyzed​to​uncover​recurrent​themes​and​aesthetic​patterns​that​
demonstrate​the​cohesion​of​his​or​her​vision​of​the​world.​This​approach​
is​insufficient​to​address​filmmaking.​What​is​most​lacking​in​existing​aca-
demic​works​on​Japanese​films​is​a​perspective​that​considers​films​to​be​
the​products​of​collaboration​that​exist​beyond​auteur​directors’​authority.​

What​is​the​aesthetics​of​shaDoW?  13
There​are​technicians​behind​the​camera​in​addition​to​the​directors.​I​dis-
cuss​the​films​of​famous​directors​such​as​Kurosawa,​Mizoguchi,​Ichikawa​
Kon,​and​Masumura​Yasuzo,​but​my​emphasis​is​not​upon​discovering​or​
reaffirming​the​coherence​of​their​work;​rather,​I​indicate​the​collaborative​
nature​of​cinema​and​the​industrial​structure​that​defines​it.
​ The​focus​of​this​concluding​chapter​is​on​the​conflicts​and​negotia-
tions​between​the​trend​that​attempted​to​naturalize​the​discourse​of​the​
aesthetics​ of​ shadow​ as​ the​ essence​ of​ Japanese​ culture​ to​ suit​ the​ new​
sociopolitical​and​socioeconomic​ends​of​Japan​in​the​post–World​War​II​
period​and​the​filmmakers​who​challenged​such​a​trend​by​critically​engag-
ing​with​the​practice​of​lighting.​The​protagonist​is​the​cinematographer​
Miyagawa​Kazuo,​whose​works,​such​as​Rashomon​(Kurosawa,​1950)​and​
Ugetsu​(Ugetsu monogatari,​Mizoguchi,​1953),​continuously​received​inter-
national​prizes.​Obviously,​Miyagawa​was​an​active​agency​in​inventing​tra-
ditions​and​reimagining​the​aesthetics​of​shadow​as​the​Japanese​aesthetic​
in​the​postwar​period.​But​at​the​same​time,​Miyagawa’s​work,​especially​its​
hyperbolic​focus​on​the​contrasts​between​light​and​shadow​and​the​clarity​
of​images​in​deep​focus,​was​not​easily​contained​within​such​a​discourse​of​
Japanese​beauty.​Being​attentive​to​both​the​history​of​lighting​techniques​
and​the​innovation​of​lighting​technology​in​and​outside​Japan,​Miyagawa’s​
cinematography​diversified​the​meaning​of​realism​in​cinema.

14  introDuction
n ot e s

Introduction
All​translations​of​Japanese​books,​leaflets,​and​newspaper​and​magazine​articles​in​this​
book​are​by​me​unless​otherwise​noted.​I​have​preserved​Japanese​name​order,​which​
places​the​family​name​first​(e.g.,​Ono​Shichiro),​except​for​famous​persons​and​schol-
ars​based​in​the​United​States​who​are​commonly​referred​to​by​their​given​names​first​
(e.g.,​Sessue​Hayakawa).​I​do​not​use​macrons​for​Japanese​transliterated​texts.
​ 1.​Yoshino,​“‘Inei​raisan’​ni​yosete​II,”​15.​Eiga Shomei​is​a​journal​for​the​Japanese​
Association​of​Film​Lighting​Technicians​(Nihon​Eiga​Shomei​Gijutsusha​Kyo-
kai).
​ 2.​Guerin,​A Culture of Light,​xiii.
​ 3.​Tanizaki,​In Praise of Shadows,​32–33.
​ 4.​Midorikawa,​“Kameraman​no​seikatsu​to​kyoyo,”​65.
​ 5.​Ota​Saburo,​“Kuro​no​gaika,”​102–3.
​ 6.​Shimazaki,​“Nihon​no​eiga​gijutsu​hatten​ni​hatashita​Tsuburaya​Eiji​no​yakuwari,”​
38;​Watanabe,​Eizo o horu,​60;​Kawatani,​Mato o kakenuketa ototko,​14–15,​38–41.​
There​ are​ different​ versions​ of​ Makino’s​ words.​ According​ to​ some​ sources,​
“story”​precedes​“clarity.”​According​to​Joanne​Bernardi,​Takizawa​Osamu,​who​
knew​Makino​Shozo​personally,​supports​this​version​(Bernardi,​Writing in Light,​
301).​The​cinematographer​Morita​Fujio​claims​that​it​was​originally​“clarity​first”​
but​was​changed​to​“story​first”​later​(Morita,​“Nihon​eiga​no​jidaigeki​saho​dai​3​
kai,”​71).​Even​if​it​had​been​“clarity​second,”​the​fact​that​Makino​emphasized​the​
importance​of​lighting​in​cinema​stays​the​same.
​ 7.​Mizuta,​“Luminous​Environment,”​342.
​ 8.​Ono,​“Sutanbagu​o​tsuiseki​suru,”​44.​For​Sternberg,​this​voyage​to​Japan​was​the​
first​leg​of​a​lone​westward​cruise​to​Asia​after​his​heartbreaking​experiences​in​
Hollywood.​The​Vienna-​born​filmmaker,​who​had​made​a​star​of​Marlene​Diet-
rich​in​Hollywood,​had​been​fired​by​Paramount​after​both​critical​and​box​office​
failures​of​The Scarlet Empress​(1934)​and​The Devil Is a Woman​(1935).​The​latter​
became​the​last​film​that​Sternberg​and​Dietrich​worked​on​together​(Baxter,​Von
Sternberg,​ 202–3).​ Arguably,​ the​ experience​ in​ Japan​ revived​ Sternberg’s​ confi-
 dence​in​his​theory​of​cinema.​Even​though​Sternberg​did​not​talk​particularly​
about​Japan​and​lighting,​he​noted​in​one​interview​his​realization​after​the​trip:​
“My​ideas​about​the​cinema​became​more​precise​in​the​light​of​my​experiences.​
I​was​tired​of​seeing​studio​opposition​to​any​creative​ideas​of​the​cinéaste​at​the​
different​stages​of​its​expression.​Whereas​a​painter​uses​his​brushes,​canvas​and​
colors,​following​only​the​bent​of​his​imagination,​the​film​director​has​to​consider​
other​men​and​human​material.​After​a​trip​around​the​world,​I​wanted​to​work​
according​to​certain​principles;​for​instance,​that​we​should​be​concerned​to​cre-
ate​expressive​effects​achieved​in​literature—and​I​hoped​to​work​with​more​free-
dom”​(Weinberg,​Josef von Sternberg,​125).
​ 9.​Sternberg,​Fun in a Chinese Laundry,​311–12.
​ 10.​Miura​Mitsuo,​“Cameraman​no​Cameraman​hihyo,”​82;​Miura​Mitsuo,​“Horiuddo​
kara,”​41.
​ 11.​Takii,​“Mitchell​Noiseless,”​79.
​ 12.​Ibid.
​ 13.​Hansen,​“Vernacular​Modernism,”​305.
​ 14.​The​prevalence​of​shadows​produced​by​the​nonmimetic​mise-​en-​scène​and​by​
artificial​lighting​was​recognized​by​such​historians​and​theorists​as​Lotte​Eisner​
and​Siegfried​Kracauer​in​a​different​historical​context​(see​Eisner,​The Haunted
Screen;​Kracauer,​From Caligari to Hitler).​Both​Eisner​and​Kracauer​see​shadow​
in​the​films​of​the​early​German​studios​as​a​visual​metaphor​for​evil​or​for​the​
dark​and​threatening​forces​that​allegedly​lurked​in​the​pre-​Hitler​German​psyche​
or​soul.​My​book​also​regards​the​cinematic​shadow’s​significance​as​“an​‘other’​
reality​that​must​be​perceived​for​the​sake​of​existential​security​or​psychic​sta-
bility”​and​then​suggests​another​function​of​it​as​a​“modernist​narrative​device”​
that​enables​a​communicative​relationship​between​filmmaker​and​viewer​regard-
ing​ “a​ simultaneity​ of​ multiple​ narrative,​ a​ diegetic​ complexity”​ (see​ Franklin,​
“Metamorphosis​of​a​Metaphor,”​178–79).​Yet​the​major​focus​of​Eisner​and​Kra-
cauer​seemed​to​be​the​narrational​functions​of​the​cinematic​shadow,​whether​as​
a​means​of​metaphor​or​of​communication.​What​about​the​lighting​technologies​
and​the​people​who​dealt​with​such​technologies​behind​the​cinematic​shadow​on​
the​screen?​How​were​such​technologies​discussed​in​contemporary​criticism?
​ 15.​Regarding​ definitions​ of​ the​ terms​ modernity,​ modernism,​ and​ modernization,​ I​
basically​draw​on​the​film​historian​Aaron​Gerow’s​usage.​Modernity​is​“the​state​
of​being​new”​on​the​material​level;​modernism​is​the​heterogeneous​but​intercon-
nected​“set​of​discourses​attempting​to​shape​a​particular​vision​of​modernity,”​
often​characterized​by​self-​reflexivity​and​rebellion​against​bourgeois​values;​and​
modernization​is​a​process​“in​a​field​of​struggle​where​there​are​not​only​other​
competing​modernisms​.​.​.​but​also​complex​traversing​forces​of​power​and​his-
torical​contingencies”​(Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​34–35).
​ 16.​Burch,​To the Distant Observer,​49;​emphasis​in​the​original.
​ 17.​Ibid.;​emphasis​in​the​original.
​ 18.​Ibid.,​71–72.
​ 19.​Takamura,​Satsuei kantoku Takamura Kurataro,​386.
​ 20.​I​try​not​to​subscribe​to​technological​determinism,​no​matter​how​significant​
the​impact​that​material​conditions​had​upon​the​emergence​of​the​aesthetics​of​

284  notes​to​introDuction
 shadow.​Instead​my​focus​is​to​carefully​delineate​the​competing​discourses​and​
practices​that​cinematographers​and​critics​were​subject​to​when​facing​certain​
material​conditions.
​ 21.​Gijutsu​ shi​ Iinkai,​ “Yunyu​ dai​ 1​ go​ no​ kamera​ wa​ bakkusuta​ ando​ rei,”​ 69–72;​
Tanaka​Junichiro,​Nihon eiga hattatsu shi I,​70.
​ 22.​Edamasa,​“Naze​waga​kuni​ni​yuryo​eiga​umarezaruka,”​107.​Edamasa​started​his​
career​as​a​cinematographer​when​Yoshizawa​Shoten,​one​of​the​oldest​film​com-
panies​in​Japan,​constructed​the​first​glass​stage​in​Japan.
​ 23.​Bordwell,​“Visual​Style​in​Japanese​Cinema,​1925–1945,”​7,​23.
​ 24.​Hansen,​“Vernacular​Modernism,”​291.
​ 25.​Ibid.;​emphasis​added.
​ 26.​Harootunian,​Overcome by Modernity,​xvi–vii.
​ 27.​Ibid.,​xvii,​xxi;​emphasis​in​the​original.
​ 28.​Stuart​Hall,​“Encoding/Decoding,”​128–38.
​ 29.​See​Mayne,​Cinema and Spectatorship,​92–93.
​ 30.​Singer,​Melodrama and Modernity,​91.​See​also​Zhang,​An Amorous History of the
Silver Screen,​9.
​ 31.​Burch,​To the Distant Observer,​154.
​ 32.​LaMarre,​Shadows on the Screen,​82.
​ 33.​Ibid.,​80.
​ 34.​Ibid.,​19.
​ 35.​Ibid.,​83.
​ 36.​Guerin,​A Culture of Light,​xviii,​170.
​ 37.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​3.
​ 38.​Ibid.,​4.
​ 39.​Nornes,​Japanese Documentary Film,​xvii,​xx.
​ 40.​Ibid.,​xxi.
​ 41.​LaMarre,​Shadows on the Screen,​14.
​ 42.​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​13.
​ 43.​Nornes,​Japanese Documentary Film,​xviii;​Gerow,​Visions of Japanese Modernity,​
3.

1. lighting and modernity

​ 1.​Ushihara,​“Kamata​no​koro,”​21.
​ 2.​Shirai​Shigeru,​Kamera to jinsei,​25.
​ 3.​Miura,​“Kiseki,”​42.
​ 4.​Otani​Takejiro,​“Shochiku​kinema​sosetsu​ni​tsuite”​[On​establishing​Shochiku​
cinema],​Engei Gaho,​May​1920,​quoted​in​Tanaka​Junichiro,​Shochiku shichijunen
shi,​239.
​ 5.​Quoted​in​Wakiya,​Otani Takejiro engeki rokuju nen,​208.​Otani​also​mentioned​the​
number​of​reels​that​the​U.S.​film​industry​exported​every​month​(eight​million)​
and​the​amount​of​income​taxes​paid​by​those​who​engaged​in​the​business​in​Los​
Angeles​(6.4​million​dollars).
​ 6.​Quoted​in​Hirai,​“Soko​Nihon​eiga​satsuei​shi​5,”​47.
​ 7.​Taguchi,​“Shochiku​Kinema​soritsu​hiwa​(5),”​95.
​ 8.​Bordwell,​Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema,​19.

notes​to​chapter​1  285
Da i su k e​ M i yao ​is​associate​professor​in​the​Department​
of​East​Asian​Languages​and​Literatures​at​the​University​of​
Oregon.​He​is​the​author​of​Sessue Hayakawa: Silent Cinema and
Transnational Stardom,​also​published​by​Duke​University​Press.

Library​of​Congress​Cataloging-​in-​Publication​Data
Miyao,​Daisuke.
The​aesthetics​of​shadow​:​lighting​and​Japanese​cinema​/​
Daisuke​Miyao.
p.​cm.
Includes​bibliographical​references​and​index.
isbn​978-​0-​8223-​5407-​9​(cloth​:​alk.​paper)
isbn​978-​0-​8223-​5422-​2​(pbk.​:​alk.​paper)
1.​Cinematography—Lighting. 2.​Cinematographers—Japan.​​
3.​Motion​picture​industry—Japan—History. 4.​Culture​in​
motion​pictures. I.​Title.
pn1993.5.j3M56​2013
777.092—dc23 2012033713