Between the golden era of the 1930s and his greater still platinum period of the 1950s, Kenji Mizoguchi's 1940s work has too often been overlooked. It's true that no absolute bona fide masterpiece was made in this period, but to dismiss the work would be extremely short-sighted. His 47 Ronin films, while not his best or most comfortable work, bear comparison to any other version of the tale, and Woman of the Night and The Loves of Sumako the Actress are both exquisite minor pieces in their own way. His two central works of the period, however, remain My Love Has Been Burning and this earlier film from 1946. It must be put in context here when the film was made. The Japanese studio system had been crippled not only by the war but by the occupation, and Mizoguchi himself had been so creatively stymied that there is a case for declaring Utamaro the first true Mizoguchi film of its decade. Utamaro is the most famous painter in Japan in the late 18th century. His talents as are unquestioned as his own belief in them, and he gives himself to them absolutely. His main interest is women -- as one such woman accurately observes, "he loves all women to catch their soul" -- while never himself giving more than his talent. He makes enemies both from inside the artistic hierarchy and from without, where many complain at his scouring brothels for courtesan subjects.
Like his earlier works with Izusu Yamada it concerns the plight of women, and yet they themselves are not the focal point. The central figure of the artist remains largely a cipher, and yet that in itself is deliberate. Writer Yoshikata Yoda subconsciously put a bit of Mizoguchi in his depiction of the artist, and Mizoguchi's fascination with women can be easily discerned in the character of Utamaro. He is in awe of them just as Utamaro is, not in a sexual way but aesthetically and of their inner spirit. At the same time, however, there's the analysis of the artist in society and of a genius appreciated by others who suddenly find themselves unworthy. It's a recognition that leads many to jealousy -- think Salieri and Mozart, for example -- but the moment of recognition, when an artist challenges Utamaro to a painter's duel, only for Utamaro to win by simply improving -- in his words, 'fixing' -- the deficits in his opponent's work, is one of the most shattering in film (one again recalls the moment in Amadeus when Mozart does an impromptu reworking of Salieri muttering "that doesn't really work, does it?").
Visually, as one might expect, it's astonishing, right from the opening shot, a dream-time slow-motion pan through a procession by blossom trees that is almost transcendental in itself. More eye-opening, however, is its sensuality. There's a studious rapture in Mizoguchi's framing of the women swimming in the sea watched by the smitten Utamaro. Better still there's the moment where Utamaro paints Tanaka's bare back, which surely qualifies as just about the most erotic moment in Mizoguchi's entire oeuvre, while also looking ahead retrospectively to Masumura (a Mizoguchi disciple) and his later Irezumi. Some might criticise the fact that the artist remains impenetrable, yet it's through his work and the effect he has on others that this is best ascertained. It also, in the depiction of period demimondes, looks ahead to his 1950s masterpieces. As Tony Rayns observed in Time Out, "in style, it's much like Mizoguchi's earlier work, but less emotional, more formalised, more mysterious, and a great deal more daring aesthetically."
