Humanity and Paper Balloons
I keep coming back to that street. Shabby and cramped, its people are almost living almost on top of one another. When Japanese society tamps down the poor and dispossessed, this is where they end up. The epicenter of Sadeo Yamanaka’s Humanity and Paper Balloons (1937) is this one little section of a poor tenement, and it is the jumping–off point for this wistful little tale of people trapped in a culture that is happy to just forget about them.
The first look we get in HaPB is of this street, and things are abuzz. The police are visiting, because one of the citizens, an elderly samurai, has hung himself. There is no explanation, and in fact, this sequence is more to give us a glimpse into the lives of the other people. The first thing that you notice is how cavalier they are to the fact that one of their neighbours has killed himself. Confined to their houses by the police, a couple of them grouse about how they can’t get out and go to work. One remarks “It rained yesterday – Why couldn’t he have done it then?” This insensitivity isn’t really meant to suggest callousness; it’s more, I think, to illustrate that everyone has their own problems, and if you get too hung up on others, you won’t survive. At one point, someone states that this was the third suicide on this lane, and that perhaps it is haunted. It’s easier to believe that than to know that you have no hope.
This opening sequence also introduces the central themes of the film, and that is the stratification of Japanese life, and the concept of personal honour. The man was a samurai, ostensibly a man who should command respect in his community. When one of his neighbours wonders why he didn’t use his sword instead of hanging himself, another notes that although the man carried a sword, it was only made of bamboo. Living in a poor neighborhood, and getting on in years, this man still insisted on maintaining the illusion of dignity, right up to the end.
The plight of that lonely old samurai informs the three plotlines that follow; Shinza, the cocky hairdresser who is in trouble with the mob over gambling; Unno, the unemployed ronin who is trying to connect with a wealthy samurai who was a former colleague of his father, and Okama, the daughter of a pawn shop owner, who has been promised as a bride to the son of a wealthy samurai. The three characters have one thing in common; they are all in a social situation that they can’t seem to escape.
Shinza is smart and nervy, but he betrays a troubling lack of judgement. During a wake held for the old samurai, he takes it upon himself to set up a gambling game. The problem is that the local mob is supposed to run all gambling in the district. Shinza knows this, and his plan is to do what he wants and hopefully stay one step ahead of mob boss Yatagaro. Yatagaro knows Shinza, knows what he is up to, and tries to use thinly veiled intimidation to keep him in line.
Unno, for his part, is the antithesis of Shinza. He is seen as aloof by the other villagers. He is deeply ashamed by his lowly stature, and prefers to avoid socializing with others. He is trying to deliver a letter from his dead father to Mori, a powerful local samurai lord. Mori is cordial to Unno’s face, but in private makes it clear that he has no intention of talking to the other man, even going so far as to suggest that if it takes beating him up, so be it.
The divisions conferred by class are never more apparent than they are in Unno’s case. His father was instrumental in Mori achieving the position he has, but the wealthy man now shuts Unno out, even after telling him to come to his house. Mori likes to present an outward veneer of dignity and kindness, but inwardly, he will never acknowledge that he owes a debt to the poor ronin. If you look closely at a scene where Unno confronts Mori during a rainstorm, you will see Mori wiping off the handle of his sword as Unno pleads with him. Not only is the wealthy man not going to listen, he is willing to kill the other if that’s what it takes.
For his part, Unno will not tell his wife that the samurai lord is shunning him, so he concocts a series of elaborate lies to cover his tracks. Unno is easily the most pitiful character in HaPB. His position is such that he should be a person of stature. His reality is that he is supported by his wife. In this regard, he is not far removed from the old samurai who committed suicide at the films beginning. Unno’s Hell is that he has nowhere he can go. He is ignored by Mori, and has to come home and tell his wife that everything is OK. Thus, he lives in a sadness that he has no real release from. When his wife says she is going to visit her sister, it’s not surprising that he suggests that she stay for several days. That would give him a short reprieve from lying.
Mori is also connected to the case of Okama, the beautiful daughter of the pawn-shop owner. She is slated to marry the son of a prominent lord, and Mori tells her father that the son of a samurai would never be able to marry the daughter of a merchant. His solution is to become the girl’s foster parent. This is not presented as a suggestion so much as a command, and there are several points in play here. The father welcomes the prestige of having his daughter marry into a wealthy family, and Mori gets added stature, as well. Okama, who is in love with a clerk at the store, dares not say anything. The clerk, for his part, will not rock the boat for fear of upsetting his boss. Everybody is locked into their role.
It is the unpredictable Shinza who blows the lid off the whole thing. Living with a constant threat of death, he makes the brazen decision to kidnap Okama, and hides her out with his neighbour Unno. Now Yatagaro can’t touch him because he needs the girl to be alive to avoid the wrath of Mori. The thing is, Shinza says he doesn’t want money for the girl; He wants Yatagaro to shave his head. Although this move is quite clearly suicidal, it drills right to the underlying message of HaPB – The real currency in this world isn’t money as much as stature. By humiliating the mob boss, Shinza grows in the eyes of the community.
From the start, the quietest, most inconspicuous member of this community has been Unno’s wife. Although he goes to great lengths to deceive her, she sees a lot. She tells him not to drink too much at one point, startling him. He thought she didn’t know that he went for a drink occasionally. Unno’s own undoing comes through her, and it is due to a couple of flukes. First, she walks up on some of the other women talking about Unno’s role in the kidnapping. One overheard line stands out: “I never thought Mr. Unno would get involved in something like that”. She takes this info in without comment, but a second deception from her husband is more damning. After being told that he has delivered the letter to Mori, she finds it in his clothing. Although she has never articulated her feelings about her social situation, these two betrayals by her husband represent the last straw for her – and him.
Yamanaka’s film comes down hard on Shinza and Unno, and at first glance would seem to suggest that they were crushed for not playing by the rules. In the case of Okama, however, the director offers a bit of hope. As the film closes, her pawn shop boyfriend finally comes to her with the offer to run away together. She suggested this to him earlier, and he refused. The forced marriage to the samurai’s son was what the system wanted, but this is what they want. The stray paper balloon that drifts away from Unno’s house in the film’s final frames is an apt metaphor for the plight of the young couple. They are free, yes, but where will the winds take them?
