Cyclical Narrative and the Circle in Seven Samurai

Another aspect of form seen in many of Kurosawa's pictures is that of the full circle, or the spiral, the return to the beginning with a difference, the cyclic. (1)

The circle, by its very nature, is a symbol of eternity and the return—of simultaneous destruction and re-creation—a geometric ouroboros. It is telling, then, that Akira Kurosawa should be so drawn to the circle as a model for narrative structure in his films, particularly in regards to Seven Samurai (1954), which is at once both his finest work and a perfectly realised treatise on the tragically cyclical nature of man's existence in the universe. The various layers of symbolic meaning that charge the image of the circle are quite clearly the same that charge Seven Samurai in regards to both its form and content.

As with Yojimbo (1961) and Sanjuro (1962), Seven Samurai is, on a purely referential level of story and plot, about samurai warriors saving peasants. These three films, each one an example of Kurosawa's continuing fascination with the jedai-geki tradition, follow an exceedingly straightforward narrative trajectory from 'peasants in peril' to 'peasants no longer in peril'. However, while the narratives of these pictures may appear straightforward in regards to the events that they depict (the saving of a village in Seven Samurai; the scourging of a village in Yojimbo; the rescuing of a chamberlain in Sanjuro), the same cannot be said for the characters who take part in them; the characters themselves will, one way or the other, almost always wind up back where they started, having come full circle during the course of the picture. Yojimbo makes this particularly explicit, with the renegade Sanjuro (Toshirô Mifune) arriving in town with a nonchalant attitude and leaving (after having butchered basically everyone) in pretty much the exact same fashion.

In Seven Samurai, however, the nonchalance of Yojimbo is nowhere to be found; indeed, the cyclical nature of human existence is in this film revealed by Kurosawa to be profoundly and essentially tragic. Nowhere is this made more explicit than in the final scene of the picture, in which the samurai realise that they've come full circle, and during the devastating monologue on farmers and samurai that is delivered directly to camera by Kikuchiyo (Toshirô Mifune).

The final scene of the picture is indeed a devastating one; after partaking in an absurd war in which four of their colleagues died, Kambei (Takeshi Shimura), Katsushiro (Isao Kimura) and Shichiroji (Daisuke Katô) are relegated to the margins of the farmers' celebrations. In stark contrast to the 'peasants in peril' to 'peasants no longer in peril' trajectory of the plot, the samurai have gone from wandering, masterless vagabonds to wandering, masterless vagabonds; nothing, for them, has changed at all. This final scene makes explicit the film's inherent cyclical structure—one that, like the rise and fall of a tide, increases the social status of the samurai only to decrease it again at the film's conclusion. Additionally, it becomes increasingly apparent that this isn't the first time that such a cycle has played out, with a disillusioned Kambei noting that "Again we have survived" and that "Again we are defeated."

But why, then—if such a cycle has played out before—does Kambei allow it to happen again? Indeed, in the long run, he simply must, for that is the nature of a cyclic existence. The only problem is that, this time around, he foolishly allows himself to hope—an all too human error—that things might be different upon the cycle's completion, which, of course, they aren't and can't be. Kambei's disappointment is palpable; indeed, it is our own.

However, in looking only at this final scene, one might assume that the samurai are the only characters subject to the detriment of a cyclic existence, and that the ungrateful farmers get off scot-free. Not so. Kikuchiyo's monologue, wonderfully performed by Mifune, provides ample evidence—in the guise of a brief history of agricultural politics—that the farmers, too, are subject to this phenomenon. Indeed, the monologue even goes as far to suggest that the cyclic existence of the farmers is intrinsically linked with that of the samurai:

Farmers are miserly, craven, mean, stupid, murderous beasts . . . but then, who made animals out of them? You. You did—you samurai.

Thus, while the farmers may have killed and stolen from samurai in the past, the samurai have in turn killed and destroyed the livelihoods of farmers, resulting in a vicious circle of perpetual animosity. Certainly, if viewed with Kikuchiyo's monologue in mind, the farmers' celebrations at the end of the film suddenly take on a newfound air of ephemerality. How long will this happiness last before the farmers again become victimised—or before, conversely, they again start victimising others? On an even more unpredictable level, how long will this happiness last before the other grand cycles to which they must ultimately yield (i.e. the four seasons) again render them destitute and in poverty? As Kikuchiyo's monologue reminds us, the omnipresence of the cyclic structure remains an implicit constant.

Clearly, the characters of a Kurosawa film are either doomed or blessed (depending on their circumstances) to live life in a state of cyclical repetition. Regardless of whether or not they willingly accept the cycle (as in Yojimbo), actively change themselves to better function within it (as in Sanjuro and Red Beard [1965]) or naïvely hope against all reason that their actions might finally be able to break it (as in Seven Samurai), they are ultimately destined to forever return to the beginning of what is ultimately beyond their control. (2) The circle, of course, is symbolic of life; it is for no arbitrary reason that the life of each bandit is represented on Kambei's map by a circle. In Kurosawa's films, as in nature itself, the circle and the cycle that it denotes are key; they are perhaps the most deeply ingrained structuring devices of them all; and not merely just for samurai, but for all of us in kind: ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Postscript

Indeed, one can't help but ruminate on the idea of the cinema being doomed to a cyclical existence all of its own, both on the whole and in terms of individual films. I don't doubt that Seven Samurai will be played for many years to come, but it will always end after two-hundred-and-three minutes (or whatever it is), and we will always have to play it again from the start. While we as viewers may gain more and more from the picture over time, the film itself ultimately remains crystallised and unchanging, its characters doomed to repeat their mistakes and relive their tragedies until the end of time.

What's more, the so-called motion of a motion picture is in actual fact little more than a ghostly spectre—a dancing shadow—the reanimation from stasis of what Roland Barthes once called the "that-has-been"—the reanimation of the dead. Once again, I am reminded of the ouroboros, which is doomed to forever fight a battle—like the cinema ultimately must—between its own creation and its simultaneous self-destruction.

Notes

1. Richie, D. (1996) The Films of Akira Kurosawa (3rd Edition). University of California Press, Berkeley. (pg. 232)

2. This strikes me as being a very Zen way of thinking. Although I haven't seen the film, the title of Kim Ki-duk's Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter...and Spring (2004) automatically comes to mind.